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

The detonator lay on the roadside, black, about the size of a palm, lying there like an ordinary stone.

He Yuzhu glanced at it once and then ran toward the truck.

A corner of the canvas was lifted, revealing what was inside. Yellow explosives, neatly stacked, layer upon layer, like soap on a shelf. Detonators were inserted on top, and wires connected to the detonators to a mechanical clock. The second hand on the dial ticked, skipped, skipped, and skipped again.

19 minutes 32 seconds.

19 minutes 31 seconds.

19 minutes 30 seconds.

Sunlight filtered through the gaps in the canvas, illuminating the explosives. A surface was covered in condensation, whether from dampness or something else, it was hard to tell. The wires were new, their copper cores gleaming, unrusted.

Old Lu followed and stood under the car, looking up. He saw what was inside, his lips moved, but he didn't say anything.

He Yuzhu did not turn around.

"Please move the crowd back."

Old Lu opened his mouth as if to say something, but in the end he only managed to squeeze out a single word.

"……yes."

The footsteps faded into the distance.

He Yuzhu climbed onto the truck and squatted down. The floorboards hurt his knees. He stared at the timer, at the two wires—red and blue.

The red solder joints are rough, with thick solder buildup and fuzzy edges. The blue solder joints are smooth and rounded, like they were machine-made.

Old Zhou's voice echoed in my mind.

"The red line is the bait, the blue line is the real one. Remember that."

That happened at Shangganling. Old Zhou taught him how to disarm booby traps, and just a few days after saying that, he stepped on one. He only taught him half the lesson; no one finished the rest.

The numbers are jumping.

15 minutes 22 seconds.

15 minutes 21 seconds.

15 minutes 20 seconds.

He Yuzhu brought up the system interface. A transparent screen floated before his eyes, revealing the explosives behind it. He flipped to the "Bomb Disposal Guide" and clicked to redeem it.

My mind went blank—blueprints, photos, written instructions. Those old-fashioned timers, the red wire was real, the blue wire was fake. How did I tell? By looking at the solder joints. Rough ones meant they'd been modified.

He looked down at the two wires.

The red solder joints are rough, while the blue solder joints are smooth.

It's rough; it was modified later.

He raised his knife.

8 minutes 44 seconds.

8 minutes 43 seconds.

Someone was shouting in the distance, the voice muffled, and he couldn't make out what they were saying. He ignored it. He held the blade against the red line, but didn't bring it down.

Old Zhou's words are still echoing in my mind.

"The red line is the bait, the blue line is the real one."

But this is the opposite.

Should we trust Lao Zhou or the system?

8 minutes 22 seconds.

8 minutes 21 seconds.

He cut with the knife.

Click.

The second hand stopped.

8 minutes 19 seconds.

He Yuzhu leaned against the pile of explosives, motionless. Sweat streamed down his back, soaking into his belt, feeling cool and refreshing. He could hear his own heartbeat, thump-thump-thump, each beat pounding painfully against his chest.

Old Sun climbed up.

He stood under the car and called out for a long time, but there was no response, so he climbed up. He saw He Yuzhu leaning against the explosives, his face deathly pale, and his lips completely bloodless. He stood there, stunned, not knowing what to say.

He Yuzhu spoke first.

"It's alright now."

The sound was dry, like sandpaper.

He jumped off the car. His feet went weak when he landed, and Old Sun caught him. His hands were frighteningly cold, but covered in sweat.

Old Sun opened his mouth, wanting to curse, but couldn't utter a word. In the end, he only said one sentence.

"Go, get down."

The driver's surname is Ma, he is 25 years old, and he is from Hebei.

He sat in the interrogation chair, head down, hands cuffed behind his back. Old Sun asked him questions, and he answered fluently, as if he had recited them several times.

"Five hundred yuan. He said he'd blow it up and run, and someone would pick him up."

"What does it look like?"

"I haven't seen it."

"sound?"

"It's changed, I can't tell from the sound."

Old Sun lit a cigarette and took a puff.

"Would you risk your life for five hundred bucks?"

The driver looked up and glanced at him.

"Five hundred is not a small amount. I couldn't save that up in half a year."

Old Sun didn't say anything.

The driver lowered his head again.

After a moment of silence, he spoke, his voice lower than before.

"Do you officials even know what it feels like to go hungry?"

Old Sun paused for a moment while smoking.

The driver didn't wait for his reply and continued.

"My father starved to death in the winter of 1958. My mother saved her food for me, and she swelled up and died too. I walked alone from my hometown to Beijing, which took me a month."

He looked up at Old Sun.

"You're telling me five hundred dollars is too little? To me, it's a matter of life and death."

Old Sun didn't say anything.

He Yuzhu stood outside, looking at that face through the glass. Twenty-five years old, thin, with sunken eyes and prominent cheekbones. Just like He Yuzhu when he first joined the army.

He stood there for a while, then turned and left.

In the interrogation room, Old Sun stubbed out his cigarette.

"Take him away."

October 1, Tiananmen Square.

He Yuzhu stood at the back of the crowd. Ahead was a sea of ​​red, with waves of cheers pushing him in. He didn't move.

The national anthem played.

He looked up and watched the red flag rise. The wind was strong, and the flag fluttered loudly as soon as it was unfurled. It was blindingly red.

He remembered that year at Changjin Lake. The sky was the same, the wind was the same. Only back then, he was lying prone, snow up to his chest, waiting for the bugle call to charge. Back then, he wondered what kind of flag he would see if he could make it back alive.

Now I see it.

Old Zhou didn't see it. And those people whose names I don't know, I didn't see them either.

He took his hand out of his pocket and touched his face. It was dry.

The wind was strong and dried my tears.

The flag reached the top, and the crowd cheered. He didn't shout; he just stood there, watching the sea of ​​red.

When the celebration ended, the crowd dispersed. Confetti, red, green, and yellow, lay scattered on the ground, blown about by the wind.

He Yuzhu was still standing there. He looked at the empty square, at the flagpole, and at the sun that was beginning to set.

The voice in my head rang.

He didn't go to see it.

He stood there for a while before lowering his head.

Several lines of text were displayed on the screen.

Hidden Mission: Preliminary Design of a Nuclear Submarine

[Mission Objective: To complete the preliminary design of the nuclear submarine propulsion system]

[Mission Reward: 100,000,000 points]

Nuclear submarine.

He turned off the screen.

He turned around and walked back.

After taking a few steps, he stopped again.

The wind made the flag flap loudly.

He didn't turn around, but stood there for two seconds.

Then keep walking.