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

As soon as the warehouse door was opened, the stench hit the door.

It wasn't just ordinary musty smell; it was a stench mixed with rat droppings, rotten wood, and urine, so strong that He Yuzhu took a step back. He stood at the door for a few seconds, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness before pulling out his flashlight.

The beam of light swept across, but there was nothing there.

A few rotten logs lay piled in the corner, covered in dark fungi. There were footprints on the ground, fresh but few, about three or four people. He squatted down and touched the footprints; the mud was still damp.

He stood up and followed the footprints inside.

He walked to the very back and saw an enamel mug against the wall. He reached out and touched the outside of the mug—it was warm. He then touched the tea inside; it was lukewarm.

The person just left. At most half an hour ago.

He put the jar down, stood there, and stared at the crooked window. The wind blew in through the hole, chilling the back of his neck.

Footsteps came from outside; it was Old Sun.

"That area is empty too."

He Yuzhu didn't turn around. He stared at the window, his mind preoccupied with something else—if he had arrived half an hour earlier, would he have run into them?

"They knew Sun Deming had been arrested," he said.

Old Sun walked over, stood next to him, took out a cigarette from his pocket, and offered it to him. He Yuzhu took it, but didn't light it, just held it there. Old Sun lit one for himself, took a puff, and slowly exhaled.

"I definitely know."

The two stood there, neither of them speaking. The musty smell from the warehouse still wafted into their nostrils, and the wind outside rattled the broken windows.

After a while, He Yuzhu put the unlit cigarette back into Lao Sun's hand.

"Old Sun, do you believe they'll attack again?"

Old Sun looked at the cigarette in his hand and crushed it.

"letter."

He Yuzhu turned around and walked out.

As I reached the door, I glanced back at the enamel mug. It had a red double happiness symbol printed on it, and a piece of porcelain was chipped off the corner.

"Then we need to prepare in advance."

For the next ten days or so, He Yuzhu barely slept.

It wouldn't be accurate to say I didn't sleep at all; it was the kind of restless sleep—I'd doze off against the wall for a bit, only to be jolted awake by someone coughing outside; I'd sit in the car waiting for news, my eyelids barely closing before I forced myself to open them again.

Yang Xiaobing's leg hadn't fully healed, so he came on crutches. When he pushed open the door to the conference room, He Yuzhu was squatting in front of the map, drawing circles on it with a red pen.

"Commander."

He Yuzhu raised his head.

Yang Xiaobing stood at the doorway, his injured leg dangling, afraid to touch the ground. The expression on his face was hard to tell—whether it was pain or something else entirely.

"Sit down and talk."

Yang Xiaobing moved to the chair, leaned his cane against it, and slowly sat down. He groaned softly as he sat down, but gritted his teeth and endured it.

He Yuzhu looked at his leg but didn't say anything.

Yang Xiaobing spoke first.

"Sun Deming's side has been interrogated again. It's the same old stuff, nothing new."

He Yuzhu nodded and continued looking down at the map.

Yang Xiaobing waited for a while, then couldn't resist.

"Commander, will we be able to finish investigating like this?"

He Yuzhu's finger paused on the map. The red circle was only half-drawn, not finished.

"We have to investigate, even if we can't finish."

Yang Xiaobing opened his mouth as if to say something, but then swallowed it back.

The room was quiet for a few seconds.

He Yuzhu put down the red pen and stood up. His legs were numb from squatting, so he moved his knees a couple of times.

"You know the ceremony route well. Focus on these key areas."

He pointed to the red circles on the map.

"Along Chang'an Avenue, around Tiananmen Square, at the entrance to the viewing platform."

Yang Xiaobing looked at the red circles and nodded.

"Also, all vehicles entering the site must be checked."

Yang Xiaobing nodded again.

He Yuzhu walked to the window and opened it a crack. A gust of wind blew in, carrying the smell of coal smoke. The sky was overcast, the sun was hidden by clouds, and the light was dim.

Yang Xiaobing said from behind.

"Commander, you should get some sleep too."

He Yuzhu did not answer.

In the early hours of October 1st, He Yuzhu squatted on the steps beside Chang'an Avenue.

