Chapter 77: Revealing the Truth, Yi Zhonghai Crumbles

Zhao Jianguo was still standing in front of the notice board, his hand resting on the wooden frame, like a nail driven into place. The wind blew the "Supervisor Rotation Notice" with a rustling sound; he neither pressed it nor turned around. He knew someone was watching from behind the East Room window, waiting for him to leave, waiting for him to relax, ready to make the next move.

But he didn't leave.

The sun had already shifted westward, yet more and more people gathered in the Courtyard. San Daye, leaning on his cane, Standing Up from the horse stall, Aunt Li held a child and hadn't gone far, Sha Zhu, after finishing the wok, shuffled over, still clutching half a scallion in his hand. Er Lengzi squatted under the dining table picking up screws; when he heard the commotion, he stuck his head out, looking bewildered.

Zhao Jianguo finally moved.

He placed the register on the table, opened to the top page, his voice low yet drowning out all the background noise: "Yesterday's accounts, we reconciled line by line. Everyone saw where the materials came from, where the money went, who handled it, who signed."

He paused, lifted his eyes to scan the crowd: "But there is one account, not from yesterday, but from six years ago. No one has ever examined it, no one dares to ask—about how much the bereavement allowance that Comrade Jia Wu's mother received after his sacrifice."

The crowd fell silent for a moment.

"One hundred twenty yuan," Zhao Jianguo said, "The factory records are crystal clear: in July 1962, the union disbursed a martyr's bereavement allowance of exactly one hundred twenty yuan. Yet Jia's mother only received forty yuan. Where did the remaining eighty go?"

No one responded.

Zhao Jianguo pulled a yellowed sheet from the Cloth Bundle, spread it on the table. The edges were slightly curled, the ink faded, but the official seal and signature remained legible.

"This is a Photocopy of the original disbursement stub from the Finance Section back then," he pointed at the line, "Handler: Yi Zhonghai. Position: Union Accountant. Receipt time: July 3rd."

He looked up, meeting Yi Zhonghai, who had just stepped out of the room.

"Master Yi, do you still remember this matter?" Zhao Jianguo's tone was as flat as asking whether one had breakfast, "In the same month, your son Yi Xiaohai married a wife from Hebei, with a bride price of exactly eighty yuan. Where did the money come from? Salary? Bonus? Or—" his voice dropped, "squeezed out of the martyr's family?"

Yi Zhonghai's face turned pale, his steps halted on the spot.

"You're talking nonsense!" his voice tightened, "There is a procedure for disbursing bereavement allowances! How could I have privately withheld any? You're spreading rumors!"

"Rumors?" Zhao Jianguo, unhurried and unannoyed, turned his head toward the Courtyard Gate, "Master Zhang, could you tell us who handed the money to him back then?"

The crowd made a path.

Master Zhang, leaning on his cane, walked in slowly, his hair completely white and his back hunched. He steadied himself at the table, his trembling finger pointing at the Photocopy, "I… I delivered it. That afternoon, I personally handed the envelope to Old Yi, asking him to forward it to the Jia family. Three days later, Jia's mother came crying to me, saying the money was off. I asked Old Yi, and he said… that a special tax had been deducted."

"Which policy deducts tax from a martyr's bereavement allowance?" Zhao Jianguo stared at Yi Zhonghai, "Could you read it out for everyone?"

"I… that was a special circumstance!" Yi Zhonghai's forehead sweated, "The courtyard was in difficulty then; I was thinking of the greater good! The money didn't go into my pocket; it was all used for the collective!"

"Used for the collective?" Zhao Jianguo sneered, "Then why didn't you keep accounts? Why didn't you make it public? Why didn't even Jia's mother know the truth before she died? You keep saying it's for the collective, but who in the collective knows about this? Does San Daye know? Does Sha Zhu know? Or—" his voice rose sharply, "only when your son was getting married did you think of moving that money?"

"You!" Yi Zhonghai's fingers trembled, pointing at Zhao Jianguo, "What do you know! I've spent years worrying and toiling for the courtyard, and you think a few twisted words can bring me down?"

"Bring you down?" Zhao Jianguo laughed, "You only get brought down when you stand up. Yet now you stand here, and every word you say is digging your own grave."

He turned his head toward the crowd: "For six years, he pretended to be a model, preaching dedication, while secretly using the martyr's money for celebrations. Jia Wu died in a boiler explosion while rushing repairs; his parents never enjoyed a blessing in their lives, and ultimately eighty percent of the money they deserved was swallowed. And he?" Zhao Jianguo pointed at Yi Zhonghai, "Marries a wife, all pomp and circumstance, then dares to stand here again, claiming he does it 'for the good of the courtyard'?"

