Courtyard House: I only wiped out 30,000 Japanese pirates

Three or four minutes later, the Japanese soldiers in Lou's steel rolling mill heard the explosion and rushed out with their guns drawn.

Sergeant Suzuki ran in the lead, clutching a Nambu pistol in his hand. When he ran out the door, many people were stunned.

At the outpost seven or eight hundred meters away from them, the sandbags were blown to pieces, the Type 96 rifle lay askew on the ground with its barrel bent, and the ground was littered with corpses. Five or six Japanese soldiers and more than a dozen puppet troops were all dead.

The motorcycle lay overturned on the side of the road, its wheels still spinning. The driver's body was slumped over the handlebars, his chest riddled with holes from shrapnel. Suzuki's face was as white as paper, his forehead covered in sweat.

The Japanese soldiers, guns at the ready, looked around, their muzzles sweeping across the ruins, the walls, and the empty streets in the distance—this was their way of conducting a search.

Of course, nothing was found.

There were no gunshots, no people, nothing at all.

Suzuki couldn't understand how the resistance fighters had launched the attack, firing so fiercely and throwing grenades. Where were these people hiding?

He can't handle this kind of thing by himself; his abilities are limited.

I immediately called Sasaki; my voice was trembling.

Then the Japanese soldiers began to clean up the battlefield.

They carried the bodies out one by one and lined them up by the roadside. Some people dragged the motorcycle driver's body away, while others picked up the weapon parts scattered on the ground.

Someone found He Dajun's body; his face was covered in dust, and he was lying motionless in the pile of rubble next to his motorcycle. His clothes were covered in dirt, and he looked no different from being dead.

The Japanese soldiers collecting the bodies grabbed his arm and dragged him toward the roadside. After a couple of steps, He Dajun suddenly snorted.

The Japanese soldier was so frightened that he jumped back a step and almost fired his gun.

Suzuki walked over, squatted down, and took a look. He Dajun's chest was still rising and falling, his breathing was even, and apart from a few scratches, there were no major wounds on his face.

Suzuki patted He Dajun's face twice. He Dajun slowly opened his eyes, looking blankly at Suzuki squatting in front of him. He suddenly sat up, looking left and right, his face full of fear and confusion.

"Sir! Sir! What happened? What just happened?"

The translator, who was standing nearby, quickly translated his words. Suzuki stared at him for several seconds, then shook his head.

This man from Daxia was incredibly lucky. All twenty-odd people died, but he was the only one who survived. He was thrown out of the vehicle when it overturned and lost consciousness, but now he's awake again.

Aside from a few scrapes, I'm perfectly fine.

Of course, I also think this person was very unlucky; they stepped on a landmine yesterday and were attacked today.

Suzuki stood up, stared at He Dajun for several seconds, then squatted down and asked, "Explain yourself. What just happened?"

He Dajun leaned against the pile of rubble, his face still showing the terrified expression of someone who had survived a close call. His forehead was covered in dust and sweat, and his lips trembled before he spoke: "Sir, I don't know what happened! I was passing by the outpost when suddenly someone threw a grenade!"

At this point, He Dajun's face grew even more terrified. "They blew up the outpost, and they blew us up too! The driver, the Japanese officer, was killed instantly. I was thrown out, and then I don't remember anything else!"

The translator translated the message, and Suzuki's brows furrowed. He stared into He Dajun's eyes and said, enunciating each word clearly, "You're saying someone threw a grenade at our outpost?"

"Yes, yes, sir! It was thrown from the outpost! I saw it! It exploded right behind the sandbags!"

He Dajun spoke with absolute certainty, his expression a mixture of fear and conviction, almost as if he were about to swear an oath.

Suzuki fell silent.

Looking at He Dajun, his face was expressionless, but the muscle at the corner of his mouth was twitching.

Someone threw a grenade from the outpost? To blow up their own people? That sounds utterly absurd.

An Imperial Army soldier at a sentry post threw a grenade at his own post, killing himself in the process? I've never heard of such a thing before.

But He Dajun spoke with such certainty, and he was the only survivor.

The driver died, and all twenty-odd people at the outpost died. No one could prove he was lying, and no one could prove he was telling the truth.

