Chapter 18: Shadow‑Locked Demon Cave

The rickshaw's broken wheel rolled over the fallen leaves, "crack!," "crack!," a dry, harsh sound. Li Ping'an pulled the cart, eyes like spotlights scanning the shop signs along the street. For a month, they have plowed every alley and lane around Beiping City's nine inner city gates—Zhengyang Gate, Chaoyang Gate, Chongwen Gate, Xuanwu Gate, Dongxi Zhimen, Anding Gate, Desheng Gate—inch by inch with the soles of their feet.

Cloth stalls, silk boutiques, second‑hand clothing shops… big and small storefronts, new and old, he drew near and examined them all. Every time he saw an unfamiliar sign, his heart sank a notch. "Wang's," "Rui Fu Xiang," "Heng Yuan Xiang," "Xing Long"… colorful and green, but there was no "Lin's" that twisted his gut. His sister's little face had become a blur in his memory, leaving only a painful shadow. Where is she? Is she still starving and freezing? Restlessness, like an old vine, tightened around his chest, squeezing harder, his fingers on the cart handle turning white.

"The Lin family's cloth can't just vanish into thin air, can it?" he urged himself, but his throat felt dry as smoke. Searching for someone was more exhausting than pulling a heavy cart all day, a dead‑weight that kept dragging him down.

During this month, the wheels turned without rest, and his ears never relaxed. When hauling those slick‑mouthed collaborators and Japanese Army officers with noses in the air, his face was wooden, but the string in his heart was pulled taut. The snippets of gossip he heard, the glimpsed house numbers, were etched like seals, each stroke carving into the invisible map of Beiping in his mind.

That afternoon, he hauled a drunken collaborator translator from Dengshi Gate toward East City, swaying. The translator, drunk, swayed in the back seat, grumbling uncleanly about serving the "Taijun" being difficult, and bragging that he had just gone to Commander Gangcun Ningci's residence to deliver a "Xiaojing".

"Gangcun?" Li Ping'an's heart went "thump," ears perking up like antennae. He slowed his pace, voice tinged with flattery and curiosity: "Sir, the commander you mentioned… the one who oversees all of North China? Living so close to us ordinary folk? That must be a massive mansion!"

The translator, still drunk on the flattery, didn't think, his tongue slurred as he pointed vaguely: "South River Edge… South River Edge Street… east end… *hic*… that area, right there! The vermilion‑painted gate… quite imposing! You kid… stop asking… pull… your… cart!"

Li Ping'an's heart raced, his face full of panic: "Yes, yes, yes, I'm being too talkative! I'll deliver you safely and soundly!"

He tossed the drunk translator into a small Western‑style house and collected the fare. Li Ping'an didn't stop to rest as usual; he lifted the empty cart and headed straight for South River Edge Street in East City.

The street was unnervingly "clean" compared to elsewhere, pedestrians sparse, exuding a stifling stillness. He pulled the cart, drifting lazily, while a corner of his eye, sharp as a knife, scanned the east end of the street.

Soon enough, that place was right there.

It was a sprawling deep‑courtyard estate, the walls towering enough to frighten, separating the inside from the outside like two worlds. Most striking was the massive vermilion‑painted gate at its center, red as blood, its hinges a yellowish hue, flashing coldly under the pale autumn sun. At the doorway stood two Japanese Soldiers with guns, like nails, their gazes as sharp as knives scraping any passerby. The air was scented with an odd incense, oppressive enough to choke.

Li Ping'an pulled the cart, passing the gate as if nothing mattered. As he drew near, his whole body's hair stood on end with a "swish". The two Japanese Soldiers' cold gazes lingered on him, as if inspecting a roadside stone. He hunched his back, his tattered felt hat pulled lower, trying to play the scaredy‑cat, while his heart hammered in his chest.

Address: South River Edge Street, East City District. Target: Gangcun Ningci. North China Japanese Army leader.

That name was like a red‑hot branding iron, scorching Li Ping'an's heart with a "sizzle"! The blood‑tears heard on the famine‑escape road, the words seen while flipping through those seized documents, all exploded in his mind:

"Three‑Lights Policy"—"Burn everything! Kill everything! Loot everything!" Those three blood‑hole‑like characters were followed by how many villages turned to scorched earth? How many countryfolk fell under bayonets? That "Burn to ash" order was the devil's signature behind this gate!

"Iron Wall Encirclement"—two months of mad‑dog sweeps, like iron barrels crushing Jin, Shan, and Hebei, how many brave men bled onto the yellow earth? How many family fortunes were torn to shreds?

"Public Security Strengthening Campaign"—five times! A full five times! Using bayonets, lies, and poison‑woven nets, they turned all of North China into a slaughterhouse! Seventy‑thousand Japanese Soldiers swarmed like locusts…

"No‑Man's Zone"—deep trenches dug along the Great Wall line, like an ugly scar. On this side of the trench, Japanese bayonets; on the other side, homes reduced to white ash, villagers driven away or exterminated… "No residence! No life!" those four words soaked in blood and tears!

And those plundered treasures! Tons upon tons of gold antiques, the ancestors' lifeblood! Over a hundred thousand volumes of Chinese medicine books, the brain of millennia‑old Chinese civilization! These riches became bricks of this Demon Cave's back wall, turned into guns aimed at their own people!

Hatred! Like scorching lead coursing through his veins, burning his innards! His teeth chattered, his grip on the cart handle trembled violently. He wanted to rush in now, wielding the gleaming Chrysanthemum‑stamped blade in his mind, to hack that dog's head off!

