Chapter 17: with translation of chapter title

Just as dawn broke, that black‑painted great door was kicked open with a "clang". The patrolling Japanese soldiers staggered from the thick, unbreakable stench of blood. The courtyard's miserable scene was so cold the air itself seemed to freeze. The deathly silence lasted only a moment before the alarm sounded like a night owl with its throat strangled, piercing Beiping's heavy, dead dawn.

The whole city erupted like a boiling pot! Japanese soldiers and Black Dogs poured out en masse. Whistles shrieked, crude curses roared, doors were bashed and kicked with a "clang‑clang", mingling with the cries of women and children, turning the gray morning mist into a pot of scalding mush. A huge net of terror spread over every alley and nook.

Search! Endless! Even a single silhouette is a suspect. The Japanese officer's roar was like a bomb blast; he slapped the face of the Black Dogs' junior leader, leaving a red handprint that burned the eyes: "Baka! Good‑for‑nothing! Can't even catch a mouse! Search! Even if we have to dig three feet into the ground, we'll pull it out!"

The Black Dogs nodded and bowed, seething with malice, and turned to pour double the abuse on the civilians. Shoving, insults, baseless punches and kicks became everyday street scenes. This stall was the perfect chance for them to skim off profits, their pockets bulging more than their faces.

In Nanluoguxiang, Li Ping'an's little East Wing Room was shut tight. Outside was a boiling chaos, while inside it was so quiet one could hear a heartbeat.

The rickshaw sat steadily in the middle of the space. Li Ping'an sat cross‑legged on the ground, spreading out a bunch of tools beside him: wrenches, pliers, screwdrivers, steel files, and several cans of pungent lubricating oil. He was like a meticulous old craftsman, taking apart the eating gear and the fleeing legs piece by piece.

Frame, wheel rim, bearings, pedals, chain… each component was carefully removed. His eyes were sharp as a hawk; his fingers felt the cold iron bits, searching for any wear or rust that could not escape detection. In the corner lay brand‑new parts that had arrived from the Hardware Store last night.

Old parts not good? Replace them immediately! The worn bearings were smeared with thick grease, emitting a faint "sizzle"; loose screws were tightened until they wouldn't budge; rust spots on the frame were sanded away, revealing the underlying bluish‑gray metal.

Sweat beads rolled down his cheek, clattering onto the cold tools. His hands were steady, his movements so precise they bordered on obsessive. This rickshaw was no longer just a means to earn a living; it was his legs dancing in the Hall of Yama, his lifeline. Every tightened screw, every smear of grease felt like donning a layer of armor in this chaotic world.

The parts were tidily handled and reassembled one by one. The work flowed like clouds and water, as if practiced thousands of times. When the last screw was tightened, a brand‑new rickshaw stood there. The frame was upright, the wheels turned silently, even the thick patch on the seat looked spry. Li Ping'an walked a circle around the rickshaw, his fingers brushing the icy handlebars; the renewed solidity made a flicker of satisfaction flash in his eyes.

The job was done, but his body was still tense. The night's life‑or‑death fight with the karate‑style Japanese soldiers replayed in his mind frame by frame. The lethal hand‑knife, the heavy spinning kick, the final desperate straight punch… the numbness of his own blocks, the thrill of his dodges, especially the earth‑shaking "Iron Mountain Hold"… How to gather strength? How to find the angle? How to time it so precisely?

He opened the stance of Baji Quan, and in this small space he slowly began to mime the forms. Not seeking speed or ferocity, he carefully felt how each muscle engaged, how power traveled from the soles of his feet to his fists. Sweat soaked his thin shirt, his body hot. The spark of insight squeezed from the brink of life and death flowed into his fist technique, adding roundness to the deep strength and sharpening its edge.

Daybreak arrived, the city's alarms had quieted a bit, but the search checkpoints remained unmoved. Li Ping'an slipped on his faded, patch‑filled ragged cotton coat, fastened his tattered felt hat, the brim pulled low, exposing only a cracked chin and a pair of weary, numb eyes. He pushed the spruced‑up rickshaw out of the hut and plunged into the noisy, stifling morning market crowd of Beiping City.

Just a few steps out of Nanluoguxiang, a group of ferocious Black Dogs blocked the intersection. Leading them was a crooked‑hat Ma Lian, his triangular eyes bristling with malice.

