The Courtyard House: The Little Red Devil Returning from the Peninsula

11:45 PM.

The assault battalion of two hundred men was still twelve kilometers away from Liushugou.

The mountain path was so narrow that only three people could walk side by side. Mules and horses walked in the middle, their horseshoes clattering on the gravel, the sound carrying far in the night. The mules carried loads on their backs: a light machine gun wrapped in tarpaulin, sulfanilamide powder in bamboo tubes, a stretcher strapped to both sides, and mortar parts packed in wooden crates bound with hemp rope, swaying with every step.

Every few dozen meters, Zhao Weiguo would look up at the northern horizon. In the distance, there was a patch of dark red light, and muffled explosions like thunder came from within that light.

Zhao Weiguo walked in the middle of the group, his left hand gripping the reins, his right hand tucked into his cotton-padded coat pocket. Inside was the reconnaissance map of the gifted youth program, its edges soaked with sweat, limp and lifeless. His eyes were fixed on the mountain path ahead, winding and twisting, flanked by dense, dark pine forests, their needles rustling in the wind.

Liu Dashan walked beside him, carrying a Mauser pistol with the muzzle pointing downwards. He took long strides, each step equivalent to one and a half of others', and walked steadily, as if strolling in his own backyard.

"Brother Zhao, how much further?" Chen An caught up from behind and asked in a low voice, his breath turning into white mist in the cold air.

"Twelve kilometers," Zhao Weiguo said, "an hour and a half of forced march."

Chen An noted it down, then stepped back, his boots clicking on the gravel.

The procession continued. No one spoke; only the sounds of footsteps, mule hooves, and the occasional rustling of branches touched the ground. The moon was obscured by clouds, only a sliver visible, and the light was so dim that the path was almost invisible. Those in front judged distance by the breathing of those behind, while those behind judged direction by the silhouettes of those in front.

Zhao Weiguo walked at the very front. He knew the terrain well; he had taken this very road when he came to Taihang from Beiping two years ago. At that time, he was twelve years old, with only Lao Wei by his side, the former platoon leader of the reconnaissance platoon of the Independent Regiment, who had just been transferred to the assault battalion as deputy company commander. Now he was fourteen years old, with several hundred people around him.

After walking for twenty minutes, Zhao Weiguo stopped.

He tilted his head and listened.

There was a sound in the distance. Gunshots.

The gunshots were distant and muffled, like someone setting off firecrackers inside a quilt. But Zhao Weiguo could tell that the Hanyang rifle had a crisp sound, the Type 38 rifle had a sharp sound, and the muffled sound came from a Nambu pistol.

The Nambu pistol was standard issue for Japanese special forces.

My heart skipped a beat. Confirmed. Yamamoto is here.

"Liu Dashan."

Liu Dashan came over and bumped him with his shoulder.

"Did you hear that?"

"I heard you," Liu Dashan said. "Southern style."

Zhao Weiguo nodded. He walked to a crooked cypress tree by the roadside, squatted down, and took out a map from his pocket. Chen An followed, holding a light-blocking torch, wrapped in three layers of oilcloth, with only a sliver of light showing through, illuminating the map like a firefly.

The map marked the terrain of Liushugou. He knew every line—cave dwellings, sentry posts, streams, hillsides—by heart. He traced a line on the map with his finger, pointing to the ridge southeast of Liushugou and then to Yejiling to the northwest.

"Chen An, put out the fire."

Chen An pressed the torch to the ground, and the fire went out, leaving only a wisp of smoke that rose quickly in the cold weather.

Zhao Weiguo closed his eyes.

A blue light flashed in my mind, floating in the darkness.

Intermediate-level tactical simulations have begun, covering a range of 500 meters, with information detailed down to the platoon level.

But this time he didn't stop at 500 meters. He expanded the area to its maximum, covering a three-kilometer radius around Willow Tree Gully.

The information is refreshed layer by layer, like someone planting flags on a map.

Inside Liushugou: There are dense heat signals coming from the direction of the cave dwellings, indicating approximately fifty people advancing from south to north. These people are attacking from the bottom of the gully upwards; the Independent Regiment's cave dwellings are located halfway up the mountain.

Southeast Ridge: There are twelve heat source signals, scattered on both sides of the ridge, moving westward. This is a cleanup operation, driving the Independent Regiment northwestward.

Wild Chicken Ridge Mountain Path: There are eight heat source signals blocking the entrance to the path, and they are not moving. This is to block the retreat route.

Yamamoto himself: Location unknown. The simulation did not mark his location, indicating that he is not in any group, or that his signal has been masked.

Zhao Weiguo opened his eyes, the afterimage of the blue light still lingering in them.

"Fifty men led the attack, twelve swept up the retreat, and eight blocked the escape route. Yamamoto surrounded Willow Grove in three layers."

Liu Dashan's face was not visible in the darkness, but his voice was steady, like a rock.

"How do we fight?"

Zhao Weiguo stood up, folded the map neatly, and put it in his pocket. The hard corner of the paper was digging into his ribs.

"Splitting into three groups. Liu Dashan, you take eighty men and circle around to the north at Qinglong Ridge, then cut through Yeji Ridge. Those eight blocking our retreat, you take them out. If Kong Jie's remnants try to retreat that way, you intercept them."

Liu Dashan didn't ask any more questions. He released the safety of the Mauser pistol with a click.

"Chen An, you take sixty men and search the southeastern mountain ridge. Leave none of the twelve who were cleaning up the mess alive. Keep the survivors, but don't worry about the dead."

Chen An's fingers gripped the pistol tightly, his knuckles turning white.

"Brother Zhao, what about you?"

"I will lead sixty men straight into Willow Tree Gully."

