Courtyard House: Time Traveler Not Yet a Ghost

On the morning of the 28th day of the twelfth lunar month, in Ping'an County, the sky was overcast, leaden clouds hung low, and a damp chill, a mixture of coal smoke and dust, filled the air, making even breathing feel gritty. This small town in northwestern Shanxi, occupied by the Japanese, seemed even more desolate and oppressive than usual as the year drew to a close. The streets were sparsely populated, and most pedestrians hurried along, their expressions filled with anxiety. Occasionally, a Japanese patrol would march past with heavy, orderly steps; the sound of their boots striking the frozen ground was like a muffled drumbeat striking the heart.

Inside the town, a two-story building that once housed the county chamber of commerce now bears a wooden sign at its entrance that reads "Heian County Branch of the Special Operations Section of the First Army of the Imperial Japanese Army." Two heavily armed and sharp-eyed Japanese soldiers stand like guardian deities. This is the temporary command post of Yamamoto Ichiki's special operations team in Heian County.

In a dimly lit room on the second floor, converted into an interrogation room, thick curtains were drawn tightly shut. Only a low-wattage light bulb hung in the center of the ceiling, casting a dim, flickering yellow light that distorted and eerily projected the shadows of those inside onto the mottled walls. The air was thick with an indescribable mixture of smells: the musty smell of old wood, the smell of dust, a faint metallic rust, and... a chilling, fearful smell of sweat.

Colonel Yamamoto Ichiki sat upright in a hardwood chair, his posture as straight as the saber at his waist. He wasn't wearing civilian clothes, but rather a well-tailored, easy-to-move black special operations uniform, the collar buttoned up and the cuffs rolled up to his forearms, revealing a section of strong, pale wrist. His face was expressionless, his hawk-like eyes reflecting slightly behind his glasses, calmly and without a trace of warmth as he stared at the man strapped to the specially made wooden chair in the center of the room.

The man was around thirty years old, thin, wearing a faded, worn-out Eighth Route Army uniform, now covered in dust, stains, and several obvious dark red bloodstains. His cheeks were swollen, his mouth was cracked, and a trickle of dark red blood flowed from his forehead, down his tightly closed eyelids and pursed lips. His hands were bound behind his back to the chair with rough hemp rope, deep bloodstains already visible on his wrists. It was Zhu Ziming, the security officer of the Independent Regiment.

The arrest process was not complicated, and even somewhat "smooth". Based on the fragmented intelligence collected by the Special Higher Police after the Yangquan Incident, especially the vague information about the "large-scale flow of Imperial Army standard equipment into the hands of the Eighth Route Army" along the Zhengtai Railway and in parts of northwestern Shanxi, Yamamoto Ichiki, combined with the strict order issued by the Taiyuan Command, focused the investigation on the Independent Regiment of the 386th Brigade of the 129th Division of the Eighth Route Army, which had been acting strangely recently and whose equipment level was suspected to have suddenly increased.

Zhu Ziming was ordered to infiltrate Ping'an County to meet with an underground liaison officer within the city, obtain intelligence on the recent movement of supplies by the Japanese, and attempt to procure some urgently needed medicines for the base area. This was a relatively routine reconnaissance mission, and Zhu Ziming was no novice. However, Yamamoto Ichiki's special forces were far superior to ordinary Japanese garrison troops in intelligence analysis and urban surveillance. They had already obtained a general understanding of the underground liaison officer's covert identity and activity patterns through their inside contacts; this was merely a calculated move, a trap laid to ambush their prey.

As Zhu Ziming approached the agreed-upon rendezvous point—the back window of an inconspicuous grocery store—following the coded signal, he fell into a trap. Four special agents, like ghosts, pounced from the shadows with swift and professional movements, giving him no chance to resist or warn them before covering his mouth and nose with a towel soaked in a drug. When he awoke, he found himself in this ominous room.

Yamamoto Ichiki didn't rush to speak. He raised his wrist and glanced at the exquisite Swiss watch; the second hand ticked softly yet clearly in the silence. Time was one of the invisible pressures of interrogation. He made Zhu Ziming endure the deathly silence and the unknown alone for nearly half an hour, caught between a drowsy state and a gradually clearing fear.

