Courtyard House: Time Traveler Not Yet a Ghost

The night in Tianjin is usually like ink, soaked in the cool, damp air of early autumn. The Haihe River flows quietly, reflecting the neon lights of the concessions and the dim lights of the old city. Occasionally, the sound of patrolling policemen's leather shoes breaks through the puddles on the road, only to be dispersed by the night wind. But tonight, this thin layer of tranquility is violently torn apart by a sudden outbreak of chaos. The scalding smell of blood and gunpowder, mixed with terrified screams, quickly permeates the very fabric of the city.

8:00 PM.

In the Dongxinglou Restaurant in the French Concession, the music was in full swing in the three private rooms. A gramophone played Zhou Xuan's soft and sweet "The Wandering Songstress". Amidst the clinking of glasses, the fragrance of cosmetics and the spiciness of whiskey lingered.

On the third basement level, behind the hidden door disguised as a thick bluestone slab, the air was heavy and oppressive. In the center of the secret room, a long conference table, polished to a mirror shine, reflected the cold, beautiful, and somewhat sinister face of Yoshiko Kawashima, who sat at the head of the table.

She wore a well-pressed dark gray men's suit, her tie perfectly tied, and her short hair was combed back with hair oil, revealing a smooth and full forehead. The cigar between her fingers glowed with a scarlet light, and through the swirling smoke, her narrow eyes were half-closed as she listened to the old yin-yang master's report across from her.

"...According to information from Tokyo headquarters, and our simultaneous observations in Beijing, Fengtai, and other locations, the frequency and intensity of abnormal energy fluctuations in the Taihang and Yanshan regions have been increasing exponentially in recent months. In particular, Tianjin has detected more than seventeen significant spiritual vein oscillations in the past week."

"Based on preliminary assessments, it's possible that the remains of a dormant ancient god have revived, or that a powerful spirit is gathering its demon core..." The old Yin-Yang Master's voice was hoarse, and his withered fingers traced names on the table. A faint scent, similar to aged Xuan paper mixed with mugwort, filled the air.

Just then, a rapid, suppressed telephone ring, like a ghostly knock, abruptly broke through the corner of the secret room. The clerk in charge of communications paled and hurriedly answered. After only a few words, his face turned pale, and his lips trembled as he turned to Yoshiko Kawashima: "Miss Yoshiko…the garrison logistics department…something has happened! The lieutenant colonel…shot his colleague and then committed suicide!"

Yoshiko Kawashima's fingers, holding the cigar, paused slightly, and her brow furrowed. Almost simultaneously, another phone call directly to the Special Higher Police rang sharply.

Office of the Logistics Department of the North China Garrison Army.

The air still reeked of cheap tobacco and ink. Three Japanese officers lay slumped beside the conference table, warm blood gushing from their shattered skulls, staining the open battle maps and documents. The pungent smell of gunpowder lingered, mingling with the heavy stench of blood, making one want to vomit.

A lieutenant colonel slumped in his chair, his sword half-drawn, his right hand gripping a Type 14 Nambu pistol, wisps of smoke still rising from the muzzle. A gruesome bullet hole pierced his temple, and dark red blood and brain matter smeared half his face.

But the most bizarre thing was his eyes—deep within those unfocused pupils, a lingering, cold golden light remained, and a twisted, crazed smile even clung to the corner of his mouth. When the guards rushed in, all they saw was this hellish scene and an eerie silence that seemed to freeze the very soul.

Archives of the Tianjin Branch of the Special Higher Police.

Under the dim light of the desk lamp, the musty smell of paper and dust swirled in the beam of light. Two agents on duty lay dead in the narrow aisle between the filing cabinets, like two carelessly discarded rags. The paper cutters in their hands were deeply embedded in each other's chests and abdomens, fragmented internal organs still clinging to the blades. Blood splattered everywhere on the floor and walls, dark red pools of blood slowly spreading on the floor, soaking the scattered documents. The two men remained in the position of stabbing each other until their deaths, their eyes empty like two deep wells, containing no pain, only an extreme fear of being pulled by invisible threads, powerless to control their own lives.

Japanese Prime Minister Yokohama Specie Bank duty room.

The cold marble floor reflected the light from the ceiling chandelier, and the air was filled with the distinctive rust of money and the scent of ink from paper. The deputy manager's body knelt before the heavy brass doors of the vault; he had used the bank manager's scalpel to slit the throats of the bank manager and two guards, and warm blood gushed out, splattering all over his clothes.

Then, with his blood-stained fingers, he drew a bizarre yin-yang symbol crookedly on the cold, smooth vault door—half bright red, half dark brown from the congealed blood. Having done this, he plunged the dagger into his abdomen, the tip emerging from his back.

The meeting room on the third floor of the puppet Tianjin Municipal Government.

The explosion shattered the windows, and the shockwave overturned the conference table. The air was thick with the acrid smell of gunpowder and the sulfurous odor of explosives. Severed limbs and remains mingled with broken documents and fragments of furniture, scattered in pools of blood. Seven Japanese and puppet officials lay sprawled on the ground, their deaths gruesome. A secretary-general, dressed in a silk mandarin jacket, lay slumped like a tattered sack beside a concrete flowerbed below; the sound of bones cracking could be faintly heard in the silent night. Dark red blood slowly seeped from beneath him, soaking the petals of the newly faded roses in the flowerbed.