"Stop! Civilian permit!" Ma Lian reached out, his spit almost splattering Li Ping'an's face.

Li Ping'an quickly halted the rickshaw, plastering a flattering, slightly fearful grin on his face, fumbling to pull the hard "talisman" from his chest and offering it with both hands. At that moment, a small roll wrapped around two paper notes slipped like a mudfish into Ma Lian's greasy coat pocket.

Ma Lian twirled his finger inside his pocket, and his fierce expression softened a bit. He gave the documents a cursory glance, tossed them back to Li Ping'an, muttering, "Damn, unlucky! Drinking the northwest wind early in the morning!"

Li Ping'an caught them, bending his waist even lower, his voice carrying just the right amount of caution: "Boss, you've worked hard… What's all this fuss about? The commotion is too big?"

Ma Lian's triangular eyes glared, spitting sideways: "Pah! What business do you, a stinky rickshaw driver, have here? Never heard of 'Curiosity killed the cat'? Get lost! No more nonsense—believe it or not, I'll drag you in and put you on the tiger chair with pepper water. Do you believe that?"

Li Ping'an's courage seemed shattered by the words; his face turned white in an instant, his body trembled exaggeratedly, repeatedly stammering "I won't, I won't," and he fumbled to pull the rickshaw, bolting out of the intersection like a frightened animal, his appearance as if a ghost were chasing his rear. A few Black Dogs watched his retreat and burst into coarse, raucous laughter.

Relying on his sturdy frame and the gleaming rickshaw, Li Ping'an's "business" gradually took off. His legs were swift, his running steady; passengers on his rickshaw barely felt any jolt. Even better, in the bitter cold, while others sweated profusely, his breath was even and his body stayed fresh and clean. A few regular customers, feeling comfortable and respectable, loved to come back to him.

"Ping'an, head to the big gate at the front!" "Ping'an, wait at the East Diplomatic Street entrance!" The calls grew more numerous.

Sometimes a whole day's run could fill his pockets with heavy silver dollars. When he met a generous patron, he could even earn a tip. This income, for a "fugitive" like him, was rather eye‑catching.

When he pulled his rickshaw, his eyes weren't only on the road. The strict checkpoints of the East Diplomatic Street embassy district, the armed guards at the Japanese Army camp gate, the deep mansions bearing "Joint‑Stock Company" signs where oily‑haired, powdered‑face collaborators came and went… These areas were his usual "hustle" spots.

When a passenger disembarked, he leaned the rickshaw against an inconspicuous wall, pulled his tattered felt hat low, squinting as if taking a nap to rest. His ears, however, stayed alert, sifting the surrounding sounds; his gaze slipped through the hat brim's slit, scanning suspicious doorplates and lurking shadows like a blade.

He specialized in shearing the plentiful wool of these "fat jobs," inadvertently stirring up other people's cheese.

That afternoon, after safely delivering a gentleman in a long robe to the gate of a secluded courtyard near East Diplomatic Street and collecting the fare, the gentleman stepped through the vermilion‑painted gate. Li Ping'an, pulling his empty rickshaw and just turning into a nearby small alley to catch his breath, found the path blocked by three figures.

All were burly rickshaw pullers; the leader sported a tangled beard, a face of flabby flesh, arms nearly as thick as Li Ping'an's thigh. The two beside him were also hulks, their expressions hostile. The alley reeked of a sour urine stench mixed with garbage rot.

"Kid! You're good at snatching food, huh?" the tangled‑beard man crossed his arms and stepped forward, his palm, as big as a palm leaf fan, thrust hard against Li Ping'an's chest, clearly looking for trouble. "Do you know the rules? This territory is something a chick like you can even enter?"

Li Ping'an staggered from the push, his back slamming into the icy brick wall. He steadied himself, looked up, his face still the honest, simple expression, his voice timid: "Gentlemen, we can talk. I'm just trying to earn a living…"

"Talk? Six hundred!" the man with triangular eyes (Sanjiao Yan) spat, his saliva spraying far, pointing at Li Ping'an's nose, "You damn foreign little wimp, your hair not even… you dare snatch food from Biao Ge's bowl? You're too slick? If you have any sense, scram quickly! From now on, go around my side! Otherwise…" He sneered, clenching his fist, the knuckles cracking.

