Chapter 14

Li Ping'an was the earliest riser in Nanluoguxiang. As soon as the sky just brightened, occasional hawking sounds came from the street, and he quietly pushed the door open. His padded jacket pulled tight, he faced the knife‑like north wind, a pair of cloth shoes worn almost to the sole firmly stepped on Beiping's frozen‑hard earth road and stone slabs.

The soles of his feet were his ruler, hard as rock. From Nanluoguxiang he swung out in all directions—east, south, west, north—main streets and small Alleys, every nook and cranny, like an invisible net cast wide. He didn't walk fast, but his eyes swept like a searchlight over every brick, every crack in the walls.

The bustle of Dongsi Archway, the foreign air of Xidan shops, the lively atmosphere of Qianmen's great gate, the jianghu bravados sprawled under Tianqiao—beneath the hustle were the glaring medicated‑plaster flags and the shiny uniforms of the Black Dogs. He constantly slipped into shady spots: which Alley is a dead end? Which courtyard wall had a gap to climb over? Which patch of gravesite grass was deep enough to hide a person? When did the Japanese Soldiers Patrol Squad change shifts? Where did the hanjian boss live? Which Secret Door did the second‑class collaborators like to sneak into? These things, like carving wood with a knife, were etched into his mind stroke by stroke.

After a few days, Beiping City came alive in his belly. He knew which brick was loose, which tree leaned, which gate's stone lion was missing a tooth—everything was clear. A living map, reeking of earth and gunpowder, was spread full and complete in his mind.

The day he got his good citizen permit, the clerk surnamed Zhang at the bureau entrance had drooping eyelids, his fingers tapping the broken desk annoyingly. Li Ping'an understood the rules; a shiny silver dollar slid across the table. "Sir Zhang, thank you for your trouble." The silver dollar rang "ding‑dong" as it dropped into the drawer. Only then did the clerk, as if just waking up, slowly pull open the drawer and slap out a stiff "good citizen permit." "Hold it tight! If you lose it, there's nowhere to cry!"

He pinched that thin slip of paper, Li Ping'an smirked inwardly. A talisman? More like a death warrant! Having it meant he'd finally registered in this King of Hell's hall.

Opportunity came stepping on the dot. That day, while strolling near Tianqiao, a pungent smell of traditional Chinese medicine mixed with a heart‑rending cough drifted straight into his nose. Li Ping'an followed the sound and saw a half‑collapsed courtyard wall, against which leaned a somewhat worn‑looking Rickshaw. Its handle was polished to an oily shine, the seat patched thickly. A man, emaciated and wrapped in a tattered quilt, leaned on the wall, coughing so hard his whole body shook; beside him sat an older child wiping tears.

"Big brother, this rickshaw…?" Li Ping'an stopped, lowering his voice.

The man lifted his cloudy eyes, panting like a broken bellows: "Bro… brother… cough… you interested? Cheap… I'll give it cheap… really… cough… I can't hold on…" Before he finished, another fit of coughing turned his face purple as an eggplant.

Li Ping'an knew full well. In these times, a rickshaw puller's cart is his legs, his life! Who would sell unless driven to desperation? He crouched: "Big brother, name your price?"

The man stretched out three fingers like withered twigs, coughed for a while, then managed three words: "Three… three silver dollars… the cart… the cart's still…"

Li Ping'an didn't haggle. He reached into his bosom (space), took out three heavy silver dollars, and shoved them into the cold, trembling hands of the man. The man clenched the silver dollars, his murky eye sockets spilling two streams of hot tears; his lips trembled as he tried to thank him, but he could only cough out a breath. Beside him, the child went "thump" and kowtowed loudly to Li Ping'an.

"Hurry up and take your dad to see a doctor." Li Ping'an helped the child up, moved the man to lean steadily against the wall. He patted the rickshaw; its frame was sturdy, the wheels round. Good, this origin, clean, the hot potato in his hands turned into a cool steamed bun.

Pushing the cart, he headed straight to the South of City quick-leg rickshaw shop. Sun the steward still had that oily look, a cigarette dangling from his lips, he gave Li Ping'an and the rickshaw he pushed a sideways glance: "Yo? Did you pick up a treasure? Did you fix up a rickshaw yourself?"

"Thanks to your blessing," Li Ping'an put on a fawning smile, leaned in, "I just happened to come across it. I still need to trouble you, Steward Sun, to register it, put up a plaque, pay the share fee monthly, and never fall behind." While speaking, a small roll wrapped in a few grain coupons slipped like a loach into the open pocket of Sun's cotton coat.

Sun the steward rubbed his fingers in his pocket, the scrutinizing look on his face faded, replaced by a "you little brat know how to get things done" smile: "Fine! Consider yourself lucky! I'll nail the plaque on you, the affiliation fee is five mao per month, the share fee as per the rules! But…" He lowered his voice, jerking his chin at a few loafers loitering across the street, "The 'tribute' to Biao Ge over there—you gotta settle that yourself! Don't bring trouble to the rickshaw shop!"

