Subtitle of this chapter: "Out of the Courtyard (fang)"

"Doodoo, the host triggers a random event in history, ...... in the evaluation of this system"

"Doot tut, end of assessment. The value of www.biquge.infoS has not been improved, and there is no change in the historical backbone. ”

"Doodoo, second system task is being generated......"

"Master Ball, what second system mission? I haven't completed my first system task yet. ”

"This system needs to be updated offline, please wait......

”

"Master Ball...... Master Ball! Don't go. When you go and update and come back, my host will die! ”

“BIU！”

It was November 7, 1920, Eastern Time, four days after Yuan's arrest. (Ninety chapters were written in three days, and only one sentence was used in four days.) ）

His condition was getting worse and worse, not only did the wound begin to suppurate, but the symptoms of sepsis became more pronounced. But our Master Yuan still didn't wait for news to release him.

Now even the Master Ball is gone from him......

"Discharge"

Paramedics walked in, stripped the Chinese naked, shaved his head, fixed him on a push bed with metal bands, made him dizzy by the bright lights, auscultated him, and a man wearing a mask stuck an injection needle in his arm.

He woke up with a bandage on his head, feeling nauseous, and lying in a small room like the bottom of a well, and for days and nights after the operation, he realized that his previous discomfort was not even the edge of hell.

There was no hint of coolness in the ice cube in his mouth. In those days, the Chinese hated themselves; I hate myself as a person, I hate myself for having the need to defecate and urinate, I hate myself for being manipulated by others, and I hate the beard that grows on my face. He endured the extremely painful treatment with strength, but when the doctor told him that he had had sepsis and almost died, the Chinese mourned for their fate and wept.

The pain of the flesh and the nightmares of the night, which were either insomnia or nightmares, did not allow him to think of something as abstract as death. Soon after, the doctor told him that he was starting to get better and would soon be able to go home to recuperate.

Unbelievably, that day came. No one came to pick him up, so he had to walk slowly towards Brooklyn alone.

The Chinese walked a little tired and hungry, so they walked into a small restaurant on the street.

There were a few young men at a table who ate and drank, making noise, and the Chinese ignored it at first. A very old man crouched on the ground with his back to the counter, motionless like a thing. The years have shrunk and polished his edges, like stones polished by flowing water or proverbs tempered by generations. He was dark, thin, and shriveled, as if beyond time, in eternity.

The Chinese looked with interest at his black felt hat, his hair curly in his ears, and his black suit like a mourning dress, remembering that he was going to pit Jews fiercely, and thought that Jews like this were rarely seen anywhere else in this era except New York.

He sat down at a table by the window. Outside, it was getting darker, but the stench and noise of the city came through the iron bars. The owner brought him sardines and then roast beef. The Chinese drank a few glasses of red wine over the dish. He smacked his wine boredly and looked around lazily.

A dim electric light hangs under a beam; The other table has three patrons: two who look like hired workers in a small factory; The third one looked vulgar, and he didn't take off his hat and was drinking. The Chinese suddenly felt something rubbed on their face. Next to the coarse glass, on the stripes of the tablecloth, there is a small ball made of bread heart. That's it, but someone threw it at him on purpose.

The people at the other table didn't seem to notice him. The Chinese are a little puzzled, when nothing happens, open the newspaper they just bought, as if to cover up the reality. A few minutes later, another ball hit him, and this time the hired men laughed.

The Chinese said to themselves that it was not worth making a fuss, but it was absurd that he had just recovered from a serious illness and was involved in a brawl by several strangers. He decided to leave, and as soon as he stood up, the innkeeper came and begged him in a panicked voice:

"Mr. Yuan, those young men are drunk, ignore them."

Chinese are not surprised that the shopkeeper can call him by last name, but they feel that these words of relief have made things worse. At first, the hired man's provocation was directed against only one Oriental, and it could be said that no one was there; Now it is aimed at him, against his surname, and everyone knows about it. The Chinese pushed the shopkeepers aside and confronted the hired workers and asked them what they wanted to do.

The rude-looking man staggered to his feet. He was only one step away from the Chinese, but he shouted and cursed as if he were far away. He deliberately pretended to be drunk, and this kind of pretentiousness was an intolerable mockery. He was full of swear words, while cursing incessantly, he took out a long dagger and threw it up, catching it when it fell, and coercing the Chinese to fight him. The shopkeeper objected with a trembling voice that the Chinese had no weapons. At this time, an unexpected thing happened.

The Jew, who was crouching in the corner, threw a shiny dagger at him, which landed right at his feet. It was as if the climate in New York dictated that the Chinese should accept the challenge.

The Chinese bent down to pick up the dagger, and two thoughts flashed through his heart. First of all, this almost instinctive action made him move forward and backwards, and he had to fight. Secondly, the weapon did not only fail to protect him in his clumsy hands, but gave people a reason to kill him. Like all men, he had only seen others play with knives on television in his life, but he knew that the blade of the knife should be rushed inside and the knife should be picked from the bottom up.

In China, this kind of thing will never be allowed to happen to me, he thought.

"Let's go to the back." The other party said.

They went out the back door, and if the Chinese had no hope, at least he had no fear. As he crossed the threshold, he thought to himself that on the first night in the hospital, when they put the needle into his arm, if he could fight with a knife in the alley and die in a fight, it would be a relief, a blessing, a joy for him. He also thought that if he could choose or aspire to the way he died at that time, such a death would be exactly what he would choose or aspire to.

The Chinese, who were more adept at using a pen, mouth cannon and keyboard, grasped his dagger that he was not good at using and walked towards the darkness.

