Fusion System: Rebirth in a Courtyard - Bird Fighting Chronicles

Chapter 110 Lin Chen's investigation uncovers clues about the old lady's forgery.

The spring chill of 1964 was stubbornly persistent; the white frost of the previous night still clung to the blue brick floor of the courtyard. Lin Chen, walking through the dew, returned from get off work at the steel rolling mill and bumped into Yi Zhonghai carrying a half-full sack of flour into the deaf old lady's room. The sack of flour was a recent welfare distribution from the factory, packed in a bulging cloth bag bearing the words "Red Star Steel Rolling Mill," weighing a good ten pounds. In those years when grain coupons were more precious than gold, it was considered a generous gift.

He subconsciously shrank back against the wall, watching Yi Zhonghai hunch over and knock on the old lady's door. Through the creaking door hinges, he could vaguely hear the old lady's deliberately high-pitched sobs: "Zhonghai, why can't this young man Lin Chen tolerate an old woman like me? That vegetable garden was earned by my husband with his life..." Lin Chen frowned, and the scene from the whole courtyard meeting last night vividly reappeared in his mind—the deaf old lady slapped her thigh and cried about her vegetable garden being taken over, but there wasn't a single tear in her cloudy eyes. Instead, when she glanced at the surrounding neighbors, she quickly gave Yi Zhonghai a look.

This wasn't the first time the old lady had used her status as a "martyr's widow" to her advantage. A couple of years ago, when Sha Zhu accidentally broke her window, she stormed into the neighborhood with her cane, claiming that "the homes of martyrs' widows are not safe," forcing Sha Zhu to not only pay for a new window but also give her an extra five kilograms of millet. Lin Chen had initially dismissed it as the old woman taking advantage of her age, but last night, when the neighborhood director asked about the location of her vegetable garden, the old lady's momentary panic didn't escape his notice—the Hongxing Courtyard was a tiny place, with Yan Bugui's garlic sprouts in the front yard, Liu Haizhong's chicken coop in the back, and only a few old locust trees and a public pond in the middle yard. Where was the vegetable garden?

"Master Lin, what are you daydreaming about?" Grandpa Wang carried buckets of water in from outside the courtyard, the iron buckets clanging against the stone pavement. "I just saw Grandpa Yi bringing noodles to the old lady? What's going on here?" Lin Chen snapped out of his reverie, took the carrying pole from the old man's shoulder and helped carry it into the courtyard, lowering his voice, "Grandpa Wang, you've lived in this courtyard for decades, have you ever seen the old lady have a vegetable garden?"

Grandpa Wang glanced in the direction of the deaf old lady, a meaningful smile playing on his lips: "Vegetable garden? She can't even grow scallions! A few years ago, she tried to plant some spinach by the window, but Jia Geng secretly pulled it up as soon as it sprouted, making quite a fool of herself. But speaking of which, didn't her husband die in the Korean War? I even went to join in the fun when the neighborhood committee hung up the martyr's family plaque for him."

"The Korean War?" Lin Chen's heart skipped a beat. He clearly remembered that last winter, when the old lady was shivering from the cold, she pulled Sha Zhu aside and said, "The winter of '45 was even colder than this. Your Uncle Zhang was fighting the Japanese with bayonets outside Beiping and lost two fingers to frostbite..." Where was the Korean War outside Beiping in '45? If the timeline didn't match, then there was a problem with the certificate of martyr's family.

Back in his 12-square-meter side room, Lin Chen first checked the burglar bell on the windowsill—a contraption he'd made using the system to fuse wire and springs. It would emit a sharp sound whenever someone tried to pry open the window, and since Jia Zhangshi was caught stealing chickens, these things had become extremely common in the courtyard. After confirming it was safe, he sat on the edge of the kang (heated brick bed) and activated the "All Things Fusion System." The pale blue panel lit up in the dim room, and the icon for the "Item Appraisal" function still glowed with an upgraded light—three days ago, he had earned 500 points by improving the forging mold, upgrading the system to level 5, unlocking this function that could display the age and key information of items.

