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

The bandages were wrapped tightly around his arm, making his veins bulge. The medic, Xiao Lin, hadn't been careful; the moment the alcohol was splashed on the wound, He Yuzhu's teeth clenched so tightly they crackled, and the veins on his forehead stood out. The damp, earthy smell mixed with the pungent odor of medicine from the regimental headquarters bunker forced its way into his nostrils. The radio crackled nearby, its static never ceasing.

"Commander, if this wound were just two inches off, it would have broken a tendon," Xiao Lin muttered as he wrapped the bandage. "The bullet grazed it, and the flesh is torn open. Don't exert yourself for the next few days, or it will reopen and be even harder to treat."

He Yuzhu simply grunted an "Mmm," his gaze fixed like a rivet on the map spread out on the ammunition box. The enemy's attack route, marked with a pencil, resembled a spider web, with red arrows all pointing to Hills 597.9 and 537.7—those two hills had long been plowed by artillery fire countless times, the soil almost turned up three feet deep.

The communications officer crouched low as he crawled in, sweat beading on his hat: "The observation post reports that the number of transport vehicles on the other side is 30% higher than usual, and they are all converging towards Jixiong Mountain. Artillery radar has detected frequent test firings at the front, as if they are adjusting their firing parameters."

"The same old story." He Yuzhu tapped the location of Chicken Mountain on the map with his right index finger. "That old bastard Hammer can't hold back anymore."

Before he could finish speaking, a series of muffled artillery shells boomed outside—not sporadic probes, but a barrage of attacks. Dust fell from the top of the bunker, and the oil lamp flame flickered violently. He Yuzhu grabbed his binoculars and rushed outside. He didn't hear a word Xiao Lin shouted behind him.

From the observation post, Deputy Regiment Commander Wu Dayong, holding the artillery scope, said with a grim face: "It's started. At least five artillery battalions are attacking the junction of the Second and Third Battalions."

Through the binoculars, plumes of smoke erupting from the opposite hillside formed a continuous gray forest, one after another without pause. Thick smoke, mingled with flames, billowed upwards, and the ground trembled even hundreds of meters away. He Yuzhu saw a section of trench directly hit, with dirt and wood blasted high into the air, and several blurry figures tumbling through the smoke.

"Have the casualties been reported?" His voice was strained.

"Three telephone lines were broken, and the communications platoon has gone up." Wu Dayong wiped his face. "But if the bombing continues like this... the position won't hold out until this afternoon."

He Yuzhu put down his binoculars and leaned his back against the sandbag. The string of numbers in his mind started jumping again—9.8 million, still 200,000 short. Normally, it would take several days to prepare for a sniper shot, but now it hadn't even taken a few hours.

He turned and walked toward the bunker, his steps quick and heavy: "Order: all snipers and marksmen in the entire regiment, as long as their eyes can still aim and their fingers can still pull the trigger, all move to the front and set up sniping positions. Don't conserve ammunition, fire on high-value targets—machine gunners, artillerymen, officers, communications soldiers, even those carrying ammunition."

Wu Dayong was stunned for a moment: "Commander, isn't this a suicide attack? Once the sniper position is exposed..."

"Then we'll expose ourselves." He Yuzhu glanced back at him, the resolute look in his eyes making Wu Dayong swallow his words. "Tell the comrades, this isn't an order, it's a request. I, He Yuzhu, am asking you all to help me secure a way out—a way out for the thousands of brothers on our position. Within 24 hours, I want two hundred valuable targets lying on the opposite side."

He paused, then said, "I'll go too. Find me a sniper rifle."

"Your arm..."

"If I can't hold on with my left hand, I'll use my shoulder to support myself. My right fingers can still move."

When the order was passed down, there was a few seconds of silence in the regimental headquarters. Then the phones in each battalion and company rang one after another, and no one asked why. The second battalion commander only said "Understood" on the phone and hung up. He Yuzhu heard him shout on the other end: "First company snipers, move to the front! Third company 60mm mortars, push forward, fire as many rounds as you can!"

This is trust, a heavy burden that makes people uneasy.

As He Yuzhu carried the captured M1C Garand into observation post number three, the wound on his left arm began to throb. He had chosen a position behind a rocky outcrop on the flank, offering a view of the trenches and two machine gun nests on the hillside, but with blind spots. He sat down against the cover, bracing his right shoulder against the butt of the rifle, his injured left arm hanging at his side. The posture was awkward, but he managed to keep it steady.

The crosshairs of the scope moved slowly across the smoke-filled hillside.

The first target appeared twenty minutes later. It was a machine gunner wearing a helmet, adjusting the tripod of his M1919. The distance was about four hundred meters. The wind speed was not high, but the smoke and dust from the exploding shells would affect the trajectory. He Yuzhu took a deep breath, held it, and pressed the crosshairs against the upper back of the man.

Pull the trigger.

The butt of the rifle slammed into his shoulder, a sharp pain shooting through the wound. Through the scope, he saw the man lunge forward, collapsing motionless onto the machine gun. The ammunition handler beside him hesitated for a second, then lunged to pull him up—He Yuzhu's gun had already moved, a second bullet struck, and the man fell to the ground as well.

A cold, tingling sensation slid down my spine. Another life, another debt.

