Courtyard House: Time Traveler Not Yet a Ghost

Manager Luo frowned, his fingers unconsciously tapping the edge of the counter. His mind raced, analyzing the possibilities and oddities of the situation. Who hid such a large quantity of supplies? Why hide it in that kind of place? And why was it unguarded? Was it temporarily stored, or simply forgotten?

The small triangular marker on the map, the one Old Chen had mentioned, drawn next to the cave's location, resurfaced in Manager Luo's mind. Donated by patriotic overseas Chinese? That was possible. After the start of the War of Resistance, many patriotic overseas Chinese, concerned for their motherland, transported supplies back home through various channels. But how did they obtain such a large quantity of munitions, especially clearly Japanese equipment (Type 38 rifles and Type 91 machine guns were standard Japanese weapons)? And how did they manage to smuggle them into the depths of the Taihang Mountains, which were under tight blockade by the Japanese? This was simply an impossible task.

He couldn't figure it out. Countless questions, like a tangled mess, swirled in Manager Luo's mind, making his head ache more and more the more he thought about it.

But right now, even if we can't figure it out, we have to act. The supplies are there, they're real, and they seem to be unclaimed for the time being, but our comrades on the front lines desperately need them. Guns, bullets, medicine... each one is a lifeline, each one could potentially change the outcome of a battle, or even affect the entire anti-Japanese situation in the region.

"Old Chen," Manager Luo stopped, his eyes becoming unusually firm. He looked at Old Chen and said, word by word, "Thank you for making this trip. This time, we won't go to the cave; we'll go directly to Qin Family Mountain to find Hao Pingchuan."

Hao Pingchuan was the captain of the Qinjiashan Anti-Japanese Guerrilla Force. In his early twenties, a native of Hebei, he was said to have been a platoon leader in the Northeast Army. After the September 18 Incident, unwilling to be subjugated, he returned to his hometown with a few brothers and started his own force. He was known for his fierce fighting spirit and reckless courage in the area, but he was also quick-witted and not a reckless brute. Although his guerrilla force was small, only about a hundred men, they were all highly skilled and elusive along the Pinghan Railway, specializing in attacking Japanese transport convoys and small strongholds. They were a formidable force that gave the Japanese a major headache in the area.

"You mean... hand these things over to Captain Hao and the others?" Old Chen's eyes suddenly lit up, a surprising gleam bursting from his cloudy eyes. He instantly understood what Manager Luo meant.

"Yes." Manager Luo nodded heavily. "Tell him to take men and retrieve it immediately. Remember, make sure to make three points clear to him: First, act quickly, make sure to go in and out at night, and evacuate before dawn. Absolutely do not expose your position; second, take as much as you can, but prioritize. Medicine, bullets, and light weapons are the most important. Anything you can't take must be properly hidden and marked. Don't be greedy, and absolutely do not destroy anything; third, and most importantly, in case of encountering the enemy or any other unexpected situation, protect your men first. You can give up the loot, but you absolutely cannot let your brothers sacrifice themselves in vain!"

"Understood! Don't worry, shopkeeper, I will definitely pass on the message!" Old Chen's voice trembled with excitement. He clenched his fists tightly, his knuckles turning white from the force.

Shopkeeper Luo nodded, turned around, and pulled a worn wooden box from under the counter. He unlocked it and took out a heavy little cloth bag. He handed the bag to Old Chen: "There are ten silver dollars in here. Take this and buy some food for the journey. Consider it a small subsidy for Hao Pingchuan and the others. Tell Hao Pingchuan that this batch of goods didn't come easily; it's very likely that countless comrades risked their lives for it. Tell him to be extremely cautious and not to be careless!"

Old Chen took the cloth bag; it felt heavy in his hand. He didn't refuse, carefully tucking it into his robes, pressing it close to his chest as if holding a burning heart. "Don't worry, shopkeeper, I'll set off right away! I promise to deliver the message to Captain Hao exactly as it was!"

"Wait a minute," Manager Luo called out to Old Chen, who was about to turn around.

Old Chen turned around and looked at him with a puzzled expression.

Shopkeeper Luo pondered for a moment, his eyes becoming deep and complex: "Be extremely careful on the road, avoid all Japanese and puppet strongholds and patrols, and take back roads. Also, when you see Hao Pingchuan, ask him about the origin of the items... just say that a comrade who wishes to remain anonymous asked him to deliver them."

Old Chen's lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but in the end he just nodded heavily: "I understand." He knew that on this line, "unwilling to leave one's name" was often the best name.

Old Chen left. Manager Luo personally helped him reinstall the door panel and bolt it shut. After doing all this, he let out a long sigh, as if he had exhausted all his strength. The teahouse was once again plunged into a thick darkness and silence. He didn't light a lamp, but just stood quietly behind the door, listening to Old Chen's footsteps gradually receding and disappearing into the alleyway.

