Courtyard House: Time Traveler Not Yet a Ghost

Shopkeeper Luo carefully folded the map and put it back in the envelope. Then he got up and went to the backyard, grabbed a handful of wood ash from the stove, and mixed it with water to make a paste.

Back in the front hall, Manager Luo unfolded the map again and smeared the back of the paper with grass ash water. This was a simple method of cryptic writing; if there was any hidden information on the map, this method might reveal it.

But there was nothing there. A map is a map, and a sketch is a sketch.

Manager Luo thought for a moment, then brought the map to his nose and smelled it again—besides the burnt charcoal and musty paper smells, there was also a very faint smell of cooking oil. He was very familiar with this smell; it was a common smell in restaurant kitchens.

A drawing by someone who works in a restaurant?

This discovery further convinced Manager Luo that the person who delivered the map was not a professional intelligence agent. Professional intelligence agents would avoid any details that could reveal their identity, while the person who drew the map clearly lacked this awareness.

Or rather... he simply doesn't care about being exposed?

Manager Luo shook his head, deciding not to dwell on it any longer. The most important thing right now was how to proceed.

He couldn't go in person; it would be a major taboo for the station chief to leave his post. The other colleagues at the station were also busy with their own tasks and couldn't spare the time. They could only send someone from the outskirts.

He thought of Old Chen.

Old Chen wasn't an official intelligence agent; he was just a herbalist in his fifties who sympathized with the resistance against Japan. He had spent half his life collecting herbs in the Taihang Mountains and knew the terrain very well. He had delivered messages for the organization a few times before, and he was tight-lipped and shrewd. Most importantly, Old Chen had a legitimate reason to go into the mountains—to collect herbs, and this season was the perfect time to harvest ginseng and astragalus.

Even if he were captured by the enemy, Old Chen wouldn't be able to get anything out of him. He didn't know the specifics of the organization, or even the true identity of Manager Luo; he only knew that he was a "manager who spoke up for the poor."

Manager Luo put away the map, already having a plan in mind. He planned to go to Old Chen's house this afternoon—not directly, but by taking a roundabout route to make sure no one was following him.

Meanwhile, dozens of miles away in the Yanshan Mountains, in a cave halfway up the mountain, Wang Hongxia was also thinking about He Damin.

---

Inside the cave, morning light filtered through the gaps in the vines at the entrance, casting dappled shadows on the ground.

Wang Hongxia could now walk with difficulty. Holding onto the rock wall, she slowly moved from the bottom of the cave to the entrance, a process that took a full fifteen minutes, leaving her drenched in sweat. Although the wound on her right leg still hurt, the swelling had subsided considerably, and the gunshot wound on her left arm had begun to scab over. The medicine left by He Damin was very effective; she took penicillin regularly every day, and there were no signs of infection in the wound.

She parted the vines and looked out; below were steep cliffs and dense forests. Morning mist flowed through the valley like a milky-white river. In the distance came the call of cuckoos, "Cuckoo, cuckoo," one call after another.

Five days ago, she was brought here by that boy named He Damin.

She was unconscious from blood loss at the time and only vaguely remembered some fragments: someone carried her through the streets and alleys; the person's shoulders were very thin, but they were surprisingly steady; then there was swaying, like running, or like flying; then there was the sound of the wind, the howling wind, which made it impossible for her to open her eyes...

When she woke up, she was already in this cave. Her wound had been treated with the simplest tools—a dagger heated red-hot over a fire to sterilize it before the bullet was removed. It hurt, it hurt terribly, but she bit down on a strip of cloth and didn't cry out. Because when the boy did this, his eyes were as calm as if he were performing an autopsy, and that composure infected her.

He Damin came twice more after that. Each time he came like a gust of wind, dropping off his things and leaving without saying much. The first time he brought a bag of cornbread and pickled vegetables, the second time a few cold steamed buns and a pot of water. Each time he came late at night and left before dawn.

Wang Hongxia could sense that this teenager was no ordinary person.

First, there's his method of going up and down the mountain. The cave is halfway up the mountain, at least thirty meters above the ground, with nearly vertical rock walls that bulge outwards in some places. Wang Hongxia tried it herself, and with her current injuries, she simply couldn't go down. But He Damin moves in and out freely. Once, she forced herself to reach the cave entrance and just saw him leave—the young man leaped a few times across the rock wall, like a mountain ape, and disappeared into the night in the blink of an eye.