Before dawn, the streetlights illuminated the floats as they drove by one by one, their bodies painted with slogans in red and yellow, which looked somewhat fake in the dim light. He looked down at his hands; his fingers were trembling slightly, whether from the cold or from exhaustion, he couldn't tell.

He couldn't remember the last time he had slept. He only remembered that last night, in the middle of the night, Old Lu handed him a steamed bun. He took a bite, chewed for a while, and then leaned against the wall and fell asleep. When he woke up, the steamed bun was still in his hand, completely cold, and covered in saliva stains.

Yang Xiaobing walked over with his cane and stopped beside him.

"Commander, everything is ready."

He Yuzhu didn't say anything, and continued to stare at the cars.

Yang Xiaobing waited a while, then spoke again.

"I've checked it eight times."

He Yuzhu looked up at him.

Yang Xiaobing's expression was a bitter smile—the corners of his mouth were pulled upwards, but there was no smile in his eyes.

"Check it again," He Yuzhu said.

Yang Xiaobing didn't say anything more and walked away, leaning on his cane.

As dawn broke, the crowds began to gather. Workers, students, and government officials, dressed in their festive best and carrying wreaths and colorful flags, marched along Chang'an Avenue toward Tiananmen Square. Some laughed, some shouted, and some held up portraits of Chairman Mao, walking in perfect unison.

He Yuzhu stood in the crowd, his eyes fixed on the vehicles.

A truck drove up.

The vehicle was covered with a tarpaulin, so its contents were obscured. The driver was a young man wearing a hat pulled low over his shoulders, obscuring his face. The vehicle was traveling at a normal, unobtrusive speed, neither fast nor slow.

He Yuzhu stared at the car, unable to explain why. Perhaps it was because it was too normal. So normal it was almost abnormal.

He gestured to the side.

Old Lu led his men over there.

"Stop for inspection."

The driver stopped the car and rolled down the window.

"Identification documents".

The driver handed it over. Old Lu took it and glanced at it, about to return it when he suddenly noticed sweat on the driver's temples. It wasn't hot in Beijing at this time of October.

"The back door is open."

The driver's expression changed.

He slammed on the gas pedal, and the truck shot forward.

He Yuzhu took off after it. After a few steps, his foot slipped, and he almost fell. He steadied himself and looked up; the truck was already ramming through the crowd. People screamed and scattered to both sides; some fell, some were trampled, and chaos reigned.

He caught up with him.

I grabbed the edge of the carriage and climbed up. The metal sheet I was holding onto was cold and the paint on it was worn smooth; I almost lost my grip.

The driver leaned halfway out of the car window, clutching something in his hand.

Detonator.

The red button was particularly glaring under the streetlights.

He Yuzhu jumped out of the car and lunged forward. When he landed, his knee hit the ground, and the pain made his vision go black. He didn't care and continued lunging forward, grabbing the driver's wrist.

The two rolled on the ground. The driver's wrists were thin, but he was surprisingly strong, struggling desperately to break free. He Yuzhu used his knee to pin down the driver's arm, while using his other hand to grab the detonator.

The detonator flew out and landed on the roadside.

Old Lu rushed up and pinned the driver to the ground.

He Yuzhu lay there, panting heavily, looking at the driver who had been pinned down, and at the truck that had stopped. His ears were ringing, and he couldn't tell if it was his own heartbeat or the screams around him.

Old Sun ran over.

"The vehicle was searched; it was full of explosives."

He Yuzhu didn't say anything.

He looked at the driver. Young, in his early twenties, his face streaked with tears and snot. He was pinned to the ground, his head turned to the side, looking at He Yuzhu.

That look in his eyes wasn't hatred, it was something else. I can't quite put my finger on it.

Old Sun asked from the side.

Are you alright?

He Yuzhu shook his head and tried to stand up, supporting himself on the ground. He strained his knee, and gasped in pain.

He glanced down—his pants were torn, a patch of skin was scraped off his knee, and blood was seeping out.

He wiped his fingers with his hand; the blood was warm on his fingers.

Old Sun squatted down to look at him.

"To the hospital?"

He Yuzhu stood up, tried, and was able to walk.

"Need not."

He walked up to the driver and squatted down.

The boy looked at him, his lips moved, but he didn't say anything.

He Yuzhu stood up.

"Trial."