After a long while, he slowly walked back to the counter and sat down. Outside the window, it was completely dark, with only a crescent moon hanging in the gray sky, casting a few pale rays of moonlight through the window cracks, barely outlining the shape of the room.

Manager Luo reached out and groped for the familiar abacus in the darkness. The cool beads moved gently between his fingers, making a monotonous but crisp "tap, tap" sound. He wasn't settling accounts for the teahouse; he was settling accounts for lives, accounts for conscience.

With over three thousand guns, assuming one gun for each soldier, that's over three thousand soldiers. How many brilliant ambushes could over three thousand well-equipped and well-ammunitioned soldiers wage on the Pinghan Railway? How many Japanese military trains could they destroy? How many villages like Qinjiashan could they protect from being wiped out? How many innocent civilians could they rescue from the Japanese bayonets? And how many land troops that could have advanced south could they have tied down?

This account is extremely complex, impossible to calculate, and even impossible to calculate. But Manager Luo knew in his heart that this was a huge, living account that could change the situation of the anti-Japanese war in local battlefields or even the entire Hebei-Central Plains region.

The faint sound of a night watchman's clapper came from the distant street outside the window, "Bang bang bang—", it was the third watch of the night.

Shopkeeper Luo closed his eyes and leaned against the cold counter. The face of Old Zhang, who had sacrificed himself two years prior, involuntarily appeared before him. Old Zhang was his superior, an ordinary merchant who ran a general store in Xizhimen. He was usually quiet and always smiling; no one would suspect he was the head of an underground communication station. Later, he was betrayed and imprisoned in the military police's interrogation room. He heard that the Japanese had subjected him to all sorts of torture—chili water forced down his throat, the tiger bench, branding him with hot irons… but Old Zhang refused to utter a single word, ultimately dying in prison from torture. At the burial, Shopkeeper Luo secretly glanced at the body… it was barely recognizable as human.

Before his sacrifice, Lao Zhang secretly passed on a message to him: "Lao Luo, we people in this line of work risk our lives. Whether we'll see the day of victory is uncertain. But what we're doing now is like planting seeds in the ground. As long as the roots are there, one day they will sprout, blossom, and bear fruit."

Shopkeeper Luo's eyes were a little moist. He thought, perhaps the seeds Old Zhang mentioned were the weapons and ammunition that had fallen from the sky before him? They had been dormant in the dark cave for months, and now, they were finally about to sprout and grow into a steel forest that could shelter them from the wind and rain and keep out jackals.

Qinjiashan, located in the foothills of the Taihang Mountains, is not particularly steep, but its rolling hills and dense forests make it ideal for guerrilla warfare. The guerrillas' base was set up in a few abandoned hunter's cabins deep in a mountain valley. Though called cabins, they were in a state of disrepair; most of the roof tiles were broken, barely covered by thatch and tarpaulin, yet the cold wind still seeped in from all sides. The walls were riddled with cracks, the plaster long since dried and peeled away, revealing the rotten wood beneath. Even in such a rudimentary place, it was a rare refuge for the guerrillas.

At this moment, Hao Pingchuan was sitting at a rickety, broken wooden table in the corner of the room, polishing his precious rifle by the dim light of an oil lamp. It was an old Hanyang rifle, the barrel worn smooth, the rifling almost flat, and several bullet holes on the body, left from a breakout last year. But Hao Pingchuan treasured it, meticulously cleaning and maintaining it every day, no matter how tired he was. His movements were skilled and focused; first, he used a rag dipped in kerosene to wipe the barrel and body, then he used a thin wire wrapped around a strip of cloth to repeatedly clean the chamber, and finally, he carefully applied a thin layer of grease to the bolt and moving parts.

The oil lamp's flame was small, about the size of a soybean, flickering gently in the breeze, casting Hao Pingchuan's long shadow onto the mottled wall like a swaying silhouette. He wore a gray, coarse cotton coat, the collar and cuffs worn and torn, revealing the cotton wadding underneath. His face was dark and weathered, several deep wrinkles running from the corners of his eyes to his jawline. A long scar on his left cheek, left from last winter's bayonet fight with the Japanese, resembled a ferocious centipede, adding to his fierce and valiant air. He looked much older than his actual age; only his eyes, in the dim light, were sharp as a hawk's, revealing an indomitable and ruthless spirit.

In the center of the room, several team members huddled around a campfire, talking in hushed tones, occasionally breaking into suppressed coughs. In a corner, several wounded soldiers lay on straw mats, their wounds inflamed and festering from lack of medical care, unable to sleep due to the pain, only able to groan softly. The air was thick with the smells of smoke, sweat, and a faint stench of blood.