He ejected the spent cartridge and reloaded the chamber.

Time became strange at those moments. He couldn't remember how many shots he fired, only that faces appeared and disappeared in his scope—young and old. An enemy officer was peeking out from behind cover with binoculars; when he shot him down, the binoculars flew high into the air. Another artillery crew was moving mortars; he took down three of them in quick succession, and the remaining two dragged the barrels away.

Blood seeped through the bandages on his arm, clinging damply to his skin. Sweat stung his eyes. A shell landed nearby, the blast ringing in his ears, and pebbles pelted his back. He didn't move, just squinted, waiting for the dust to settle before continuing his search for the next target.

Wu Dayong crouched down to deliver water once, noticing the blood seeping from He Yuzhu's arm. He moved his lips, but ultimately only patted He Yuzhu's shoulder. He Yuzhu drank half a pot of water, his throat parched and itchy.

As darkness fell, the enemy, clearly alarmed by the sniping, launched a mortar barrage. He Yuzhu rolled into the rear cover before the shells landed, and climbed back after the shelling stopped. The observation post was half-collapsed; he used his right hand to clear away the rubble and continued sitting there.

One flare after another rose into the night sky, illuminating the hillside in a ghastly white light. This kind of light was detrimental to sniping, but He Yuzhu no longer cared. Like a tightly wound machine, he pulled the trigger at the first sign of a person. The numbers in his mind jumped faster and faster: nine million nine hundred thousand, nine million nine hundred thousand, nine million nine hundred thousand…

Around 3 a.m., he almost fell asleep. He nodded, hitting the butt of his gun, the sharp pain from his wound instantly waking him. He bit his tongue hard, the taste of blood spreading in his mouth.

Just then, a small squad of engineers appeared on the opposite hillside, dragging their equipment into cover. He Yuzhu adjusted his breathing, aiming at the first man's leg—a leg shot wasn't likely to be fatal, but it would slow down the entire team. He pulled the trigger, and the man fell to the ground; the others frantically tried to pull him up, but a second bullet took down the second man. The remaining three dragged their equipment into cover, and his third shot hit the last one in the back.

When the final count came to mind, He Yuzhu froze.

It wasn't the sound of cannons, but a buzzing sound that surged from the depths of my bones. Everything before my eyes blurred for a moment. Then, that cold voice rang out clearly:

[Battlefield points have reached the threshold.]

[Redeemable Item: Strategic Bombing Formation (One-time use).]

[Formation Composition: 20 stealth bombing units.]

[Ammunition type: Improved thermobaric weapon; single aircraft payload: 12 tons.]

[Effect: Performs saturation bombing on a designated area (maximum 50 square kilometers), destroying all exposed and generally hardened targets.]

[Special Note: This summoning is a physical projection; the system will ensure concealment during deployment and automatically erase any traces.]

[Points required for redemption: 10,000,000 points.]

[Confirm redemption?]

He Yuzhu's finger froze on the trigger.

He could hear his own heartbeat, heavy and slow, each thud pounding in his chest. The sounds of artillery fire outside suddenly faded into the distance. He stared at the scope, but there was nothing in it, only a flickering, dim light.

Ten million points. After all that trouble and the deaths of so many people, he finally collected enough.

If we switch sides, we can blow those bastards to smithereens. If we switch sides, we can hold the position, and our brothers can survive.

but……

He slowly loosened his grip on the gun, wiping his right palm on his trouser leg—it was covered in sweat. Countless images flashed through his mind: Old Geng smiling as he handed him half a compressed biscuit, Political Commissar Zhao's hoarse voice during the pre-battle mobilization, a young soldier turning back in the minefield shouting "Commander, hurry up!", and those soldiers whose names he couldn't recall, who had fallen on the charge.

If this thing were actually used, how would this battle turn out? How would future generations view him? A hero, or a monster?

The system notification sounded again, calmly, without any prompting.

He Yuzhu closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The smell of gunpowder and blood filled his lungs. When he opened his eyes again, he spoke to the air in an almost inaudible voice:

"Confirm redemption".

As soon as he finished speaking, his palm suddenly felt hot—the map he had been carrying in his pocket was slightly warm. He pulled out the map and unfolded it, and saw that the area originally marked as the enemy's assembly area had a very faint blue grid that only he could see.

Those are the bombing coordinates.

His hands began to tremble. Not from fear, but something deeper—as if he were about to push open not a door, but an entire mountain.

"Commander?" Wu Dayong's voice came from behind, tinged with doubt.

He Yuzhu quickly rolled up the map, his face regaining its composure as he turned around: "Notify all battalions and companies to prepare for artillery fire. Half an hour later... no matter what happens, no one is allowed to leave their cover."

Wu Dayong was stunned: "What are you going to do?"

He Yuzhu did not answer. He looked up at the night sky, where the stars were hidden and only the afterglow of flares drifted among the clouds.

The system's final notification sounded in his mind:

[Formation in position. Please specify attack coordinates.]

He unfolded the map, his finger landing on the center of the blue grid.

"here."

No sooner had the words left his mouth than the first rumble of thunder echoed from the distant horizon.

It wasn't the sound of cannons.

It was a heavier, more ancient sound, as if the sky itself was being torn apart.