Chapter 164: Ghost Market Shadows

The Oilcloth Bag in his arms burned Li Ping'an's stomach, making his hair stand on end. Shen Mo's dying gaze, Zheng Zeming's feigned expression, and the whizzing gun in his ears replayed in his mind like a film. He got the item, but those cryptic sigils inside, and the blurry, presbyopic‑looking orders—hand them over directly? He'd probably end up singing 'Iron Window Tears' himself first.

"Brother, why are you still fussing over this bowl of porridge?" Li Pingle entered carrying pickled vegetables, seeing him stabbing at an empty bowl with chopsticks, couldn't help speaking.

Li Ping'an snapped back to reality and forced a smile: "I was just thinking how to improve the factory's security, got distracted." He gulped down the cold porridge in a few bites, "I have a night shift at the factory, lock the door and get some sleep first."

When the usual route failed, he had to go rogue. He recalled a place—Ghost Market. That place is a hodgepodge of all sorts, maybe he could run into someone knowledgeable, or find some other material.

Late at night, Li Ping'an pulled out an old felt hat, buttoned it, and wrapped a thick scarf around his face, leaving only his eyes exposed. He mentally shifted his Wusi-style handgun into his hidden Spiritual Spring Space, which was safer than carrying it on his body. After pocketing a few coins, he slipped out like a night owl.

Pedaling his Frame Bike, he weaved through the dark‑lit Alleys of Nan Cheng, finally stopping in a rundown old warehouse district and stowing the bicycle in the space. The wind swept over the wild grass, whooo‑ing like a haunting. Deep inside a warehouse a faint light flickered, shadows drifting.

Just as he approached the doorway, two burly men flashed from the darkness, blocking the path, their gazes cutting like knives.

One of them rasped, "Buy or sell, buy two mao, sell one mao."

Li Ping'an nodded, stayed silent, and handed over two mao.

The man twirled the money, gave Li a quick up‑and‑down glance, then focused on his build and calm eyes before stepping aside, whispering, "Don't shine the flashlight on your face, don't make noise, don't ask where the goods came from. Break the rules, keep it to yourself."

Stepping into the warehouse, a mash of smells hit his nose—mold, rust, old paper, with a hint of sweat and oil smoke. The interior was dim, lit only by a few oil lamps and kerosene lamps sputtering in the corners, making the larger area even darker. People moved like ghostly silhouettes, silent. The trade was conducted entirely by hand gestures hidden in sleeves or by eye contact—a full‑scale silent drama. Occasionally a flashlight beam cut through, kept low, illuminating only the goods, not the people.

Li Ping'an tucked his neck in, let his Divine Perception drift out like a net, covering a small area around him. The stall's wares were a myriad of items: mud‑stained broken copper and scrap iron, faded ancient paintings, various hot‑ticket vouchers, even tiny gadgets and yellowish bullets laid on tattered cloth. A few hushed haggling words floated into his ears.

He pretended to examine the items, strolling slowly, mainly eyeing those stalls selling old books and paper, and the folks who seemed to know the trade.

He stopped before a stall piled with broken books and shredded newspapers. The stall owner was a skinny gaunt old man, wearing a tattered gourd‑skin hat, dozing.

Li Ping'an crouched, grabbed a copy of the Three Character Classic and flipped through it, his voice pressed low: "Sir, may I inquire. Some old codes, looking like ledgers and like mysterious scriptures, who should I ask?"

The old man didn't lift his eyelids, his voice buzzing like a mosquito: "Ahead, around the corner, the stall selling broken copper and old junk—look for 'Gu Wan Sun'. You know the rules."

"Thanks." Li Ping'an slipped a mao into the bottom of an old book, rose, and left.

Turning the corner, it grew darker. A stall displayed rusty copper coins, broken porcelain shards, leg‑missing wooden Buddhas, and the like. The stall owner, surnamed Sun, was another skinny guy, peering intently at a copper nugget through a magnifying glass.

Li Ping'an leaned over and picked up a broken snuff bottle.

Master Sun set the magnifying glass down and squinted at him.

Li Ping'an glanced left and right, quickly pulled out his Oilcloth Bag, flipped to the page with the code, and handed it over: "May I have a look, what kind of pattern does this code follow?"

Master Sun took it, brought it to his eyes, squinted for a long while, his brows furrowing tighter.

"This… isn't a ordinary trade code…" his throat was a bit dry, "It's mixed with something else… resembles the early 'Hui Lang' gang's variant, with digit transposition and fixed pages…"

"Hui Lang?" Li Ping'an felt a chill inside; this was a dark history tied to the Japanese puppet regime!

"Can it be cracked?"

Master Sun shook his head like a clapper drum, shoved the paper back into his hand, his eyes wary of trouble: "Missing the key, missing the right book. This water's too deep for me, you'd better find an expert." He then picked up the magnifying glass and ignored him.

The trail snapped again. Li Ping'an gloomily packed the items away. Just as he was about to browse again, his Divine Perception suddenly sensed something off—behind the shadow of a Zhuzi to his left‑rear, a figure seemed to stare at him for ages! That gaze was sly.

Being stared at? Who would stare at him? Li Ping'an's back broke into a cold sweat. Was it Zheng Zeming's men? Or opportunists from the Ghost Market? He couldn't be sure, but he knew he couldn't linger here.

He kept his composure and kept browsing, using peripheral glances while pretending to inspect goods. Sure enough, a black silhouette behind the Zhuzi kept following at a distance.

Li Ping'an smirked inwardly, pretended to head toward a less‑crowded area. Passing a stall selling old furniture, he slipped an empty cigarette case from the space into a broken five‑drawer cabinet drawer, his steps unceasing.

The pursuer indeed reached the five‑drawer cabinet and started rummaging. In that moment Li Ping'an darted into the gaps between stacked goods, weaving three or four times until he vanished.

When the pursuer realized the ruse, Li Ping'an had already slipped out the back door. A cold wind blew, he tore off his masking cloth, retrieved his bicycle from the space, and rode it along the earthen road back to the Siheyuan.

Tonight wasn't a wasted run; at least he now knew the source of the code. Next, he must find a way to locate that key book. He glanced back toward the Ghost Market direction, where more secrets still lay hidden.

Back at the Siheyuan, his sister was already asleep. Li Ping'an entered quietly, took the Oilcloth Bag from the space and examined it under the lamp. The code numbers crawled across the page like ants; he rubbed his swollen temples.

Suddenly, his gaze fixed on the corner of a page—there was a faint ink blot, shaped remarkably like a book.

Perhaps… the answer is hidden in the book Zheng Zeming usually reads?