Siheyuan (traditional courtyard house): Starting with the Korean War, returning home to take charge

He Yuzhu trudged through the mud, his feet making a soft, squelching sound. The rain from the previous two days had soaked this highland, making everything soft underfoot. The smells of disinfectant, sweat, the smoky aroma of cooking porridge, and the sour stench of damp clothes all mingled together, assaulting his nostrils.

Tents were crammed together, a colorful mix, some perched upright, others half-collapsed. Disaster victims squatted at the entrances, some lost in thought, some munching on dry rations, some cradling and comforting their children. The loudspeaker played something repeatedly, the sound intermittent and difficult to understand.

He Yuzhu wiped the sweat from his face.

Twenty meters ahead, a person was squatting there, holding a bowl of porridge.

He wore a gray jacket with a patch on the back, the stitches crooked and uneven. He drank slowly, sip by sip, not like someone who hadn't eaten for days, but rather as if he were savoring something.

He Yuzhu's heart skipped a beat.

He went around to the side and looked through the gap between the two tents.

The face was thinner, the cheekbones more prominent, and the eye sockets sunken. But he recognized the outline.

Sun Deming.

He Yuzhu didn't move. He stood there, his hands hanging at his sides, and gestured behind him. The movement was very light, like shooing away a mosquito.

Yang Xiaobing's leg injury hadn't fully healed, so he walked slowly, but his eyes were already following. He led the two men around from the left, while Lao Lu circled around from the right.

Sun Deming finished the last mouthful of porridge, stood up, and placed the bowl on a pile of rotten wooden planks beside him. He turned around and glanced at the crowd.

The light stopped when it swept over He Yuzhu.

One second.

Two seconds.

Then he turned and ran.

He Yuzhu rushed out. The ground was muddy and slippery, and he stumbled, only managing to steady himself by grabbing onto a nearby wooden stake. An old woman nearby was starting a fire and was startled, dropping the firewood she was holding.

"Get out of the way!"

Sun Deming ran very fast, weaving between the tents. He bumped into a little boy, who fell into the mud and cried loudly. He ignored him and kept running.

The disaster victims scattered and hid, some shouting, some yelling, creating chaos. A man tried to stop him, but he was shoved aside and bumped into a pot stand next to him, causing the pot to overturn and hot water to spill all over the ground.

He Yuzhu chased after them into the gap between the two tents. It was full of water, up to his ankles, and he didn't know where it had seeped in from. He stepped on something soft and squishy, ​​and almost slipped and fell—someone had thrown down a soaked blanket.

Squeezing out of the crevice, Sun Deming quickly reached the edge of the resettlement site. There was a slope over there, and below the slope was a forest; once inside the forest, it would be difficult to find him.

Yang Xiaobing rushed out from the left and blocked his way.

Sun Deming paused for a moment, then turned and ran to the right. Old Lu and his men blocked his way on the right.

He was surrounded.

Sun Deming stood there, panting heavily. He looked to his left, then to his right; Yang Xiaobing was in front of him, and He Yuzhu was behind him. The four of them had him cornered; he couldn't escape.

He reached into his robes.

He Yuzhu's pupils contracted, and he lunged forward, kicking the man's wrist.

Sun Deming screamed, his hand flying out of his pocket. A small black object flew out and landed in the mud. He Yuzhu kicked him in the back of the knee, sending him crashing to his knees, which slammed into the mud, splashing water everywhere.

Yang Xiaobing pounced on him from behind and pinned him to the ground. Old Lu ran over, pulled several explosives from his pocket, tied them together with duct tape, and fastened them around his waist. The explosives were already wet, but who would dare gamble on that?

"Commander, this kid wants to die with us."

He Yuzhu bent down and picked up the small object from the mud. It was a detonator, its red button covered in mud.

He squatted down and looked at Sun Deming.

Sun Deming lay on the ground, his face covered in mud, panting heavily. He turned his head to look at He Yuzhu, his eyes bloodshot. His lips moved, as if he wanted to say something, but no words came out.

He Yuzhu stood up.

"take away."

The lantern inside the tent cast the shadows of several people onto the tent cloth, making them appear larger and smaller.

Sun Deming sat in a chair, handcuffed, head bowed. The mud on his clothes was still wet, dripping down his trousers and forming a small puddle at his feet. He Yuzhu sat opposite him, while Old Sun stood beside him, a cigarette between his fingers.

silence.

The wind made the tarpaulin flap loudly.

Sun Deming looked up at the cigarette in Old Sun's hand. He stared at it for several seconds.

"Can you give me a root?"

Old Sun glanced at He Yuzhu. He Yuzhu nodded.

Old Sun walked over, put a cigarette in Sun Deming's mouth, struck a match, and lit it. Sun Deming took a drag and slowly exhaled. Smoke drifted through the tent.

"What do you want to ask?"

He Yuzhu looked at him.

"What's your name?"

Sun Deming was taken aback.

"Don't you already know?"

He Yuzhu didn't say anything.

Sun Deming took another drag of his cigarette.

"Sun Deming".

"What do you do?"

Sun Deming remained silent for a few seconds. He stared at the cigarette in his hand, watching the ash gradually lengthen.

"Don't you all know that too?"

He Yuzhu leaned forward.

"I want to hear what you have to say."

Sun Deming lowered his head, looking at his handcuffed hands. Those hands were trembling slightly.

"The blacksmith's man."

He Yuzhu pressed his hand on his knee.

Who is the blacksmith?

Sun Deming shook his head.

"have no idea."

Old Sun snorted from the side.

"You don't know? You're his woman, and you don't know?"

Sun Deming looked up at Old Sun. His lips moved as if he wanted to explain something, but he swallowed his words back.

"I really don't know. He's always the one who contacts me."

He Yuzhu stared at him.

"How do I find it?"

Sun Deming thought for a moment. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and held it between his fingers.

"The phone. He calls me. The number is different every time. Sometimes it's a month apart, sometimes it's three months apart."

"What did you say?"

"What do you want me to do? Who do you want me to keep an eye on? What messages do you want me to pass on?"

He Yuzhu clenched his hands on his knees.

"What did he say the last time?"

Sun Deming fell silent.

The tent fell silent. Only the sound of the wind rustling the tent fabric could be heard.

Sun Deming finished his cigarette, threw the butt on the ground, and stomped it out. He stomped hard and twisted it twice.

He said that a big shot would make a move during the National Day celebrations.

The cigarette in Old Sun's hand fell to the ground.

He Yuzhu stood up and walked over to Sun Deming. He squatted down and stared into Sun Deming's eyes.

"Who's the important person?"

Sun Deming shook his head.

He didn't say.

"In what way?"

"He didn't say."

"Who is the target?"

"He didn't say."

He Yuzhu looked at him. His face was covered in mud, and there were cuts from tree branches; the blood had congealed and turned black.

"Sun Deming, what else do you know?"

Sun Deming looked at He Yuzhu. There was something flickering in his eyes, whether it was regret or fear, it was hard to tell.

That's all I know.

He Yuzhu stood up, walked to the tent entrance, and lifted the curtain.

It was pitch black outside, and you couldn't see anything. The lights from the distant resettlement site looked like thumbtacks stuck into a black cloth.

He turned around.

"Old Sun, interrogate him tonight. I need to know everything he knows before dawn."