That's not something an ordinary person can do. Wang Hongxia had seen comrades from the armed work team in the base area. The most skilled among them could climb walls and trees, but she had only heard of He Damin walking on a near-vertical rock face as if it were flat ground. The old comrades had said that it was called "lightness skill," and only true martial arts masters could do it.

And then there was his method of treating wounds. Although he used the simplest tools, his movements were clean and efficient; when removing the bullet, his hand was steady like that of a fourteen-year-old. Wang Hongxia had seen many doctors in the field hospital, and although He Damin's technique was rough, his precision and composure were unmatched even by some veteran doctors. Especially when suturing wounds, his stitches were even and fine, using the most ordinary cotton thread, yet he achieved the effect of a surgical operation.

What Wang Hongxia found most striking was He Damin's gaze. His eyes were too calm, unlike what one would expect from someone his age. When he looked at people, there was no curiosity, no tension; it was as if he were looking at an object—no, more accurately, as if he were looking at an ingredient that needed processing.

Wang Hongxia recalled He Damin's tone when he said he was an apprentice at Fengzeyuan Restaurant—calm, devoid of emotion. How could a cook's apprentice possess such skill and temperament?

She slowly sat down, leaning against the rock wall, and took out a cornbread from the oil paper package—it had been brought by He Damin yesterday and was now cold and hard. Wang Hongxia broke off a small piece and put it in her mouth to slowly dissolve it. There was still half a package of pickled vegetables left, but she couldn't bear to eat more, so she only picked up a thin strip of radish.

She was wondering whether she should try to recruit He Damin.

The organization is currently most lacking in talent. If we can recruit someone like He Damin—skilled, stable, and willing to help in the resistance against Japan—he will surely become a great asset in the future. The front lines urgently need comrades with such special skills—reconnaissance, assassination, escorting important figures, sabotaging enemy facilities…

But Wang Hongxia also had concerns.

First, He Damin is too young. Fourteen years old, still a child. It's heartbreaking to make him participate in such dangerous work. Although there are child soldiers in the base area, they are there out of necessity. He Damin has a proper job and family in the city; why drag him into this dangerous situation?

Secondly, He Damin's attitude is unclear. He is willing to save people and provide medicine and food, but is this out of compassion or is there another purpose? If it is merely compassion, then he may not be willing to risk his life for the revolution. In chaotic times, there are many kind-hearted people, but very few who are truly willing to risk their lives.

Third, she herself is in dire straits. Her injuries haven't healed, she can't leave the mountain, and she's lost contact with the organization. Even if He Damin were willing to join, how could she introduce him? How could she arrange things? She couldn't just take a teenager directly to Manager Luo—that would harm everyone.

Wang Hongxia sighed and swallowed the last bite of cornbread. Her throat was dry and sore. She picked up the kettle and shook it; there was still a little over half left. She had to drink it sparingly.

A fluttering sound came from outside the cave; birds were returning to their nests. It was evening.

Wang Hongxia moved back to the bottom of the cave and leaned against the rock wall. Her wound began to throb again, a sign that the weather was about to change. Spring in the mountains is rainy, and it would be even harder to go down the mountain after it rained.

Meanwhile, dozens of miles away at Xisi Archway, in Liu's Teahouse, Manager Luo was seeing off the last table of guests.

"See you tomorrow, shopkeeper."

See you tomorrow, take care.

After seeing the guests off, Manager Luo closed the teahouse door. Without lighting a lamp, he walked behind the counter by the moonlight streaming in from the window and took out the map from a hidden compartment.

Under the moonlight, the lines on the map appeared a faint grayish-black. The triangular marker stood out exceptionally clearly in the moonlight.

Shopkeeper Luo gently stroked the mark with his fingers.

Tomorrow, Old Chen will go into the mountains. I hope he can find that place. I hope those supplies really exist. I hope... Wang Hongxia is still alive.

He put away the map and blew out the oil lamp. The teahouse fell into darkness, with only moonlight filtering through the window paper and casting blurry patches of light on the floor.