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

When the casualty statistics were delivered to He Yuzhu, the sun was setting in the west.

The paper was the kind of yellowish, glossy paper, folded into four sections, with frayed edges. He Yuzhu took it, but didn't open it right away. He first glanced at the messenger who delivered the message—a man in his early twenties, with the tension that only a new recruit would have on his face.

"The Political Department of the 203rd Division wants it delivered to you in person," the messenger said.

He Yuzhu nodded and unfolded the paper.

11 names.

He marked them one by one with a pencil, very slowly. Wang Defa, 22 years old, from Baoding, Hebei, an only child. Liu Mancang, 19 years old, from Shangqiu, Henan, a cowherd before joining the army. Li Xiaohu, 18 years old, from Linyi, Shandong—he remembered that when this kid first joined the special forces, he was so happy to receive a captured American raincoat that he didn't even take it off to sleep that night.

The lead core broke.

He Yuzhu put down the pencil and wiped the sweat from his palms on his knees.

Chen Dashan squatted down next to him, holding two enamel mugs in his hands, and handed one to him.

"Commander, have some water."

He Yuzhu took the jar but didn't drink from it. He looked at the half-full murky water in the jar, which reflected his own face.

Chen Dashan remained silent for a moment before speaking.

"They didn't lose out. In this battle, we took down the headquarters of the White Tiger Regiment. The brothers from the 203rd Division said that the artillery observation post that our special forces battalion destroyed alone saved the lives of at least two companies."

He Yuzhu didn't speak. He turned the list over and began writing on the back.

Chen Dashan glanced at it; it was written like a private letter—beginning with "Comrade/Relative..." followed by a blank space. He quickly turned his head back, staring at the lingering smoke in the distance. The stack of papers seemed to thicken in his peripheral vision. He suddenly remembered the few letters from home in his old family cupboard. If one day he could send a letter like that back, his mother…

He didn't dare think any further. His Adam's apple bobbed, and he pushed the enamel mug closer to He Yuzhu. The water in the mug was already ice-cold.

After writing a name, He Yuzhu tore the paper off the notebook, folded it, and placed it on top of the stack of papers next to him. Eleven names, eleven letters, each one different.

By the time I finished writing the last letter, it was almost dark.

He gathered the stack of letters, wrapped them in brown paper, and stuffed them into his briefcase.

"Let the division's military mail send it out tomorrow," he said.

Chen Dashan responded and then asked, "Commander, aren't you going to eat something? I haven't seen you touch your chopsticks all day."

He Yuzhu shook his head. He stood up from the ammunition box, and when he strained his left leg, it aggravated his wound. He frowned but didn't say anything.

"I'll go sit over there for a while."

Behind the tent was a rock, still warm from being in the sun all day. He Yuzhu sat on the rock, took out a cigarette from his pocket—a captured Camel brand from the US military, left over from Parker's time. He pulled it out, lit it, took a puff, and coughed twice, choking on it.

He doesn't usually smoke.

Smoke rose and was dispersed by the evening breeze. In the distance, from the direction of Jinchengchuan, there were still sporadic artillery shots, like muffled thunder on a summer evening, far away and not very clear.

He closed his eyes.

The system interface lit up in my mind.

[Current total points: 44,270,000.]

Main quest progress: 55.3%

[44,700,000 points remaining to reach the 100 million point goal.]

He stared at the string of numbers. 4470 million. If that number represented people, it was 40 times the number of people who had died under his command. If that number represented lives, it represented the many more lives he had to exchange for behind those 11 names.

He suddenly found the number both ridiculous and terrifying.

He stubbed out his cigarette on the stone, but didn't throw it away; he just left it there. He then used his fingernail to grind the extinguished cigarette butt into a crack in the stone.

The interface jumped again.

[Side quest "Breaking the Net" current progress: 17%]

[Samples of US military communication protocols have been obtained: 5 types.]

[Next phase suggested objective: Obtain the "Eighth Group Army Communication Encryption Rule Change Schedule".]

He Yuzhu opened his eyes. He turned to look at the wooden crate covered with a raincoat in the corner of the tent. Inside were Parker's radio, codebook, frequency table, and that encryption device that he didn't know if it could be repaired. These things had been there for three days, and he had gotten up in the middle of the night every day to rummage through them, trying to understand them bit by bit using the limited knowledge provided by the system.

In three days, we went from 0% to 17%.

33% remaining. 11 days until the ceasefire.

He closed the system interface and leaned against the rock.

Night had fallen completely. He didn't return to his tent. The first half of the night was quiet, so quiet that he could hear the distant sound of the Jincheng River flowing. In the second half, the wind changed direction, blowing from the north, carrying a faint smell of gunpowder. He opened his eyes and saw a very faint light flashing on the northwest horizon, like thunder rumbling in the distance. He sat up straight and counted the intervals of the light—once every three seconds, it was artillery fire. Not a sniper shot, but a barrage.

The light flashed even more intensely.

Before dawn, the sound of cannons rang out.

At dawn on July 17, He Yuzhu was awakened by the sound of artillery fire. He rolled over and got up, his left leg wound throbbing with pain. He grabbed his binoculars and ran outside.

The sky above the Jincheng front was illuminated white by flares, and the flashes from landing shells revealed the writhing figures on the mountain ridges. The enemy's counterattack was fierce and rapid, and the front lines of the 203rd Division's defensive positions had already begun to engage in combat.

Before he could give any orders, the communications officer crawled out of the tent: "Report! The corps headquarters is calling, they want to see you!"

He Yuzhu took the microphone.

The voice on the other end was that of the chief of staff, who said in a low voice, "Deputy Division Commander He, come to the corps immediately. Someone wants to see you."

"Who?"

The chief of staff was silent for two seconds.

"A negotiation consultant from China. His surname is Shen, and his name is Shen Lian. He said...you know him."

He Yuzhu tightened his grip on the microphone.

"When will you arrive?"

"This afternoon. You should leave now; he specifically asked to see you first."

The sound of the chief of staff flipping through papers came through the microphone, followed by a sentence: "Old He, the negotiations have reached the final stage, and the commotion at Panmunjom has been going on for half a month. This guy coming down now might be carrying something that could give us a few more miles to our side at the negotiating table. He specifically wants to see the 'goods' you have."

The phone hangs up.

He Yuzhu stood there, holding the microphone, listening to the busy tone.

Chen Dashan leaned closer: "Commander?"

He Yuzhu put down the microphone.

"I'm going to the Production and Construction Corps this afternoon," he said. "Keep an eye on the house."

He turned and walked back to the tent, pausing as he passed the wooden crate covered by a raincoat. Inside the crate lay 17% of the progress, an 11-day deadline, and a shortfall of 4470 million—enough to buy how many Wang Defas?

And then there's Shen Lian's face with his round-framed glasses.

He bent down, lifted a corner of his raincoat, and glanced at the shattered screen of the AN/GRC-9. The indicator light was long gone, like a closed eye.

He covered himself with the raincoat again.

When I stepped out of the tent, the sky in the east was already beginning to lighten.

The sound of artillery fire from the direction of Jinchengchuan is still ringing out, one shot after another, like someone hitting an anvil with a sledgehammer.