Courtyard House: Ten-year-old Master Zhu reorganizes the entire courtyard

November.

At the base of the wall, there were clusters of figures, all dusty and motionless, so much so that you couldn't tell if they were people or just trash.

Some were refugees who had fled, while others were locals who had been squeezed out of their human form by these days.

"We long for the central government, we yearn for the central government, but when the central government arrives, we suffer even more."

Even a three-year-old toddler can pronounce these words perfectly.

Do you think those high-ranking officials who were "taking over" would blush with embarrassment after hearing this?

No.

That face was three inches thicker than the corner of a city wall.

At the entrance of the grain store.

The queue was so long that you could see from one end of the street to the other.

The people all looked pale and sickly, clutching the few pieces of legal tender that were practically worthless in their hands.

Their eyes were like nails, fixed on that half-open door.

"That's all! No rice left today! Close!"

A waiter poked his head out from under the door, his voice as loud as a broken gong, sounding impatient.

"What?! How come it's gone already? It's only been open for a short time!"

"We queued all night! All night!"

"Please have mercy, my child hasn't seen Mi Xing'er for two days, just give me a handful, just a handful!"

The crowd was like a pot of lukewarm water, about to boil over.

The cries, the curses, the pleas—their voices mingled together as one.

Just then, a truck came rumbling down on them.

Inside the truck bed were several soldiers, their gun barrels blackened.

As soon as the car door opened, a chubby, oily face, like a steamed bun, squeezed out.

Section Chief Ma.

He was dressed in a crisp Zhongshan suit, which was so tight that he looked like a rice dumpling.

He walked straight to the entrance of the grain store, a slip of paper stamped with a red seal dangling from his hand.

"Get out of the way! All of you, get the fuck out of the way!"

The soldiers used their rifle butts to clear a path, roughly stabbing into the crowd.

An old woman was a little slow on her feet and was hit hard on the lower back by a gun butt.

puff.

The old lady tripped and fell headfirst onto the curb, hitting her forehead and bleeding down her withered forehead.

A gasp rippled through the crowd.

Some people tried to move forward, but when the dark muzzle of a gun was pointed at them, everyone pulled their feet back.

Section Chief Ma didn't even lift his eyelids.

He slammed the note down in the grain store owner's face.

"By order of Commissioner Li! This entire batch of grain and military supplies! Has been requisitioned!"

The grain store manager's face was contorted with bitterness: "Sir, this...this is all the people's staple food! If you take this whole cartload, what will everyone in this area eat?"

"What do you want to eat?"

Ma Ke laughed heartily, his face trembling with laughter.

"Eat dirt! The war's on the front lines, what's wrong with ordinary people going hungry for a couple of meals? Huh? That's loyalty to the Party and the country! Move it!"

Those soldiers, like wolves, rushed into the store.

Dozens of bags of flour and rice—the last of the shop's stock—were all loaded onto the truck.

But this vehicle wasn't headed towards the military camp.

Across the street, on the second floor of the teahouse.

He Yuzhu held a teacup, but his eyes were fixed on the rear of the truck through the window.

The car made three turns.

Finally, it stopped at the back door of a black market warehouse.

There, a few bloated, fat guys were already waiting.

Money, goods.

One touch, one transaction.

What they called "military supplies" quickly became hot commodities on the black market, with prices increasing more than tenfold.

He Yuzhu put down his teacup.

He pulled out a miniature camera from his pocket, which was no bigger than a matchbox.

He found the perfect angle through the gap in the curtains.

Click.

A soft sound.

Another sound.

Click.

The greedy, distorted face of Section Chief Ma as he counted the money.

The soldier's arrogant face when he pushed the old lady down.

There were also empty grain stores and faces filled with despair.

All of these things were put into that small metal box.

It is evidence of a crime.

It was also explosive.

As darkness fell, He Yuzhu strolled over to the abandoned freight station.

The shopkeeper looked at the developed photos, his hand trembling as he held them.

"brute."

The shopkeeper squeezed out two words through gritted teeth, his eyes blazing with fury.

"These bastards are uprooting the Kuomintang."

"Shopkeeper," He Yuzhu asked, "can this be reported?"

"Most of the newspapers in Beiping have become mouthpieces for other countries and can't be published anymore." The shopkeeper stroked his beard. "However, there are still a few spineless ones at the Ta Kung Pao. If all else fails, we can print leaflets and distribute them to universities and factories! A spark can start a prairie fire."

"I know how to print flyers," He Yuzhu said, pushing the film forward. "Give it to me."

Three days.

Just three days.

An unsigned extra edition, like a ghost, quietly spread through several universities and factories in Beiping.

The title, eight large characters, each one piercing the heart.

"Takeover? Looting! Where Does the People's Hard-Earned Money Go?"

Below it was a photo of Section Chief Ma counting money.

The photo is a bit blurry, but anyone who knows him can recognize him at a glance—his official robes, his fat face.

That piece of paper was louder than dynamite.

In Beiping (Beijing), people's eyes have changed, both on the streets and in the alleys.

At first it was fear, now it's hatred.

That kind of hatred is like dry tinder soaked in oil, just waiting for a spark to ignite.

No. 95, Nanluoguxiang.

Yi Zhonghai sat at the table, holding this one flyer in his hand.

I found it at the factory.

He glanced at the smug-looking Section Chief Ma in the photo, then looked back at the nearly empty cornmeal in his own rice jar.

"Old Yi, is what this says... true?" An older woman leaned closer, her voice extremely low.

Yi Zhonghai remained silent.

He crumpled the flyer into a ball, raised his arm, and tried to throw it into the stove.

But when his hand reached the stove opening, he stopped.

real?fake?

How could he not have a sense of justice?

In just a few months, I've watched helplessly as this world has rotted away, bit by bit.

"Don't spread rumors outside."

After struggling for a while, Yi Zhonghai managed to utter just this one sentence before stuffing the paper ball into his pocket.

But in his heart, the once solidly built edifice was now crackling and crumbling, its foundation crumbling.

He believed his whole life that as long as he followed the rules, listened to his superiors, and lived a quiet life, he could get by.

What now?

Now, the people in charge are breaking the rules and pushing those who follow them to their doom.

He Yuzhu stood in the middle of the courtyard, looking up at the gray sky.

In my mind, on the system panel.

The value in the "Popular Support" column was jumping wildly upwards, as if it were going crazy.

Red.

That was anger.

Anger is good.

Burn it.

It'll be lively if they all burn down.