He pulled up the photos he'd taken the night before—taken with a miniature camera made from old camera parts integrated into the system. In the photos, the old woman's hand, clutching the martyr's family certificate, showed bulging veins, and the red five-pointed star on the certificate's cover was somewhat faded. A line of small text popped up on the system panel: "Martyr's family certificate printed in 1950. The degree of wear on the cover does not match the age of use, suspected of being artificially aged later." Lin Chen's heart sank. He got up and rummaged through the wooden box under the bed, which contained old newspapers and file folders he'd salvaged from the junkyard. This was a habit he'd developed over the years; he always felt that these "junk items" contained crucial information.

As he was searching, He Yushui's voice came from outside the courtyard gate: "Is Brother Lin Chen home? My brother asked me to bring you some pickled vegetables." Lin Chen quickly put away his system panel, opened the door, and saw He Yushui standing at the door carrying a glass jar filled with golden-brown pickled mustard greens, topped with a layer of sesame oil. "Yushui, you've come at the right time." Lin Chen stepped aside to let her into the house. "I need your help with something. Isn't your husband, Li Jianguo, in charge of files at the police station? Could you check the records for the deaf old lady's martyr's certificate?"

He Yushui paused, her spoon scooping up pickled vegetables, then her eyes lit up: "You also think she's acting strange? Last time my brother fixed her chimney, he overheard her on the phone saying 'that batch of silk sold well,' then she pretended not to hear after hanging up. I'll go back and talk to Jianguo, but the police station's files aren't easily accessed; we need a pretext." Lin Chen pulled a yellowed copy of the People's Daily from the wooden box, pointing to the headline "Investigating the Implementation of Benefits for Martyrs' Families": "Just say it's in response to the street's call to assist in verifying the distribution of benefits; that's reasonable and won't alert them."

Two days later, in the evening, He Yushui rushed over with a letter filled with information, bolting the door shut as soon as she entered. "Brother Lin Chen, there's a problem!" she whispered, her finger tracing the letter. "The records show the deaf old lady's martyr's certificate was issued in March 1950, the registered martyr's name is Zhang Fugui, the date of death is January 1950, and the place of death is the Korean War. But look here—" she pointed to the last line, "The Korean War didn't break out until June 1950; there were no Chinese troops involved in the fighting in January!"

Lin Chen took the letter, his fingertips still warm from the ink on the paper. He Yushui was right; in his previous life, when he worked in a military-industrial enterprise, he had participated in the equipment debugging of the Memorial Hall of the Martyrs of the War to Resist US Aggression and Aid Korea, and was very familiar with the timeline of the war. The Chinese People's Volunteer Army had only crossed the Yalu River in October 1950, and in January on the Korean battlefield, even the "United Nations forces" had not yet intervened on a large scale. The so-called "sacrifice" was simply out of the question.

"There's something even stranger." He Yushui took a sip of the hot water Lin Chen had poured and continued, "The family address in the file is Zhangjia Village on the outskirts of the city, but I had Jianguo check the household registration records for Zhangjia Village. In 1950, there was no one named Zhang Fugui, let alone a widowed old lady. There was, however, a widow named Zhang Cuihua, who moved to the city in 1949, and her occupation was... a silk merchant."

The words "silk merchant" suddenly reminded Lin Chen of something. Last autumn, when he went to the scrap yard on the outskirts of the city to sell his fusion tools, he had seen a piece of silk embroidered with peonies among a pile of old bundles. The material was top-quality Hangzhou textile, and the corner was embroidered with a "Zhang's" stamp. At the time, Old Wang from the scrap yard said that an old lady had sold it to him, saying it was some kind of "trinkets passed down from his ancestors." He thought the material was good, so he bought it for two points, and now it was at the bottom of his trunk as lining.