"Pah!" Sha Zhu spat sharply, "I feed you every day, and you lecture me about 'collective interests'? You're not an accountant; you're a skinflint!"

Aunt Li, holding her child, stepped back two steps: "From now on, I will never let you touch my family's affairs. I'd rather miscalculate myself than let you lay a finger on anything!"

Uncle Wang also spoke up: "Old Yi, you once had some authority, but this… is utterly unscrupulous. Jia Wu was a hero; you used his money for a celebration—who does that honor?"

Yi Zhonghai's lips trembled; he tried to speak, but not a single word could emerge.

He instinctively looked at Qin Huairu, his gaze pleading for help. Qin Huairu lowered her head, cradling the child, saying nothing. Jia Zhangshi curled up in the corner, not even daring to lift her head.

"Old Yi," San Daye, leaning on his cane, stepped forward, his voice low yet heavy, "You were once the Joint Defense Team Leader, an elder of the courtyard. Age may come, but conscience must not. The day Jia Wu exploded, I saw him rush into the boiler room with my own eyes. And you? You took his money to fund your son's marriage, then stand here pretending to be a great benefactor? Can you answer to that child?"

Yi Zhonghai staggered back a step, colliding with the dining table; plates and bowls clattered loudly.

"I… I'm not…" his voice wavered, "I did it for… for…"

"For what?" Zhao Jianguo pressed further, "To give your son a wife? To make your family look respectable? Have you ever considered that the Jia family matriarch, clutching those forty yuan on her deathbed, whispered 'The state has not wronged me'? She didn't know that half of the money her son shed his life for ended up in your family's bride-price pouch!"

The crowd erupted completely.

"Someone like that deserves to manage money?"

"Who will dare trust him in the future?"

"Replace the supervisor immediately! He can't even control himself!"

Yi Zhonghai's complexion turned ashen, veins pulsing on his forehead, lips trembling as he tried to argue but couldn't form a single complete sentence. He abruptly turned, stumbling toward the East Room, his steps light as if walking on cotton.

"Bang!" The door was slammed shut forcefully.

Zhao Jianguo didn't pursue, nor speak. He lowered his head, glanced at the register, closed it, and slipped it back into the Cloth Bundle. Then he pulled a fresh sheet from the bag, laid it on the notice board, and with a thick brush wrote a line of text:

**"Siheyuan Supervisor Rotation Table (First): Yi Zhonghai"**

Finishing, he picked up the ink brush and, across the three characters "Yi Zhonghai," drew a heavy black slash.

The crowd gathered, Er Lengzi tiptoed and asked, "Crossed out? Really crossed out?"

"Crossed out." Zhao Jianguo tossed the pen, "From now on, anyone who wants to be a supervisor may sign up themselves. Rotations are ten days, the ledger is public, anyone can inspect. But there is one rule—" his voice lowered, "Do not touch money that shouldn't be touched. Do not meddle with people who shouldn't be meddled with."

San Daye nodded, "This Rules Sign is well established."

Sha Zhu grinned, "Jianguo, from now on the courtyard's accounts are yours to decide."

Zhao Jianguo didn't respond. He stood before the notice board, his gaze sweeping across the Courtyard. Aunt Li, cradling her child, walked away; Uncle Wang carried a water bucket back inside; Er Lengzi was still picking up screws; San Daye, leaning on his cane, sat on the horse stall, squinting in the sun.

Everything was as usual.

But he knew things had changed.

Yi Zhonghai's persona collapsed, not because the accounts didn't match, but because he tampered with the most untouchable thing—a sum of money earned by a martyr's life. He thought he could keep up the act forever, but once the truth surfaced, the years of cultivated "great virtue and reputation" instantly became a joke.

Zhao Jianguo reached out and brushed the wooden frame of the notice board, his fingertips catching a speck of dust.

He didn't wipe it away.

In the distance, the East Room curtains shifted briefly, then closed swiftly.

He neither looked nor moved.

At that moment, Er Lengzi suddenly shouted, "Jianguo! Your dough press is missing a screw! Is it the one that just got knocked off?"

Zhao Jianguo turned back, seeing Er Lengzi holding a slender screw in his hand, raising it to place on the dining table.

He walked over, took the screw, and examined it.

It wasn't for the dough press.

It was for the electrician's workshop door lock.