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

Beiping, noon.

At the summit of Longevity Hill in the Summer Palace, the wind was strong, whipping the hem of his long robe up and down. A medicinal herb merchant stood in the windy spot, his hands behind his back, gazing at Kunming Lake. A thin layer of ice covered the lake, with withered leaves clinging to the surface. The wind had carried these leaves to the lakeshore, where they piled up beneath the stone railing.

He wore a gray cloth robe with a black mandarin jacket over it, a melon-shaped hat on his head, and cloth shoes with multi-layered soles on his feet. He had a smile on his face, a very gentle smile, like the kind of businessman who goes from street to street, always with a smile on his face.

But his eyes are not right.

His eyes weren't on the lake, the mountains, or the distant Fragrant Buddha Pavilion. His eyes were measuring. Measuring the distance from Longevity Hill to Kunming Lake, the height of the stone railings along the lake, how many paths led from the mountaintop to the foot of the mountain, which path was for running, and which path was for hiding.

He was looking at the shooting range.

Footsteps came from behind, very light, almost silent on the stone slabs.

"Sir."

He stood three steps away, holding an oiled paper package in his hand. He wore a short jacket, a cloth belt around his waist, and straw sandals, looking like a porter. But his back was too straight, and his gaze too steady; he looked more like a soldier than a porter.

Yamamoto Ichiki did not turn around.

"Has the stuff arrived?"

Masuko handed over the oil paper package.

The oil paper package was opened, revealing a file stamped with a red "Confidential" seal. Opening the file, the first page contained a photograph of a young boy wearing an Eighth Route Army uniform. The uniform was too big; the sleeves were rolled up twice, the collar was open, and his face was covered in dust, but his eyes were bright.

The caption below the photo reads: "Zhao Weiguo, male, 14 years old, battalion commander of the assault battalion of the 386th Brigade, 129th Division of the Eighth Route Army."

Yamamoto looked at the photo for a long time.

"Fourteen years old," he said.

Masuko stood to the side without saying a word.

Turning to the second page of the file, which contained Zhao Weiguo's resume, Yamamoto's fingers slid across the paper, passing line after line of text. With each line he slid, his brow furrowed more deeply.

"Former ordnance repairman of the 29th Army," he read aloud. "Participated in the defense of Wanping City, and retreated with the army after the Marco Polo Bridge Incident, moving into the Taihang Mountains."

He turned to the next page.

"The core tactics of the Hulukou ambush were to use the terrain to block the passage and annihilate the Japanese transport convoy. At Huanghuaigou, a Japanese supply convoy was wiped out with zero casualties. At Liushuwang, a reinforced Japanese company was completely destroyed, with the company commander killed, and zero deaths."

He finished reading the resume, closed the file, and looked at Kunming Lake.

"Two battles in three days, annihilating over two hundred enemy soldiers with zero casualties on our side," he said. "This was achieved by a fourteen-year-old boy."

Masuko hesitated for a moment.

Masuko spoke up. "Sir, could the file be exaggerated?"

Yamamoto shook his head.

"No. The North China Area Army wouldn't issue a secret order specifically for an exaggerated file."

He put the file into an oil paper package and turned around.

Do you know why I didn't go directly to Xing Shu Ping?

Masuko shook her head.

The stone railing was cold, bone-chillingly cold. Yamamoto's hand rested on it.

"Willow Bay has just been defeated, and things are tense there right now. Going there now would be suicide."

He turned around.

"First, figure out the patterns and find the loopholes, then figure out how to take action."

Masuko nodded.

Yamamoto pulled a map from his pocket. The map was from the Taihang Mountains; the paper was yellowed and the edges were worn. He spread the map out on the stone railing, took a red pencil from his pocket, and drew four circles on the map.

The first circle: Xing Shu Ping.

The second circle: the headquarters of the New First Regiment.

The third circle: the Independent Regiment's base.

The fourth circle: the headquarters of the 386th Brigade.

"Four points," he said. "Zhao Weiguo could be at any of them. I'm not investigating the camp, I'm investigating the movement of people."

He drew an X next to Xing Shu Ping.

"He's young and might not stay at a fixed camp for long," he said. "We need to investigate his movements as well."

Masuko looked at the four circles and one cross on the map without saying a word.

Masuko put the map away and tucked it into her bosom.

"Go back and assemble," he said. "Twelve people, all in disguise."

---

Three days later, in an abandoned brick kiln outside Beiping city.

An oil lamp burned in the cave dwelling, its wick sizzling as it burned, casting flickering shadows on the cave walls. Twelve people stood inside, some in long robes, some in short jackets, some in coarse cotton-padded coats. Their faces were different—some thin, some fat, some dark-skinned, some fair—but their eyes were all the same: steady, cold, like hunters waiting for their prey.