"I have to go to the junkyard." Lin Chen grabbed his coat and headed out, but He Yushui quickly stopped him. "It'll be too conspicuous if you go now. Wait until it's completely dark. I'll have Jianguo meet you at the street corner." Lin Chen nodded, watching the twilight gradually set outside the window, already having a plan in mind. He knew the deaf old lady's weakness—Yi Zhonghai was so obedient to her because her status as a "martyr's family member" could help him in crucial moments; and her daring to act domineeringly in the courtyard was all thanks to this protective shield. If this status was fake, then Yi Zhonghai's retirement plan and the old lady's peaceful life would all be castles in the air.

As night completely enveloped Beijing, Lin Chen went out with a flashlight in his hand. He Yushui's husband, Li Jianguo, dressed in a police uniform, was waiting for him under the locust tree at the street corner. By the light of the streetlamp, he handed him a letter of introduction: "Old Wang at the scrap yard knows me well. Just say we're checking for reactionary remnants, and he'll definitely cooperate." The two walked forward in the shadows of the alley, the slogans of patrolling militia members echoing in the distance, particularly clear in the quiet night.

The junkyard was piled high with all sorts of scrap metal. Small mountains of iron filings gleamed coldly in the moonlight. Old Wang was squatting by the kerosene lamp, sorting through scrap copper and iron. Seeing Li Jianguo arrive with his men, he quickly stood up: "Officer Li, what brings you here?" Li Jianguo flashed his letter of introduction. Lin Chen took the opportunity to scan his surroundings, quickly spotting the old bundles piled in the corner—exactly the same as when he last came to buy silk.

"Master Wang, do you remember an old lady who sold silk last autumn?" Lin Chen squatted down, pretending to examine the old fabric on the ground. "It was the Hangzhou-style silk embroidered with peonies." Old Wang slapped his thigh: "Of course I remember! That old lady was hard of hearing. I haggled with her for a long time, and finally gave her five yuan. She said it was left over from when her husband was the shopkeeper. Judging from the fabric, it's at least from before 1931."

Lin Chen's doubts grew stronger. He followed the direction Old Wang pointed and searched, and sure enough, found a dark red camphor wood box under a pile of old clothes. The copper lock on the box was rusty, but he easily sawed it open with the small hacksaw fused with the system. Inside, there was a layer of oil paper, and neatly folded on the oil paper was a business license—printed in the 25th year of the Republic of China. It read "Beiping Zhangji Silk Shop," and the shopkeeper's name was "Zhang Cuihua." The woman in the photo had short hair that reached her ears, and her features bore a striking resemblance to the deaf old lady of today.

"This thing..." Old Wang leaned closer to take a look, clicked his tongue, and said, "When the old lady was selling silk, she didn't sell this box; she said it was for needles and thread. I found it later when I was cleaning up the junk, and thinking it was a good wooden box, I kept it until now." Lin Chen carefully put the business license into his pocket and asked, "Did the old lady come here often? What was so special about her way of speaking?"

"She doesn't come often, only once a year in the autumn to sell some old things." Old Wang scratched his head. "Speaking of her, she's really strange! Sometimes I can shout at her for ages and she still can't hear me, but last time I told my shop assistant 'Hangzhou textile prices have gone up,' she immediately asked 'How much?' If you ask me, this old lady's hearing loss is probably just an act!" Lin Chen and Li Jianguo exchanged a glance, both seeing certainty in each other's eyes—a silk merchant from the Republic of China era suddenly becoming a martyr's family member in the Korean War, with her hearing loss fluctuating, must be hiding a big secret.

As Lin Chen left the scrap yard, a light rain had begun to fall. He tucked the business license into his pocket; the rain soaked his coat, but it only made his thoughts clearer. He recalled seeing the old woman secretly writing letters to someone far away outside her window when he was first reborn. At the time, he thought she was contacting relatives, but now he realized she might be corresponding with someone from the silk shop he used to work for. He also remembered the mahogany wardrobe in her room, a style from the Republican era, with exquisite carvings that no ordinary family could afford. Everyone had assumed it was a gift from a martyr's family, but now it was clearly her own personal possession.

