Courtyard House: Time Traveler Not Yet a Ghost

The truck, like a tireless steel behemoth, roared alone through the boundless desolation and darkness of a winter night in northwestern Shanxi. Two dim beams of headlights cleaved through the inky darkness, illuminating a small patch of bumpy, gravelly dirt road ahead, only to be swallowed by the deeper darkness once more. The wheels rolled over frozen earth and ice, producing a monotonous and persistent sound; the roar of the engine was the only metallic pulse in this silent world.

Inside the driver's seat, He Damin gripped the steering wheel firmly, his gaze calmly fixed on the limited field of vision cut off by the headlights. The shadow of his military cap obscured most of his face, revealing only his sharply defined jawline and tightly pursed lips. His senses, like the most sophisticated radar, silently scanned every inch of land, every rock, and every clump of withered grass shivering in the cold wind within a two-kilometer radius. Where there were ditches, potential ambushes, and even the slightest rustling of wind, all were clearly relayed back to his consciousness.

Everything was under control. This was a familiar rhythm to him, the rhythm of an assassin and a hunter: observe, judge, evade, or... eliminate.

But tonight, on this seemingly endless journey through the night, a cold "feeling" that is out of place with the surrounding environment, like a cold wind sneaking in through the cracks in the car window, silently seeped into the outer layer of this highly vigilant and meticulously functioning consciousness, touching a deeper and more silent area.

lonely.

It wasn't the bewilderment and detachment one feels upon first entering this world, nor the absolute calm and focus one displays while carrying out a mission. Rather, it was a kind of... echoing emptiness that quietly emerges in the silence after possessing something, yet choosing to turn away.

He recalled the days before he left Beiping. His sister-in-law, Lü Bingxin, always kept the small room in the east courtyard spotless, and hot water was always warm on the stove. His elder brother, He Daqing, though quiet, would always glance at him after work, his eyes filled with worry, unspoken concern, and a barely perceptible dependence on him. His little nephew, Yuzhu, clung to him, tugging at his clothes with his soft little hands, calling him "Uncle" in his childish voice, his dark, grape-like eyes filled with complete trust and affection.

That was the warmth of "home." Rough, simple, even somewhat cramped, but real, filled with the warmth of everyday life, a "presence" you could touch, hear breathing, and feel a pulse. He had been there, like a cautious observer, or a puppet pulled by invisible threads, passively receiving that warmth. The killer's mindset made him instinctively examine, analyze, and even secretly assess the "safety factor" and "emotional burden" of this environment. He wanted to reach out, to touch a part of his heart that had been frozen for too long, seemingly harboring a vague longing for this unreserved warmth; but more often, he wanted to escape, feeling that warmth was a weak rope that would trip him up and blur his will, which should have been as sharp as a blade.

So he left. He used a seemingly reasonable but ultimately weak excuse to shut out the warmth he had just begun to feel. Then, he plunged headlong into the harsh cold and desolate loneliness of the Yanshan Mountains. The treehouse was built by his own hands; every brick and piece of wood embodied his sweat and calculations. It was safe, secluded, fully functional, even comfortable. But when the night was still and the hot spring water murmured, and moonlight streamed through the windows onto the cold floor, the house felt eerily empty. No amount of supplies or ingenious design could give it the…life of a “home.” It was merely a base, a nest, a fully functional fortress belonging to him alone.

His heart was like a heavy, rusted iron door. During those days in the courtyard house, the icy wasteland behind that door seemed to have been slightly melted by a sliver of light filtering through the crack, allowing him to feel a long-lost stirring of humanity. But then, a stronger inertia—the calm, aloofness, and absolute control of emotions characteristic of a top assassin—immediately slammed the door shut again, even tighter. The door opened a crack, letting in a little light, but truly, very little. It merely made him more acutely aware of the coldness and emptiness of the world within.

Thus, he poured almost all his energy and will into "killing the Japanese devils." This became his new life anchor, his action plan, and also the best numbing agent. Formulating plans, gathering intelligence, infiltrating and hunting, disposing of traces… every step required extreme focus and calculation, enough to fill all his waking hours. The advancement of the Soul Refining Banner, the improvement of his cultivation, and the opening of his inner world further led his thinking into a deeper and more vast realm. He was constantly becoming stronger, constantly controlling more power, and constantly weaving a larger network. He lived in a highly self-consistent "world of one" composed of killing, cultivation, and strategy. In this world, he was the absolute master; he set the rules, he chose the goals, and he controlled the pace. There was no hesitation, no entanglement, and no unnecessary emotional interference.

That's good. Very efficient, very safe. It's in line with his usual way of doing things.

But... is it really okay?

The truck lurched violently as it descended a steep slope. He Damin instinctively tightened his grip on the wheel, steadying himself. In his mind's eye, there was a sparse poplar grove about five miles ahead. In a clearing within the grove, ashes from a campfire and a few scattered footprints remained. Judging from the marks, they were left by a small group of people two or three days prior—perhaps guerrillas, or perhaps bandits. After a moment's thought, he decided to detour.

Making this decision was effortless. Just like guiding the conflict between the Japanese and Black Wind Stronghold, everything was meticulously calculated. Utilizing, manipulating, using others to do the dirty work, clearing obstacles, and achieving one's goals. This was his "language," his way of interacting with this chaotic world.