"Understood! Understood! I'll never cause you trouble!" Li Ping'an nodded and bowed, his waist bent like a shrimp.

The paperwork went smoothly. A wooden plaque painted white with black characters was "clang" nailed onto the handlebar. Li Ping'an pulled out his own rickshaw from the shop; the winter sun shone on the fresh plaque, a bit dazzling. From today on, he was just the most inconspicuous among the hundreds of thousands of rickshaw pullers in Four Nine City.

The wheels rolled over the streets and alleys of Beiping, emitting a monotonous "creak". Li Ping'an pricked up his ears, filtering the street's movements like a sieve.

"Have you heard? A new Western-style shop opened east of the Drum Tower, selling… what's it called… soy sauce? Something salty and expensive!"

"Yesterday, Old Wang's Home in the West City was ransacked, they said his son was in contact with the Eighth Route… how awful!"

"At Dongdan Vegetable Market, they hanged someone again… intestines spilled all over the ground…"

"Shh! Keep it down! You're courting death!"

Useful or useless, idle chatter, all poured into his ears. His face bore the numbness peculiar to a rickshaw puller, from struggling for a living, plus a bit of fawning simplicity, but his eyes were like a hawk's. His goal was set in stone: to inquire about his sister's news, to scout out the lair of Japanese officers, to remember the nests of those second-generation devils who lick the Japanese's asses.

Pulling the rickshaw was a cover; scouting was the real meal. He took customers, specifically poking around Dongjiaomin Alley, Japanese barracks, and government compounds. Which little Western-style building's doorway had armed Japanese soldiers? Which big mansion's comings and goings were all oily-haired, powder-faced collaborators? Which inconspicuous alley mouth had an old guy lurking with shifty eyes, a spy? These addresses, like poisonous caltrops, took root one by one in his mental living map.

That afternoon, after finishing a job, Li Ping'an leaned his rickshaw against the wall and gnawed on a cold steamed bun. Suddenly, the intersection ahead exploded! The crowd screamed and retreated like a tide.

Only saw in the middle of the road, a thin man wearing a black martial arts uniform and clacking wooden sandals, slowly retracting the palm he had just chopped out. Before him, a cart-pulling old man, person and cart flipped upside down, the cabbage and radish on the cart rolling all over the ground. The old man had blood froth at the corner of his mouth, curled on the ground, twitching.

"Bah! Get out of the way, you Chinese pig!" the martial artist spat in stiff Chinese, his eyes arrogant as if looking at bedbugs; he didn't even glance at the old man on the ground, lifting his foot to walk away. The surrounding people clenched their fists tight, angry but unable to speak.

Li Ping'an's eyes instantly froze! Karate! A knife-hand strike, fierce, power piercing the bone! He's a tough nut! That arrogant, overbearing vigor is even more hateful than a proper Japanese soldier!

He gulped down the hard steamed bun in a couple of bites, grabbed his rickshaw, and like an inconspicuous shadow, silently tailed him. The martial officer swaggered along, completely unaware that a "tail" had appeared behind him.

He passed two bustling streets, turned into a quieter alley. The martial officer stopped before a Siheyuan of gray tiles and blue bricks with a high gatehouse. No plaque hung at the entrance, bare as could be, but a discreet Chrysanthemum Stamp was etched into the lintel. The martial officer pushed the door open; the heavy wooden door creaked shut, sealing inside from outside.

Li Ping'an pulled his rickshaw, swaying past the gate as if just passing by. The corner of his eye swept quickly: the door plaque was blurred by wind and rain, the doorstones were two solid stone drums, the third blue brick at the gate's edge was chipped. He committed the address to memory, etching it into his bones.

He didn't stop his feet, kept pulling the rickshaw forward until he turned out of the alley and merged back into the bustling crowd, only then did he feel as if he'd set down a thousand-pound burden, letting out a long sigh of turbid air.

The sun slowly sank westward, draping the soot-covered Beiping City in a layer of dark gold, ominous gauze. Li Ping'an pulled his empty rickshaw, trudging slowly toward Luo Drum Alley. His worn felt cap pressed low, covering most of his face, only revealing a wind-chapped, cracked chin. His face still bore the numb, exhausted look worn by life's grind.

Only those eyes, hidden in the shadow of his cap's brim, deep within, leapt with icy, poison‑like flames.

The address was locked on. It was a big fish, fierce as hell.

Night was creeping in little by little. The wind, too, ought to rise, carrying a bloody scent.

He lifted his gaze to the leaden sky, pressing lower and lower, and tugged the corner of his mouth into a barely perceptible icy arc.

Tonight, it was time to sharpen the blade. The samurai sword taken from Li Den's lair in his space, its blade icy cold, must have been starving and thirsty, eager to drink blood and take its first edge.