Finally, he slowly stood up and walked to a simple wooden table against the wall. On the table were several items: a pair of gleaming metal pliers that shone coldly under the light; a thin, sharp, scalpel-like short blade; a stack of rough toilet paper and a dip pen; a small alcohol lamp and several glass bottles containing different colored liquids. Each item exuded a chilling aura.

"Name, rank, and unit." Yamamoto Ichiki spoke, his voice not loud, but unusually steady and clear, carrying an unquestionable sense of authority, in slightly accented but still fairly fluent Chinese.

Zhu Ziming's body trembled slightly. He opened his tightly closed eyes a crack, and beneath his swollen eyelids, his gaze swept over Yamamoto Ichiki with a wary and angry look before closing them again, his lips pressed into a pale line. This was the standard posture of resistance: silence.

Yamamoto Ichiki showed no surprise on his face, as if he had expected it. He walked back to his chair and sat down, giving a slight nod to a burly special agent standing beside him.

The team member walked forward expressionlessly, grabbed Zhu Ziming's left hand, and pressed it firmly against the armrest of the chair. Another team member picked up the metal pliers.

"Your Independent Regiment seems to have recently... struck it rich," Yamamoto Ichiki said slowly, his gaze sharp as a knife, fixed on Zhu Ziming's face. "A lot of brand-new Imperial Army weapons. Type 38 rifles, Type 92 heavy machine guns, even... infantry guns and mortars. Tell me, where did they come from?"

Zhu Ziming's heart skipped a beat, but his face maintained a forced expression of anger and defiance. He knew the regiment had recently acquired a large amount of equipment from an extremely secretive source, and the regimental commander and political commissar had repeatedly ordered strict secrecy. He gritted his teeth and forced out two words: "Captured..."

"Oh? Is that so?" Yamamoto Ichiki's lips twitched almost imperceptibly, a smile that was colder than any real smile. "Where was it captured? Which unit? When? What's the list of what was captured?"

Zhu Ziming was speechless. Of course, he didn't know these details, nor could he fabricate them.

"It seems you don't know," Yamamoto Ichiki's voice turned cold. "Or rather, you know, but don't want to say." He gestured slightly again.

"Snap!"

A soft, teeth-grinding crack. The team member holding down Zhu Ziming's left hand precisely clamped the base of his left little fingernail with pliers, then twisted and yanked it sharply!

"ah--!!!"

A short, piercing, and distorted scream erupted from Zhu Ziming's throat! The excruciating pain, like a red-hot branding iron, shot from his fingertips straight to his brain, causing his body to convulse violently. Cold sweat mixed with blood streamed down his forehead. His little fingernail, along with a small piece of skin, was ripped off, revealing the raw, red flesh and the edge of the white finger bone beneath. Blood immediately gushed out, dripping onto the filthy ground.

Zhu Ziming was panting heavily, his vision blurred, and his body trembled uncontrollably.

"This is just the beginning, Officer Zhu." Yamamoto Ichiki's voice remained calm, as if what had just happened was a trivial matter. "We have plenty of time and many methods. We can start one finger at a time. Then the toes. Or, we can try other parts." His gaze swept over Zhu Ziming's eyes, ears, and genitals.

The special agent next to him, holding a thin-bladed dagger, slowly heated the blade over the blue flame of the alcohol lamp, and the tip gradually turned dark red.

"Speak! Where did you get those weapons?!" Yamamoto Ichiki's voice suddenly rose, carrying an irresistible pressure. "Who gave them to you? How did you contact them? Besides the weapons, what else did you have? Speak!"

Zhu Ziming was in so much pain he almost fainted. Fear, like an icy tide, overwhelmed his initial anger and loyalty. He was just an ordinary security officer who had attended a private school for a few years. He joined the army to fight the Japanese and protect his fellow villagers. He had experienced battle and witnessed death, but he had never imagined, nor was he mentally prepared, to endure this kind of meticulous, slow, and deliberate torture aimed at the body and utterly destroying the will.

"I...I don't know...really..." His voice was hoarse, filled with sobs and despair.

Yamamoto Ichiki stopped talking and gave another look.

This time, another team member picked up a small bottle containing a clear liquid from the table and walked over to Zhu Ziming. Zhu Ziming stared in horror as the bottle approached the wound on his bleeding finger.