But occasionally, in the gaps between actions, in the long nights like now, when only the sound of the engine accompanies him, the boundaries of that "world of one" become unusually clear, so clear that he can "see" the coldness and smoothness of its walls. He can perfectly handle all external threats and variables, but he cannot handle the trace of desolation that quietly grows in the deliberately barren field within his heart.

He recalled the scene he had "seen" when his soul had returned to the courtyard house. His elder brother and sister-in-law sat facing each other under the lamp, their brows furrowed with worry, softly expressing their concerns for him. His young nephew was searching for him in his dreams. That pure, untainted concern, like an extremely fine yet resilient thread, had crossed mountains and rivers, gently binding a hidden corner of his soul, bringing a subtle yet undeniable pang of sorrow.

And then there's the Jia family's depravity, Yi Zhonghai's hypocrisy, Yang Lanxin's forbearance… What did these joys and sorrows, these petty squabbles within the courtyard have to do with him? He could have completely severed ties, treating them as irrelevant background noise. But for some reason, these images, along with his brother and sister-in-law's worries and his nephew's tears, were stored in his consciousness, forming his complex understanding of "humanity." There were glimmers of light he wanted to protect, and there was also the filth he despised; there was warmth that stirred his heart, and there was also coldness that made him sneer. His body had already left, but a part of his heart seemed to be entangled by that complex picture, unable to completely detach itself.

Perhaps this is the price for opening that iron gate a crack? The light came in, and the shadow followed.

He gave a self-deprecating smirk. Loneliness? A killer with blood on his hands (even the blood of Japanese soldiers), accustomed to walking alone in the shadows, a cultivator seeking the Golden Core and aiming to transcend the mortal realm—to feel lonely? It was practically a clumsy joke. Emotions were weaknesses, attachments were burdens—these were creeds etched into his bones in his past life. Though his circumstances differed in this life, that core principle seemed largely unchanged.

He forcefully suppressed these chaotic thoughts, as if turning back overflowing water from a dam. His gaze sharpened and focused again, and his divine sense scanned with greater detail. Ahead, they were about to enter a relatively open river valley. Although they had bypassed the bandit-infested area, the terrain here was flat, making it more suitable for patrols by the Japanese mechanized forces. He had to be extra careful.

He needed to focus. Northwest Shanxi was just ahead; the Independent Regiment's intelligence needed to be verified on the ground; the method and location of the "gift" delivery needed meticulous planning; and the movements of the Japanese army in North China and Yoshiko Kawashima still needed close monitoring… There were too many concrete and practical things he needed to think about and execute. Those fleeting thoughts about his inner self, about loneliness, about "a world of one's own" were too extravagant, and too dangerous.

They can soften one's will and interfere with judgment.

The truck veered off a ridge and into the dry riverbed. The wheels crunched over the pebbles, the sound carrying far through the silent valley. He Damin immediately slowed the truck, his divine sense spreading like mercury, rapidly covering a wider area. He "heard" a faint, suppressed sob coming from the leeward side of the distant riverbank.

His divine sense focused on the past and he "saw" clearly. There were several ragged, emaciated refugees, seemingly a family, huddled together in a shallow pit, seeking warmth. A woman held a weak-breathing child in her arms, silently weeping, while an old man beside her stared blankly at the dark night sky.

War, suffering, and the struggle for survival. This is the most prevalent undertone on this land. He Damin's heart remained completely undisturbed. He had seen too many such scenes. Individual joys and sorrows seemed insignificant and trivial in the face of the torrent of the times and one's own grand goals. His compassion had long been worn away by the cold, hard tasks of his past life, and in this life, he had sealed away most of his emotional energy, leaving only highly targeted emotional reactions for specific individuals (such as family) and specific targets (such as the Japanese invaders).

He didn't stop, or even glance at them a second time. The truck maintained a steady speed, passing the group of refugees less than a hundred meters away. The halo of the headlights might have startled them; the sobbing seemed to pause for a moment, but He Damin paid no attention. His destination was clear, and the road was predetermined. Any unnecessary stop or intervention could introduce unforeseen circumstances.

He refocused his attention on the road conditions and on vigilance. The wind in the valley was stronger, whipping up sand and gravel that lashed against the windshield with a crackling sound. He was still alone in the driver's seat, the engine roaring, the hands on the dashboard trembling slightly.

That chilling sense of loneliness seemed to have quietly faded away with the "ignoring" of the refugee scene and the deepening contemplation of the future, sinking back into the darkness behind the heavy iron door of my consciousness. It was still there, not gone, but temporarily obscured by more urgent and concrete matters.

He Damin exhaled softly, his white breath condensing into a thin mist on the cold car window before quickly disappearing. He adjusted his posture slightly to make himself more comfortable, and his gaze, once again as bright as the car headlights, stared straight ahead into the boundless darkness.

There's nothing wrong with living alone. At least it's quiet enough, free enough, and... safe enough.

The truck continued its journey, carrying its driver, towards the heart of northwestern Shanxi, and towards an unknown destiny that was destined to be more complex and more isolated, heading forward without hesitation.