Another rickshaw puller also advanced, reaching for the collar of Li Ping'an's ragged cotton coat, his mouth slurring, "What's the point of talking to him… give him a good beating first! Let him remember for a long time…"

A cold spark flickered in Li Ping'an's eyes. He had intended to keep the peace, but it seemed a scholar had met a soldier. With the road blocked, he couldn't blame his own blackened hands.

Just as the filthy hand was about to grab his collar, Li Ping'an moved!

Fast! As fast as a ghostly shadow!

He suddenly crouched, letting the hand pass, his feet springing like they had springs, and he lunged forward! His right shoulder struck the burly man's soft ribs like a cannonball exiting the barrel, solidly hammering them.

"Ugh!" the burly man was caught off guard, a searing pain stabbing under his ribs, as if struck by a hammer; he let out a wretched howl, his two‑hundred‑plus‑pound body was knocked off the ground, flying like a torn sack, and with a "bang" slammed into the garbage pile opposite the alley, splashing water and mud all over him, leaving only a groan.

The tangled‑beard man and the triangular‑eyed man were stunned! Their eyes nearly popped out!

Li Ping'an kept moving, sending one flying; using that rebound force, his body twisted like a spinning top, his left elbow, driven by a fierce wind, swept like lightning toward the triangular‑eyed man's jaw. The triangular‑eyed man saw a black blur, a "Damn!" sprang to mind, and his jaw was struck by a burst of brute force!

"Crack!" a sound so crisp it made one shiver! The triangular‑eyed man didn't even manage a hum; his eyes rolled white, saliva and blood foam spurted out, and he fell straight backward, dead.

In the blink of an eye, like a rabbit leaping and a falcon dropping, both accomplices ended up flat on the ground!

The alley was left with only heavy breathing. The tangled‑beard's flabby flesh on his face twitched like a cramp; the earlier overbearing force had already been fed to the dogs. He watched Li Ping'an turn slowly, the eyes beneath the tattered felt hat showing no trace of cowardice. They were as cold as two bottomless icy pools, making his own hair stand on end, his spine emitting a shivering chill.

"You… you…" the tangled‑beard pointed at Li Ping'an, his finger trembling, shouting with a hollow bravado, "Wait… wait! If you've got any guts, don't run! Biao Ge… Biao Ge will kill you!" He howled while retreating in terror, as if Li Ping'an were a man‑eating demon. Reaching the alley mouth, he spun around, ignoring the two whimpering companions on the ground, and bolted like a mad dog, ten times faster than when pulling a rickshaw, disappearing in a flash.

Li Ping'an brushed the dust off his ragged cotton coat, as if shaking off a few specks of soil. He didn't even glance at the two on the ground, pulled his rickshaw and leisurely rolled out of the dead‑end suffused with urine stench and blood, back onto the main street. His face again wore that numb expression drained by life, as if nothing had happened at all.

Biao Ge? When water comes, the earth blocks; when soldiers come, the generals arrive.

The wheels rolled over Beiping's streets again. Li Ping'an's thoughts had already taken flight. His sister's little face had been haunting him these days, scratching his heart like a cat's paw.

These days, whenever he passed a cloth or silk shop, he couldn't help glancing twice. Whether the façade was grand or shabby, he slowed his steps, his eyes carefully scanning the signboards.

"Wang's Silk", "Rui Fu Xiang Branch", "Heng Yuan Xiang Cloth Store", "Xing Long Cloth Shop"… shop after shop, their signs a riot of colors, yet none was the "Lin's" that tugged at his heart and lungs.

Each time he approached with a hint of hope, it was met with a cold splash. Those unfamiliar fonts and sizes were like tiny needles, pricking the little flame in his heart, making it flicker. Restlessness grew like vines, tightening around him.

"If Lin's deals in cloth, there must be a place for it in Beiping, right?" he kept urging himself, "As long as the shop's still there, the sign hasn't fallen, I can always find it!"

But the days slipped by, and his sister's image in his memory grew a little hazy. Was she starving? Freezing? Was anyone bullying her? In this chaotic world, a little girl… Li Ping'an dared not think further; he only felt a tightness in his chest, his hand gripping the handlebars white‑knuckled.

The wheels creaked, rolling over Beiping's deep‑autumn fallen leaves and over the smoldering fire in his heart. He pulled the rickshaw into the crowd, his eyes like spotlights scanning every doorway that might bear a cloth‑sign. This search weighed heavier than a day's rickshaw pull, dead‑heavy on his shoulders.