Their weapons were disassembled and hidden in the linings of medicine boxes, in the hollows of axles, and in the cores of rolls of cloth. The pistols were disassembled into parts: barrels, bolts, and magazines. They were separated, and when put together, they were usable, but when separated, they were unrecognizable as guns.

Yamamoto stood in front of them, holding a list in his hand.

"From today onward, you are medicine merchants, porters, accountants, and cart drivers. Disassemble your weapons and hide them in medicine chests, cart axles, and rolls of cloth. When you reach Taihang, don't ask about military matters; only ask about medicine prices, grain prices, and which shopkeeper is trustworthy."

He walked up to one of the team members and looked at him.

"Say one sentence."

The team member spoke up.

"Shopkeeper, how much is angelica root?"

Yamamoto shook his head.

"The retroflex ending is too heavy," he said. "The Taihang Mountains don't have that accent. Change it."

The team members nodded.

Yamamoto walked up to the next team member and looked at him.

"you say."

"Shopkeeper, how much is angelica root?"

Yamamoto listened for two seconds.

"Passed."

He walked up to Masuko and looked at him.

"You lead the first group to Liulin Town," he said. "Liulin Town is a common gathering point for Xingshuping to purchase medicinal herbs, salt, and cloth. Once we get there, we'll settle down, observe but not move, and wait for our targets to reveal their patterns."

Masuko nodded.

"Should we launch a surprise attack on Xing Shu Ping?"

Yamamoto shook his head.

"Liushuwang has just been defeated, and the Eighth Route Army is on high alert," he said. "Going there rashly will only lead to our deaths. Let's go to Liulin Town first, and see how things are before making any decisions."

He pulled a cigarette case from his pocket. The case was made of metal and had scratches on it. He opened the case and took out a photograph. The photograph showed Zhao Weiguo, and he had pressed a white mark on the edge of the photograph with his fingernail.

He looked at the photo for two seconds, put it back in the cigarette case, and closed the lid.

"Let's go," he said.

---

Five days later, on the edge of the Taihang Mountains, outside Liulin Town.

As dawn broke, a thin mist hung over the mountain path, drifting close to the ground and dissipating only when it reached knee-high. A caravan of medicinal herbs arrived from the north, consisting of three mule carts loaded with boxes of herbs, each labeled with a red paper tag. The drivers, dressed in short jackets and with headscarves wrapped around their heads, hummed tunes like seasoned travelers on this road.

Masuko sat on the first mule cart, holding a folding fan with a landscape painting on it. He wore a gray cloth robe, his melon-shaped hat pulled low, and his eyes, hidden beneath the brim, were looking at the roadside. There stood an old locust tree by the roadside, its branches swaying in the wind, and beside its roots lay a pile of dried, grayish horse manure.

As the mule cart reached the outskirts of Liulin Town, Yamamoto noticed a set of footprints in the mud by the roadside. The footprints were shallow but neatly arranged and evenly spaced, unlike those of travelers, but rather those of guards. There was some tobacco ash next to the footprints, half of which had been blown away by the wind, but it was still clear that they were fresh.

He didn't speak, just glanced at it, and closed the folding fan.

The mule cart entered Liulin Town, a small town with only one main street lined with shops on both sides. People were walking around, some driving donkeys, and others chopping firewood in front of the shops. The herbal medicine caravan stopped in front of Jihetang Pharmacy, and Yamamoto jumped off the mule cart and went into the pharmacy.

There was an old man in the pharmacy. He sat behind the counter, holding a scale in his hand, with several medicinal herbs on the scale pan.

Yamamoto smiled and cupped his hands in greeting.

"Shopkeeper, I'm a medicinal herb merchant from Beiping. I'd like to buy some angelica and astragalus from your esteemed location."

The old man looked up and glanced at him.

"I have angelica, and I also have astragalus," he said. "What price are you offering?"

Yamamoto smiled and sat down, placing the folding fan on the counter.

"The price is negotiable," he said. "I'll stay for a few days and see how things go."

The old man nodded.

"There's a spare room in the backyard," he said. "Two cents a day."

Yamamoto smiled and took out some money from his pocket, placing it on the counter.

"I'll stay for five days," he said.

He followed the old man to the backyard, where there was a small hut with a bed, a table, and a chair. He placed his medicine box by the bed, walked to the window, and opened it.

Outside the window were the streets of Liulin Town, where people were walking, driving mule carts, and chatting in front of shops.

Yamamoto stood by the window, looking at the street.

He tapped his fingers twice on the window frame.

"From today onward," he muttered to himself, "I'll just watch and not do anything."

He closed the window, walked to the table, sat down, opened his cigarette case, took out the photo, and placed it on the table.

In the photo, Zhao Weiguo is looking at him with bright eyes.

Yamamoto looked at the photo without saying a word.

A vendor's cry came from outside the window. Someone was shouting "Tofu for sale!" The sound was drawn out and drifted down the street.