But he forced the raging fire back down. He couldn't let a small mercy ruin a grand plan. This wasn't a dead‑end overpass; it was a dragon‑pond, tiger‑den! The two guards at the gate were merely watchdogs; inside the walls, who knows how many jackals, wolves, tigers, leopards, or hidden spears and arrows lurked. A forced entry? That would be like lighting a lantern in a latrine—asking for death.

He forced himself to breathe evenly, pulling the cart like a rickshaw puller whose back had been crushed by life, moving slowly, swaying three steps at a time, out of this street shrouded by a demon's shadow. Until he turned into a noisy market lane, the two icy‑piercing gazes behind him vanished, and he felt as if a thousand‑pound load had been lifted, his cotton coat on his spine already soaked through with cold sweat.

Night fell completely, the beasts of the Siheyuan retreated to their nests. Li Ping'an's little East Wing Room kept its lights on. In the darkness, a pair of eyes shone unnervingly.

In the space, the polished rickshaw stood still. Li Ping'an sat cross‑legged on the ground, facing several sheets of documents smuggled from Japanese offices. The pages were densely filled with Japanese characters and Chinese, noting Commander Gangcun Ningci's fragmented itinerary, the approximate layout of the mansion (as seen from outside), and recent rumors of North China Japanese troops moving goods—especially a batch of "especially valuable items" that might be relocated.

His fingers unconsciously traced the rough paper, fingertips cold. The heavy oppression he felt on South River Edge Street during the day now turned into a massive black shadow, pressing down hard on his chest.

Storm in? The thought surfaced, only to be choked off by himself. It would be like hitting a stone with an egg—pure suicide. The interior was surely layered with defenses, experts gathered. Even if he had the space and skill to slip in, he couldn't get near the old Japanese under heavy guard, let alone emerge. If he failed, the space would be exposed, his sister's whereabouts cut off forever, and all his endured humiliation would be for nothing.

If brute force won't work, use stealth… how to do it?

His eyes were glued to that vague record about the "especially valuable items". Gold? Antiques? Those treasures looted from Chinese soil, soaked in blood and tears? That old dog Gangcun, having skimmed so much of the people's flesh and blood, would never let them rot in storage. Transport them? Where to? How?

A wild thought, like a match striking "sizzle" in the dark, flared suddenly in his heart, the flame leaping up!

Get rid of it!

Make this executioner soaked in blood debt taste the pain of heart‑rending cuts!

Not only to take his dog‑life, but before he can even gasp, snatch away his most precious possessions—the plundered belongings! So that even in death he can't close his eyes!

The wicked vigor and exhilaration this thought brought instantly overwhelmed his fear, nearly making him shout. Yet the idea was too reckless, too dangerous—like pulling chestnuts from a fire, extracting a tooth from a tiger's mouth! One misstep would shatter him to pieces.

His heart hammered "thud thud" in his chest, blood surging to his head, then he forced his icy‑like reason to suppress it. He gulped a breath, the cold air of the space filling his lungs, cooling his burning brain.

He must not rush, absolutely must not rush. He warned himself. This required the most meticulous planning, the most excruciating wait, like an Old Cat crouching in a mouse hole, waiting for the mouse to peek out at the fatal moment.

First, intelligence! He must find out exactly what these items are, which corner of the mansion they're hidden in, the guard situation, when they'll be moved, which route, how many transporters… These vital bits of information, like puzzle pieces scattered on the ground, he must pick up piece by piece and assemble fully.

Second, skill! Last night's handling of that hand‑to‑hand Japanese was barely a win. Around Gangcun, there must be tougher opponents. The Baji Quan must be harsher, the blade swifter, the body tougher! The relentless training in this space cannot pause. That imperial‑gift blade etched with a chrysanthemum howls, demanding enemy blood.

Finally, an escape route! Whether it works or not, after the deed he must have a flawless plan to slip away. In Beiping City, all of North China, there is no longer a foothold for him. Sister… thinking of his sister, the flame in his chest was doused with a splash of ice water.

Li Ping'an slowly closed his eyes, pressing the raging murderous intent and scorching fire down, like pushing a red‑hot iron block into ice water.

He stood, walked to a corner of the space. The dark‑green whetstone lay there plainly. He seized the chrysanthemum‑stamped sword, a "clang" as he drew it from its scabbard. Under the space's dim light, the blade radiated a chilling aura.

He sat cross‑legged, fetched water, and poured it over the stone.

"Sss… sss… sss…"

The monotonous, dead‑beat grinding sound rang again in the dead silence of the space. Water droplets rolled down the icy edge, carrying away fine iron foam. Each push and pull bore a thousand‑pound hatred, a deep‑seated grudge, a silent accusation against the towering blood debt.

What he sharpened was the blade's edge.

What he sharpened was also his resolve.

What he sharpened was the earth‑shattering strike he would one day unleash on that Demon Cave.

The cold glint gathering on the edge grew ever more dazzling, as if ready to pierce the darkness of this tiny space. It thirsted, a death‑like thirst, yearning to drink the demon's black blood, to sever the plundering claws, to use the enemy's wails, to sacrifice the countless souls turned to ash under the "Three‑Lights".

The night was still long. Wind outside the Siheyuan wailed like ghosts, swirling dust and fallen leaves. The grinding sound was the only signal in this cold night, low, hard, carrying a fierce resolve.