When Lin Chen returned to the courtyard, most of the lights in the central courtyard were already off, except for the kerosene lamp still burning in the deaf old lady's room, casting shadows of her and Yi Zhonghai on the window paper. Lin Chen walked close to the wall and vaguely heard Yi Zhonghai's voice: "Old lady, I've already taken care of things with the street committee. They'll say the vegetable garden was given to us years ago, and now Lin Chen has taken it. In a couple of days, I'll find a few old coworkers to testify, and I guarantee he'll be in big trouble."

"Zhonghai, you're still the most reliable one." The old lady's voice suddenly became clear, no longer hoarse. "That Lin Chen is too shrewd. He ruined the chicken-stealing incident last time. If we don't kick him out of the factory this time, we'll never have a good life again. By the way, did you hide my business license well? Don't let anyone find it." Yi Zhonghai lowered his voice: "Don't worry, it's hidden in the roof beam. Who could find it?"

Lin Chen held his breath and slowly retreated to his side room. He sat on the edge of the kang (a heated brick bed) and spread the business license and the system's authentication report on the table. The report showed that the seal on the license was an original from the Republic of China era, and the photograph showed no signs of splicing. However, while the seal on the martyr's family certificate was a realistic forgery, the ink was industrial ink that only became available after 1950. Comparing the two, the evidence of the old lady's forgery was irrefutable.

The rain outside the window grew heavier, pattering loudly against the windowpane. Lin Chen recalled this time in his past life, when he was ostracized by the entire courtyard for being falsely accused of stealing chickens, while the old lady was inside drinking chicken soup brought by Sha Zhu, discussing with Yi Zhonghai how to snatch his apprenticeship spot for Qin Huairu. Back then, he only thought the people in the courtyard were purely evil; now he understood that behind every scheme lay selfish motives, like Yi Zhonghai's obsession with retirement and the old lady's yearning for a peaceful life. They simply chose the wrong methods, using others' survival as their own stepping stones.

He picked up his pen and carefully recorded his findings for the day: the scrap yard's business license, the time discrepancies in the files, the evidence of the old woman feigning deafness, and Yi Zhonghai's collusion with others. After finishing, he folded the paper and put it in the box containing the business license. Then, he took out the piece of Hangzhou silk from the wooden box—moonlight shone through the window paper onto it, and the gold thread of the peony pattern still shimmered faintly, as if telling the old woman's unknown past.

"Brother Lin Chen, have you figured everything out?" He Yushui's voice came from outside the window, tinged with worry. "If we really expose him, Grandpa Yi might fight you to the death." Lin Chen opened the door, looked at the copy of the martyr's family certificate clutched in the girl's hand, and smiled. "I have to expose him, even if it means risking my life. He's been using a fake identity to bully people for so many years; we can't let him get away with it forever. But don't worry, I know what I'm doing; I won't make things too ugly."

He knew that handing the evidence directly to the neighborhood committee would be too lenient on them. Yi Zhonghai had been a level-eight fitter at the steel rolling mill for decades and had close ties with the factory leaders. If the old lady cried and admitted her mistake, at most her martyr's family benefits would be revoked, and she would soon be back to bullying everyone in the compound. He needed to wait for the right opportunity, an opportunity that would allow everyone in the compound to see the truth, so that this "community of interests" could no longer use the guise of "martyr's family" to get away with it.

When the rain stopped, it was almost dawn. Lin Chen hid the box in a crack in the storage room wall and sealed it with the iron plate fused with the system. Through the crack in the window, he saw the light in the old lady's room finally go out, and Yi Zhonghai's figure emerged from the room, head down, walking heavily towards his own home. Lin Chen knew that this game surrounding the false identity had only just begun, and the evidence in his hands was the sharpest weapon.