In the dispatch room of Laolongtou Railway Station, the red light of the signal lights flickered futilely in the darkness. The dispatcher's body lay slumped over the control panel, blood staining the densely packed buttons and dials. Train timetables were scattered all over the floor. At the military police barracks on the Haihe River wharf, gunshots, screams, and explosions mingled together, the torchlight casting flickering shadows on the terrified faces of the soldiers. At the Japanese communications station in the Italian Concession, the radio transmitter continued to emit meaningless static, but the operator lay on the ground, his throat severed by his own military belt…

At more than twenty key locations, almost simultaneously, similar heinous incidents of "insiders frantically massacring their colleagues before committing suicide" erupted. Each scene resembled a hellish painting with spilled paint, filled with bloodshed, chaos, and an indescribable eeriness.

The instigator of all this, He Damin, was currently experiencing faint yet clear feedback of soul "annihilation" from more than twenty different directions. These were his soul clones, which had been parasitizing the bodies of lower-ranking Japanese and puppet officials and officers beforehand. After receiving the "synchronization activation" command from the main soul, they briefly and forcibly suppressed the host's consciousness, manipulating their bodies to launch the most unexpected attacks. Their aim was not to kill many high-ranking officials, but only to create widespread panic, paralyze the command system, and completely throw the Tianjin Japanese and puppet authorities' attention into chaos.

The effect is immediate.

The piercing air raid siren (temporarily requisitioned as an emergency alarm) quickly tore through the night sky of Tianjin, spreading rapidly from a few sporadic sirens throughout the city, sharp as countless needles piercing everyone's eardrums. The garrison headquarters' telephone switchboard was overwhelmed with calls; the operator's voice, choked with sobs, futilely called out through the chaotic lines.

On the streets, military trucks and motorcycles roared deafeningly, crashing through roadside stalls and sending them sprawling. Squads of Japanese soldiers in khaki uniforms, like hornets whose swarms had been disturbed, rushed out of their barracks in a panic, rifles on their backs and bayonets in hand, unsure which direction to go to reinforce. The entire city was plunged into a suffocating, headless chaos.

All of this was merely a cover for the start of the real hunt.

Dongxing Building, backyard.

The damp air was filled with the smells of cooking oil from the kitchen, the sour stench of the swill bucket, and the putrid odor of the sewer in the corner. He Damin's body, like a ghost blending into the thick night, silently appeared near the hidden door leading to the underground chamber.

He was still wearing the white uniform he'd "borrowed" from the waiter at "Kishlin," rubbing his skin against the slightly stiff fabric, the knot at his collar tied meticulously. But his eyes were no longer the meekness of that lowly waiter; they were sharp as a drawn sword, cold, focused, and devoid of emotion. His main soul returned to his body, his spiritual consciousness rippling outwards like a stone thrown into a lake. Within a radius of several hundred meters, the rustling of grass, the crawling of insects, even the subtle differences in a person's heartbeat, were all under his control.

The hidden door was concealed in an abandoned storage room at the very back of the kitchen, completely hidden by a huge, waist-high earthenware jar for pickling vegetables. The sauerkraut brine in the jar had long since dried up, leaving only some blackened vegetable scraps that emitted a sour and pungent odor.

The storage room was dimly lit, with only a small window letting in a faint moonlight. Two ninjas dressed in black, with long samurai swords at their waists, stood silently in the shadows on either side of the pickling jars, like two lifeless bronze sculptures. Their breathing was long and slow, almost blending into their surroundings. If He Damin hadn't been so perceptive, he would have easily overlooked them, mistaking them for shadows in the corner.

But He Damin could clearly sense that the two men's heartbeats were slow yet powerful, steady like war drums, every muscle taut to the limit, ready to unleash a thunderous force at any moment. They were true ninja masters honed in mountains of corpses and seas of blood, not those street thugs pretending to be supernatural.

"Twenty agents on the perimeter, scattered throughout the backyard, breathing heavily, mostly novices; four snipers on the rooftop, their breathing steady, their heartbeats deliberately slowed, veterans, but their spiritual sense is weak, not a threat; eight sentries in the backyard, fairly well hidden, but their blood fluctuations can't escape my notice; plus these two gatekeeper ninjas... the defenses have indeed been strengthened considerably." He Damin's lips curled into an almost imperceptible cold smile, "Unfortunately, you're guarding against 'spiritual infiltration' and 'evil magic attacks,' but you've forgotten that the simplest blade is often the fastest."

He moved.

Without using any fancy spells, without summoning the terrifying Soul-Refining Banner, and without making a single extra sound, he relied purely on the physical strength and martial arts skills of a Grandmaster of Internal Energy. His right toes gripped the uneven brickwork like iron hooks, his waist taut like a bowstring pulled taut, twisting sharply, all the power flowing from his spine to his toes. Like an arrow released from a bow, he shot silently towards the hidden door concealed by the pickle jar!

"Who?!"

The two ninjas reacted with lightning speed! Almost the instant He Damin moved, their eyes, which had been as still as water, suddenly flashed with a sharp light, and their hands, which had been hanging at their sides, gripped the hilts of their swords with lightning speed!