Liu Dashan opened his mouth slightly, then closed it again.

Sixty men against fifty special agents—it seemed like a lot of numbers, but the opposing side was elite, while the assault battalion still had many new recruits. Before he could say anything, Zhao Weiguo had already spoken.

"If Yamamoto were on the main attacking team, that would be perfect," Zhao Weiguo said calmly. "His head is mine."

Liu Dashan swallowed the words he was about to say. He knew he couldn't stop him; once this boy made up his mind, not even ten oxen could pull him back.

Zhao Weiguo untied the bamboo tube of sulfanilamide powder from the mule's back, opened it, and found small bottles of sulfanilamide powder inside. The bottles were glass, sealed with wax, and were icy cold to the touch. He gave ten bottles each to Liu Dashan and Chen An.

"If you get shot, immediately administer the medics. Don't wait for the medic. The medic might not be there, but you have your own hand."

Liu Dashan took the bottle and put it in his pocket. The bottle jingled in his pocket, but he pressed it down with his hand and it stopped making a sound.

"Let's go," Zhao Weiguo said.

Liu Dashan led eighty men north and disappeared into the pine forest. Chen An led sixty men east and also disappeared into the pine forest. Neither group carried torches, and their footsteps were very low, like two groups of cats.

Zhao Weiguo led the rest of the men southwest. Each man had a pine branch between his teeth, its resin carrying a bitter taste. The mule bells were wrapped in cloth, so they didn't ring as they walked. The group moved through the black pine forest, moonlight filtering through the leaves and falling to the ground like shattered silver.

No one spoke.

After walking for forty minutes, another explosion came from afar. The explosion was much louder than the gunshot, like a muffled thunderclap, making the soles of our feet numb. Immediately afterward, a ball of fire shot up from the direction of Willow Gully, illuminating half of the mountain in an orange-red hue, as if someone had lit a bonfire in the mountains.

Zhao Weiguo stopped and looked at the firelight. The firelight reflected on his face, making it look as red as blood.

"Ammunition depot."

Chen An caught up from behind, his face pale and his lips trembling.

"The ammunition depot exploded?"

Zhao Weiguo nodded. The ammunition depot was at the bottom of Willow Gully, right next to the shed by the stream. The flames shooting up from there meant that Yamamoto had already reached the bottom of the gully. The Independent Regiment's ammunition depot was the last line of defense; losing it meant that all the outer outposts had fallen.

"Speed ​​up," Zhao Weiguo said.

The column quickened its pace. The veterans walked in front, the new recruits behind. The veterans' steps were steady, while the new recruits' steps were hurried. Some of them stepped on the heels of the people in front of them and almost tripped. No one dared to make a sound. If they fell, they would get up and keep walking. Even if their knees hit the stones and bled, they wouldn't utter a sound.

0:55.

The Third Company arrived at the mass grave on the outskirts of Liushugou.

The mass grave was located in the southwest corner of Willow Gully, a barren slope dotted with dozens of graves overgrown with weeds, much of which had been trampled flat. Beside the graves lay several men, sentries from the Independent Regiment. Zhao Weiguo crouched down to examine them. The sentries' rifles had been removed, their bayonets were gone, and there were blackened ligature marks on their necks—marks made from steel wire.

He's dead. Killed by a sentry.

Zhao Weiguo stood up without saying a word. His hands hung limply at his sides, his knuckles white, his nails digging into his flesh.

A communications soldier ran back from the southeast, his face covered in blood—other people's blood—dripping down his chin and staining his cotton-padded coat, creating a dark patch. He was panting heavily, barely able to speak coherently.

"The second company commander told me to report that there were twelve enemy soldiers on the southeast mountain ridge; eight were killed, and two were alive."

"Explain yourself clearly," Zhao Weiguo said.

The veteran swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"According to survivors, Yamamoto's main force launched its attack at 10 PM. Commander Kong was shot; it's unknown whether he's dead or not. The remaining troops retreated towards the Nanshan Pass."

Zhao Weiguo's fingers tightened. He twisted the pistol's handle so hard it creaked, and the wooden handle almost broke.

Kong Jie was shot.

He recalled Kong Jie's silhouette standing at the entrance of the cave dwelling, his words, "I am the commander of the Independent Regiment, I cannot leave the garrison," and the faint red mark on the gauze on his left arm.

Gardenia.

Zhi Zi stepped out from the ranks. She was in her thirties, with pockmarked face, and was an excellent marksman; she was a soldier trained by Liu Dashan. She carried a Type 38 rifle, its butt polished to a gleaming shine.

"Take ten men and go to Nanshan Pass," Zhao Weiguo said. "To meet up with Kong Jie's remaining troops. Save those you can, and hold your ground until I return."

Zhi Zi hummed in agreement, then turned and left with her men. Ten people followed her, their steps quick, disappearing into the darkness like a gust of wind.

Zhao Weiguo looked towards Willow Gully. The firelight was lower, not as bright as before, but it was still burning. Smoke drifted up from the bottom of the gully, reaching the mountainside, where it was dispersed by the wind, carrying the smell of burning.

He heard someone shouting.

The sound came from the direction of Willow Gully, quite far, separated by several mountain ridges, but sounds travel far at night. He couldn't quite make out what was being shouted, but he recognized one word.

"Has the assault battalion arrived yet?"

The voice was hoarse. The person who had been shouting had screamed until their throat was raw; the sound was like it was being torn from their throat, and it tasted bloody.

Zhao Weiguo pressed the Mauser pistol to his side, and the safety clicked as it was released.

"Walk."

Sixty men followed him, rushing towards Willow Gully. Their footsteps shattered the silence of the night, like thunder rolling down the hillside.