(End of full text)

……………………

In this article, I would like to pay tribute to Borges and his favorite short story "The South", and to the patient who saw the "sepsis" meme and knew that the author would "write" "Nan (chu) Fang (yuan)".

Do you know what is the coolest thing about the author writing this broken book? It was the buried stalk that was broken by the patients.

It's a pity that there are still some stalks that no one has mentioned, such as the name of the dragoon mother and daughter.

The novel has been written for three months, so it's time to finish as well......

SORRY！ I forgot that it was to be put on the shelf, not to be a eunuch. By the way, when I see "the full text is over", will anyone want to kill me? You can't see the back of the beating that really killed me.

Okay, let's get down to business. When it comes to small money, that's the right thing.

It's going to be on the shelves in the afternoon. But the listing testimonials are really not interesting, and Murong never looks at other people's listing testimonials.

Because if I want to watch it, I'll open an automatic subscription, and I don't watch it...... Can't wait to see this.

And what can this thing write about?

It's nothing more than the author's hard work, it's not easy to live at home, the subscription doesn't cost much, and everyone is more tolerant if you can't write well...... And so on, Lao Tzu was depressed when he saw it.

Yes, it's really hard to write this broken book of "cerebral infarction flow (brain hole + terrier)", but I wrote this book very well. Sometimes I write that I laugh and feel how talented I am. So whether it's a miserable subscription or a 404 god, I'll insist on finishing it.

Of course, the writing speed and writing attitude of those who have money to earn and those who don't have money must be different, and if you can't write a cerebral infarction, you can only write an outline.

To be honest, I think this broken book is quite good, and if you put it bluntly, there are not many people in the online literature industry who can write this kind of thing...... Maybe Prince Ma and Da Luo Luo can, maybe they will write better than me.

Do you know why I don't spray Lao Wang now? Because I figured it out, Lao Tzu is not at the same level as him, and spraying him makes me look low.

It's not bragging, I can really write his book, but I'm a master, you let him write it.

So, then what does Murong have to say?

For patients who decide to spend money, I would like to say, "Give up the treatment, don't take the medicine." ”； To those who have decided not to spend money, I would like to say "Congratulations on being discharged from the hospital and always healthy." ”。

And, of course, to all the patients and friends who can see this......

In fact, Murong was also polite, don't be too moved. You can see this kind of book for only one pack of cigarettes a month or even nothing, and you should say thank you to me.

PS. If you have a patient who wants to know the update time and add something else, then take a look at the testimonials on the shelves.

The following continues from the main text:

At the same time, the Legation of the Republic of China in London.

"Brother Zhizhi, does the twelfth sister still refuse to eat?"

"Shaochuan, Shaochuan, look at your bad idea. If she asks you to send a diplomatic note, you can send it, but you must get her to agree to send it back to China...... It's not that you don't know the temper of their female generals of the Tang Sect. And you're not going to send it yet. ”

When Gu Weijun heard this, he could only smile bitterly and shake his head: "I really blame me for this, I didn't expect the twelfth sister to have the same temper as her fifth sister." ”

The fire in Shi Zhaoji's heart really got bigger, so he continued to complain: "Okay, now the American newspapers say that the kid has sepsis. The twelfth sister said that she would go back to the United States...... Go see him one last time. If you don't let her go, you'll go on a hunger strike. Shaochuan, what do you say about this? ”

Hearing this, the dignified diplomat's face became even more bitter, and he frowned and thought for a long time. He inadvertently turned his head and saw the "Le Monde" that had "flown all the way", and he made up his mind.

"Hey...... Just let her go. Seeing Shi Zhaoji's dissatisfied look, he immediately spoke, "Brother Zhizhi, don't worry, listen to the younger brother first." ”

"Okay, you say."

Gu Weijun sorted out his thoughts, and then said slowly: "According to the newspaper, this son has sepsis and will die soon." If he really died, it would be good to get rid of the love of the twelfth sister......"

Shi Zhaoji was a little anxious when he heard this: "Then what if he is better?" ”

Gu Weijun didn't answer this question directly, but pointed to the newspaper and said, "Brother Zhi also read the two articles he wrote, right?" What does it look like? ”

Shi Zhaoji pondered for a while and said: "This son is indeed extraordinary, and he is extraordinary." The foolish brother is ashamed of himself, and in my opinion, there is only a small amount of knowledge and talent in my country's diplomatic circles. ”

Gu Weijun shook his head and said, "I'm afraid that the little brother will also be dumbfounded." So ......"

"So what?"

Gu Weijun got up and said angrily: "So if someone Yuan is really in a big disaster and doesn't die, even if we let the Duke of Xinhui and the Duke of Xiangshan blame, we must fulfill the marriage between the two of them!" ”

Shi Zhaoji understood what the other party meant after a little thought, but he immediately began to shake his head again.

"Brother Zhizhi, do you think that this son's talent is not worthy of the twelfth sister?"

"No, Shaochuan, you don't know, I just received a telegram from Tiyun that his younger brother Shoxia is about to arrive in London."

"This ...... What is he here for? ”

"What else can I do, of course I'm here to pick up the twelve sisters and return to China to get married!"

"The fiancé came to pick up his fiancée and returned to China to get married, what kind of system is this?"

"What is not decent. In the eyes of the foolish brother, this is probably the idea of Xinhuigong, he has so many friends in North America for so many years, can the Twelfth Sister and Yuan Someone hide this matter from him? (note 1)

……………………

Note 1: Xinhui Gong, Tiyun, and Zhixia, the father and son are surnamed Wu. Let's talk about it in detail when it officially appears.