"This is a highly concentrated saline solution," Yamamoto Ichiki said, as if introducing an interesting toy. "It's said that when dripped onto a fresh wound, it feels... quite unique."

A drop of liquid fell.

"Ah—!!!" A scream even more agonizing and prolonged than before rang out! It wasn't simple pain at all; it felt as if countless red-hot steel needles were drilling into the bone through the wound, then frantically churning and corroding it! Zhu Ziming writhed and struggled like a shrimp thrown into a vat of boiling oil, the chair strapped to him creaking under the weight. His eyes bulged, veins stood out on his face, tears and snot streamed down his face, and strange hoarse sounds came from his throat.

Yamamoto Ichiki watched expressionlessly until Zhu Ziming's screams gradually weakened, turning into dying groans and convulsions, before he waved his hand.

The torture paused for a moment. Only Zhu Ziming's heavy, bellows-like breathing and uncontrollable sobs remained in the room. Sweat, blood, and tears mingled, covering his face and soaking the front of his military uniform. His eyes began to glaze over; his initial anger and resistance were being crushed by boundless pain and fear.

"Think about it, Officer Zhu." Yamamoto Ichiki's voice rang out again, this time with a hint of persuasion. "Think about your family. They're still waiting for you to go back, aren't they? Think about your comrades in the Independent Regiment. They're using those weapons of unknown origin, and they might soon be surrounded by the Imperial Army because of your 'loyalty,' dying without a burial place. Is your persistence meaningful? Who knows what you're enduring here? Who will be grateful?"

Psychological collapse is often more deadly than physical torture. Yamamoto Ichiki understood this well. He began to describe the possible "retaliation" that Zhu Ziming's hometown might suffer, the "horrific scene" of the Independent Regiment being annihilated, and "inadvertently" revealed that they had already obtained a lot of information about the Independent Regiment's new equipment. Zhu Ziming's "confession" was just icing on the cake, but it could save his own life, or even... his "future".

Waves of excruciating physical pain washed over him, and his spirit gradually crumbled under the relentless bombardment of fear and Yamamoto Ichiki's cold words. Zhu Ziming felt as if he had fallen into a bottomless, cold, viscous quagmire, slowly sinking and suffocating. The fear of pain, the dread of death, the guilt of potentially implicating his family and comrades, and the faint, desperate desire to "live on" that had been stirred deep within him... all these emotions intertwined and tore at his already fragile nerves.

When Yamamoto Ichiki gestured for his men to pick up the red-hot dagger and slowly bring it close to his other intact finger, Zhu Ziming's last line of defense completely collapsed.

"No...no...I'll talk...I'll talk..." His voice was hoarse and weak, filled with utter collapse and pleading, "It was...it was a mysterious man surnamed He...who sent it...driving an Imperial Army truck...nobody knows where he came from...the regimental commander and the political commissar...don't know either...he just kept sending...guns, cannons, bullets, food...all of it...saying he wanted...wanted to exchange it for antiques..."

He spoke haltingly and incoherently, but he managed to convey the core information. Mr. He, a mysterious arms dealer, initially donated a large amount of Japanese equipment free of charge in exchange for antiques. He also mentioned the shock and confusion within the regiment regarding these weapons, as well as Li Yunlong and Zhao Gang's suspicions and vigilance.

Yamamoto Ichiki listened quietly, his eyes behind his glasses gleaming with a strange light. This confirmed some of his guesses, but also brought more mysteries. A mysterious man surnamed He? Antique dealing? This was simply unbelievable, but combined with the strange events in Yangquan and the previous fragments of information, there seemed to be another faint clue.

He did not continue to inflict physical torture, but instead had his men treat Zhu Ziming's wounds (very roughly) and give him some water.

Then, he walked to the table, picked up the stack of scrap paper and the dip pen, and returned to Zhu Ziming.

"Very good, Director Zhu, you've made a wise choice." Yamamoto Ichiki's tone softened slightly. "Now, to show your sincerity and to ensure that our cooperation has a solid foundation, please sign your name and affix your fingerprint here."