Suzuki pondered for a few seconds. If He Dajun was telling the truth, then there might be resistance fighters infiltrated into the outpost, or someone might have been turned, which would be more terrifying than an external attack.

If it's true, they must be collaborators among them.

Upon realizing this, Suzuki realized that if the puppet troops had problems, it would have a huge negative impact.

As for He Dajun lying, then he is lying, but why would someone who has just been knocked unconscious by a grenade explosion on his motorcycle lie? What would he gain from it?

Suzuki couldn't understand it. He decided to stop thinking about it.

I have limited ability to handle this kind of thing, so I'll leave it to the Special Higher Police and Sasaki to worry about.

He stood up, waved his hand, and had two Japanese soldiers help He Dajun up from the ground and take him to the factory.

He Dajun was helped to his feet. New bloodstains seeped from the bandage on his left leg, and he walked with a limp, grimacing with each step.

As he walked, he kept looking back at the pile of ruins and corpses behind him, his expression still filled with terror, muttering, "Thank you, sir. Thank you, sir."

The two Japanese soldiers supporting him were expressionless. Suzuki stood in front of the ruins, looking at He Dajun's back with an indescribable look in his eyes.

This person nearly died twice, from stepping on a landmine to flipping a motorcycle, but survived both times.

They're incredibly resilient.

Soon, He Dajun was helped to the steel rolling mill. Although he was still in shock, he was overjoyed.

The biggest gain today was not only killing more than twenty Japanese soldiers, but also clearing my name of suspicion.

More importantly, it was to make the Japanese soldiers suspicious of the puppet troops; this was a strategic-level conspiracy.

Of course, for He Dajun, the most important thing right now is to clear his name of suspicion.

The Japanese sentry was dead, the Japanese driver was dead, and he "almost" died. To anyone else, it would seem that the resistance attacked the motorcycle and the outpost, and that He Dajun was just lucky to survive.

Suzuki wouldn't doubt him, and neither would Sasaki.

How could someone who was nearly killed when his motorcycle was blown up by a grenade be the attacker?

Therefore, reality is more bizarre than fiction.

Not long after, Yi Zhonghai, Xu Wude, and others walked to the steel rolling mill.

The group walked for almost an hour, mainly because they had to be constantly questioned.

Upon arriving at the factory area, we saw He Dajun sitting in a chair, covered in dust, his clothes torn in several places, blood seeping from the bandage on his left leg, and a new gauze wrapped around his arm.

Xu Wude was the first to walk over, looking He Dajun up and down, his eyes wide: "Dajun, what's wrong with you now?"

He Dajun waved his hand, looking utterly miserable: "Don't even mention it. I was on my way to work on a motorcycle when resistance fighters threw grenades. The driver, a Japanese officer, was killed instantly, and I was thrown out and almost died too."

Upon hearing this, the workers who came over one after another displayed various expressions.

Someone lowered their head, the corners of their mouth turned up slightly, then quickly suppressed it.

That lackey deserves it. He's been licking the Japanese devils' ass all day; he's finally getting his comeuppance.

Some people looked at the newly bandaged wounds on He Dajun's body and muttered to themselves: This guy is really tough. He stepped on a landmine yesterday and was hit by a grenade today, and he survived both times. Anyone else would have died twice over.

In short, everyone had their own thoughts, but no one voiced them. Living in chaotic times is difficult enough; it's best to be mindful of your words to avoid getting into trouble.

He Dajun is a traitorous dog; it's said he's prone to making trouble out of his mouth.

He Dajun ignored the stares. He scanned the crowd and saw Yi Zhonghai shrinking back into the crowd with his head down. He then gestured for Yi Zhonghai to come over.

Yi Zhonghai's heart skipped a beat, he paused for a moment, but still gritted his teeth and walked over.

He Dajun sat in the chair, looking up at him with obvious concern: "Zhonghai, I'm injured right now, and I probably can't hold on for much longer. I'll talk to the Japanese commander later and make you my deputy; you won't have to do any physical labor."

Upon hearing this, Yi Zhonghai broke out in a cold sweat.