Courtyard Houses: Longevity Since the War of Resistance

Cars, oxcarts, horse-drawn carriages, trains.

From Shanxi to Shanghai, it's like a giant windmill turning creak and groan. The scenery here is truly beautiful—the sky is beautiful, the land is beautiful.

In Shanghai's summer, even the air seems to be divided into different classes.

The aroma of coffee wafted through the F Concession. Gentlemen in suits and ladies in cheongsams stepped out of cars, their high heels clicking on the clean cement pavement. Department store windows were lit up, students in Western-style dresses lined up outside ice cream shops, and the female singer in the gramophone shop had a sickeningly sweet voice.

Heading north, the atmosphere completely changes. The fishy smell of the Suzhou River mixes with the soot from coal mines. Densely packed shantytowns are crammed together, with patched-up clothes hanging haphazardly on bamboo poles. Naked children play by the sewage ditches, and the rickshaw pullers are covered in sweat, with a hint of blood.

One city separates two worlds.

When I arrived in Shanghai, I first found a hotel in the F Concession to stay in. The next afternoon, following the instructions from headquarters, I went to a pastry shop called Kaisiling.

The shop has electric fans, and cream cakes and butterfly cookies are displayed in glass cases.

I found a booth by the window, ordered a lemon tea, and twirled a paper fan in my hand. At exactly three o'clock, a woman in a light gray indigo cheongsam with her hair neatly styled in a bun pushed open the door and came in. She looked to be about thirty-five or thirty-six years old and was carrying a small leather bag.

He glanced around the shop, walked over and sat down opposite me, and also ordered a lemon tea.

After the waiter left, she spoke softly, with a Jiangnan accent, "Sir, do you also like the Napoleon cake here?"

"Too sweet, I prefer walnut pie."

"The walnut pie won't be ready until 4 p.m.

"Good things come to those who wait." After I said this, she nodded slightly, and the code was matched.

She got up, paid the bill, picked up her bag, and walked out.

I followed behind, keeping a distance of five or six steps, and we drove around the concession for twenty minutes before finally arriving in front of an apartment building on Foch Road.

The building looks quite old, but it's well-maintained. Go straight into the entrance.

The last room on the left on the third floor was dark, with the curtains drawn. Turning on the light revealed a small living room with an old sofa, desk, and radio, all kept clean.

A landscape painting hangs on the wall, depicting the sea of ​​clouds over Huangshan Mountain.

"Sit down," the voice was still gentle, but the politeness from the pastry shop was gone.

"I am a nightingale."

I nodded and sat down on the sofa.

She walked to the window, peeked out from behind a corner of the curtain, then pulled it shut. After washing her face in the bathroom, I finally saw her face clearly: thin, with high cheekbones, and tightly pursed lips; she looked to be in her mid-twenties.

"Old Zhao is in trouble. He hasn't come back for a week, and there's been no news of him."

I looked at her and said, "Explain in more detail."

Nightingale sat down in the chair opposite her. "A week ago, a batch of penicillin was just shipped from Hong Kong. We needed that medicine urgently, so he shouldn't have gone. But something big happened at the Juntong Shanghai station. A station chief was arrested and betrayed us, giving us a list of names and contact points. The Japanese launched a city-wide manhunt, and our action team members were all stuck in the martial law zone and couldn't move. In the end, Old Zhao went himself."

She paused, her voice lowering, "He left at three o'clock that afternoon, but he didn't return by nine. We risked sending people to the warehouse; the medicine was still there, but he was gone. The comrade who went with him also disappeared."

"What was investigated afterward?"

"We dare not conduct a large-scale investigation." Nightingale shook her head. "The underground intelligence organizations in Shanghai are all separate. Because of Lao Zhao's disappearance, everyone has gone silent. We can't receive any information. Only Lao Zhao himself can release the information to lift the lockdown."

I paused for a moment, then said, "Leave this to me. You all need to take good care of yourselves."

Nightingale looked up: "How are you going to find it all by yourself?"

"Don't ask me that. I have my ways. I can give Old Zhao a piece of clothing he wears every day, or an item he usually uses. Anything will do, as long as it's something he's used to wearing."

She paused for a moment, then got up and went into the inner room. She came out a while later, holding a fountain pen.

"Is this alright?" She handed over the pen. "This is the one Lao Zhao often uses. Last year on my birthday, he said I write a lot, so he gave it to me as a gift. I usually don't want to use it, so I just keep it."

I took it. The pen was a regular Xinmin brand, the black barrel worn smooth and shiny, with minor scratches on the cap. Unscrewing the cap revealed an iridium nib, which was very well-maintained.

"Okay." I put the pen away. "How can I contact you if I need anything?"

"At the intersection of Jing'an Temple Road and Yuyuan Road, walk thirty steps west, and it's the third sycamore tree on your right," Nightingale said precisely. "There's a hollow in the tree, which I visit every day. If there's an emergency requiring us to meet, I put seven sycamore leaves in the hollow, and the next day at four o'clock, on the second floor of the Le Cui Yuan Teahouse, by the window."

I nodded and made a note of it.

"Wait." She called to me, her voice suddenly becoming tense. "Comrade, Old Zhao's identity is very special. You absolutely must ensure his safety. If something unfortunate happens..."

She didn't say it, but I knew what she meant: she wanted to see him alive or dead.

I looked at her and said, "The higher-ups may not have told you my information. Remember, I am the Ghost Suppressor. Even if Old Zhao is captured and taken back to Japan, I can bring him back with me."

After leaving the apartment building, I walked around the streets a few times before turning into a quiet alley.

He took the pen out of his pocket and held it in his hand.

Close your eyes.

"Boundless heaven and earth, a journey of ten thousand miles."

I obtained this skill from the system after I had accumulated four draw chances after conquering Taishi.

The skill's effect is simple: as long as there is an object, it can use the Boundless Heaven and Earth to track the residual aura on the object, forming a tracking red line to perfectly pinpoint the current location of the object's owner.

Old Zhao's line points southeast.

I followed the trail of the red line, passing through the F Concession, crossing the Suzhou Creek, and heading north. The further north I went, the more Japanese soldiers and checkpoints appeared on the streets.

Finally, it led me to a building, the Bridge Building.

The five-story reinforced concrete building, square in shape, is the headquarters of the Shanghai Military Police.

The red line went straight into the building and used its keen eyes to see through it, discovering that Old Zhao was locked up on the third basement level. He was in relatively good condition, sitting against the wall with messy hair, dirty clothes, and bruises on his face, but his eyes were still open and his back was straight. He had probably been subjected to minor torture, but not major torture. However, being locked up in such a place would have been very mentally and physically exhausting.

He put the pen back in his pocket and took one last look at the building.

We found the place; the person was inside.

Next, the question is how to get the person out.

Instead of returning to my own inn, I found a restaurant called Lao Ban Zhai nearby, went up to the second floor, ordered a bowl of mushy noodles, and sat by the window.

The noodles arrived, and as I slowly picked through the noodles in the bowl, I mentally brought up the system panel to take stock of the cards in my hand.

Current Host: Li Feng

[Remaining lifespan]: 49562 years

[Skills]: Immortal Body, Ageless Body, King of Melee, God of Guns, God of Transformation, Cloud Ladder Leap, King of Throwing, Thirteen Ghost Needles, Insightful Eye, Illusion Boy, Intimate of the Earth, Darwin, Limitless Pursuit of Heaven and Earth, Lighter (Right index finger is like a lighter, needs to be replenished), Power King, Hand Dragon Head (Left index finger is like a faucet, needs to be replenished with water).