Chapter 228: Ironfire Scorches the Heart

Director Wang's unquestionable mobilization fell like a sudden gate, completely cutting off the courtyard's previously stumbling yet self‑contained rhythm of life.

A scorching, frantic atmosphere tinged with suppressed excitement replaced the usual post‑festival laziness, spreading through every corner of the courtyard.

The pile of waste iron in the central courtyard, growing taller each day and exuding a scent of rust and despair, stood like a silent monument, recording each household's "contribution" and reluctance.

Yan Bu Gui ultimately could not keep his pot; when he handed it over, his fingers lingered on the familiar rim as if bidding farewell to an old friend, his face showing unabashed soreness.

Jia Zhangshi's wailing and tantrums, under Yi Zhonghai's sullen expression and the big hat of the "destruction campaign," ultimately turned into a few suppressed sobs and even more vicious curses toward Qin Huairu, as if all this misfortune stemmed from that daughter‑in‑law.

Yet the task of twenty jin of waste iron was, for most families, like a sword hanging over their heads. Every household had already scavenged to exhaustion, even prying off iron bolts from windows and copper fittings from old crates, yet still could not reach that heavy total.

The pressure eventually transferred to those few households deemed "capable."

Yi Zhonghai, as a Level‑8 worker with a high salary and a simple household, naturally became the primary target.

Liu Haizhong, accompanied by a street official and the courtyard's activists, first knocked on his house's door.

"Old Yi, you're a First Elder of the courtyard and a Level‑8 plier worker; you have to set the example!"

Liu Haizhong puffed out his belly, his tone carrying a subtle, almost retaliatory "by the book" attitude: "You see, many families are truly struggling; if this task isn't completed, our courtyard will hold back the street! Can't you... contribute a bit more?"

Yi Zhonghai's complexion turned iron‑blue, his lips pressed tightly.

He indeed still had some spare iron tools at home; they were his means of getting meals, his lifeline.

Yet under the pressing gazes, he finally waved his hand despondently, prompting an older woman to bring out a small toolbox containing some cherished precision blades and a few pieces of special steel.

The items were few, but their value far exceeded ordinary waste iron. He watched the tools being taken, his eyes hollow, as if his soul had been drawn out.

Next, it was the turn of the West‑cross Courtyard.

Arriving were Yan Bu Gui and two other young men.

Yan Bu Gui wore an awkward smile, rubbing his hands: "Ping'an, look… the courtyard really has no way out. Everyone knows… your family… your situation is better; can you… lend more support?" He averted his gaze, not daring to look directly at Li Ping'an.

Li Ping'an's expression remained calm. He had been prepared and had learned from Wang Dahu about similar situations in other large courtyards.

He pointed to a bundle of rusted old rebar and several dented iron buckets already prepared in the corner: "These should be enough to fill the shortfall."

Yan Bu Gui saw the weight was indeed similar, instantly breathed a sigh of relief, and hurriedly ordered the young men to carry them away.

He furtively glanced at the Li family's stove area, where the thick, black iron pot sat steadily on the stove; he felt a hint of doubt but dared not ask further, snickering as he led the group away.

Li Ping'an closed the door, a flash of coldness in his eyes. He was not stingy, but deeply understood the pot's importance to daily family life.

The iron pots taken so easily were replaced with rough earthenware jars that couldn't even cook a proper meal.

Having served in the troops and security system for years, he knew any campaign that strays from reality will breed chaos.

He guarded that pot not merely to protect a family's stomach, but to preserve a baseline of basic sanity amid the frenzy.

Lin Xueqing stroked her swollen belly and sighed softly, "Why bother… it's just one pot."

"As long as the pot remains, the home remains," Li Ping'an said steadily, "Some heads cannot be opened."

The scrap‑iron uproar had not fully settled, and another more arduous task was imposed—dispatching labor to join the steel‑refining grand battle.

The roster was quickly finalized.

Sha Zhu led the charge; he was young and strong, a cook, and the construction site canteen reportedly needed hands.

Xu Damao was also shoved in; a street official's remark that "the projectionist must also undergo labor training" blocked all his excuses.

Jia Dongxu, though spineless, was of the right age; Yi Zhonghai, to keep his disciple from falling behind, could only nod.

The other two slots fell to two newly hired young lads in the front courtyard.

On the morning of departure, before dawn fully broke, the blast furnace was built in Nanluoguxiang, not far away.

Sha Zhu rose early, even a bit excited to see it, and said a boisterous goodbye to Ma Dongmei.

Xu Damao wore a mournful face, taking three glances back with each step, as if heading into a dragon‑pond tiger‑den.

Jia Dongxu hung his head, not daring to look at his mother and daughter‑in‑law. Jia Zhangshi resumed her performance, slapping her thigh and wailing dryly: "My son! How will we survive if we go there! What if we become exhausted!"

Qin Huairu cradled her child, silently shedding tears, her gaze full of worry and helplessness.

Li Ping'an stood at the entrance of the West‑cross Courtyard, watching the demoralized "team" disappear into the alley mouth. He knew the real test had only just begun.

After work that evening, scattered news began to reach the courtyard. The steel‑refining site was like a massive, noisy vortex, devouring countless labor and supplies.

The small earth furnace resembled a cluster of sores, dotting the leveled ground, constantly spewing black smoke and sparks day and night.

People were divided into several shifts, like tireless worker ants, hauling ore and coal, tending the furnace that seemed never to produce qualified molten steel.

Sha Zhu returned to the courtyard, saying the site canteen lacked oil and meat, only a handful of cabbage scraps, making his role as a cook feel stifling.

Xu Damao was completely spiritless, lying on the bed and lamenting incessantly.

Jia Dongxu returned, his gaze vacant, shaking his head at every question.

At the same time, a new, unsettling sign began to appear in the courtyard.

The earthenware jars the street issued to replace iron pots were extremely fragile; within a few days several broke.

Cooking became a major issue, and the central courtyard often echoed disputes over the communal stove or broken jars.

Food also seemed tighter, with the fixed‑ration supply showing signs of instability.

In the clacking of Yan Bu Gui's household abacus, there was added scrutiny over grain quotas.

Jia Zhangshi tightened the grain ration deductions for Qin Huairu and her grandson even further, as if hoarding food for the winter in advance. Even in the West‑cross Courtyard, Li Ping'an began consciously having Li Pingle purchase more long‑lasting vegetables, quietly preparing.

The spring breeze still brushed the courtyard, and the crabapple tree blossomed with pink‑white flowers, thriving as before.

Yet the people beneath the tree were shrouded by an inescapable gloom. The distant steel‑refining furnace fire burned not only ore, but seemed to scorch every ordinary person's heart.

Material scarcity intertwined with spiritual frenzy, forming an extremely twisted portrait of the era.

Li Ping'an stood beneath the flowering tree, looking up at the azure sky. He knew this top‑down torrent of steel would not shift because of any individual's will.

All he could do was, within this torrent, firmly hold the tiny reef that is West‑cross Courtyard, protect his family, and wait for this scorching, blind surge to pass.

Yet he keenly sensed deeper difficulties perhaps still ahead. This spring was destined to be extraordinary.