He unfolded the draft paper, on which was a "pledge of allegiance" written in both Japanese and Chinese. The content was nothing more than a pledge of allegiance to "His Majesty the Emperor of the Great Japanese Empire" and "North China Area Army," a willingness to provide all known intelligence, obey orders, and become a "pioneer" of "Japan-China friendship," and so on. At the bottom was a place for signature and fingerprint.

Zhu Ziming stared at the paper as if it were a ticket to hell. He knew that once he signed his name and pressed his fingerprint, there would be no turning back. He would no longer be Zhu Ziming, the Eighth Route Army soldier, but a shameful traitor and collaborator.

He trembled and hesitated.

Yamamoto Ichiki did not urge him. He simply put the fountain pen, which was dipped in ink, into his good but trembling right hand, and then gently grasped his injured left wrist, pressing his bleeding little finger into the inkpad.

"Think about the pain you just experienced, Officer Zhu," Yamamoto Ichiki's voice whispered in his ear, cold as a viper's hiss. "That was just the beginning. Sign it, and the pain will end. You can go back alive, and even continue 'working' in the Independent Regiment. No one will know what happened tonight. Otherwise… you know the consequences."

Driven by the lingering pain in his body, the fear of being tortured again, and a sliver of hope that he might survive, or even just pretend nothing happened, Zhu Ziming's trembling hand finally gripped the pen. With all his might, he managed to control his wrist and scrawle his name—Zhu Ziming—on the filthy affidavit. The three characters, ugly and twisted, mirrored his shattered soul at that moment.

Then, guided by Yamamoto Ichiki, the blood-stained little finger was pressed heavily next to the name.

A bright red fingerprint, streaked with blood and filth, was clearly imprinted on the paper, and also on the pillar of shame for Zhu Ziming for the rest of his life.

Yamamoto Ichiki picked up the affidavit with satisfaction, examined it carefully, and then put it away cautiously. This would be the noose that would forever hang around Zhu Ziming's neck.

"Very good." He stood up, resuming his cold, commanding demeanor. "Officer Zhu, you're 'one of us' now. Your mission is simple: return to the Independent Regiment and work as usual. Closely monitor any movements of that 'Mr. He,' and pay attention to any changes in the Independent Regiment's deployment after acquiring weapons, especially the use and storage locations of heavy weapons. Regularly, leave intelligence through your original contact methods within the city. Remember, your family and your 'future' depend on your performance."

He waved his hand, and two special agents stepped forward, untied the ropes binding Zhu Ziming, bandaged his hands, and gave him a set of clean old clothes to replace his blood-stained military uniform.

"Now you can 'escape.' We'll create a little chaos. Remember what I said."

Half an hour later, a small "explosion" (actually explosives planted by the special forces) occurred at the foot of a relatively secluded section of the city wall on the west side of Ping'an County. This caused a brief commotion and indiscriminate firing by Japanese sentries. In the chaos, a dark figure (Zhu Ziming) staggered over a low, crumbling section of the wall and disappeared into the night outside the city.

Yamamoto Ichiki stood at the window on the second floor of the command post, gazing in the direction where Zhu Ziming had disappeared, his eyes behind his glasses slightly narrowed.

A mysterious man surnamed He... antiques... a constant supply of weapons...

He turned and coldly said to his adjutant behind him, "Immediately send the results of tonight's interrogation, encrypted, to General Xiaozhong at the Taiyuan Command. At the same time, order all special forces teams to strengthen their infiltration and reconnaissance of the Independent Regiment's operational area, especially the Zhao Jia Yu direction. Focus on finding any clues related to the 'Mr. He,' 'antique trading,' or unidentified vehicles."

"Furthermore," he paused, his voice growing colder, "instruct the Special Higher Police to utilize all resources to secretly investigate all leads within North China that may be related to the 'illegal circulation of large quantities of Japanese weaponry' and the 'transfer of extraordinary supplies.' Especially... those 'disappearances' and 'losses' that cannot be explained by common sense."

Outside the window, the night was deep. Ping'an County returned to its deathly silence, as if nothing had happened. But a poisonous thorn had already silently pierced the flesh of the Independent Regiment. Yamamoto Ichiki's gaze had already crossed the vast mountains and fields, landing on Zhao Jia Yu, on the mysterious "Mr. He," and... that batch of strangely acquired weapons that could change the local balance of power. In the darkness, an invisible net was quietly tightening.