Chapter 22: Fishing in Muddy Waters

The explosive rumors outside stubbornly didn't seep into Li Ping'an's East Wing Room. He crouched in the space, his nose almost stuck into the torn pages of the "Poison Scripture Summary," pondering how to counter the "Three-step Collapse" snake venom. The musty smell of the paper mingled with ink fragrance, bewildering him, while outside the world seemed to be collapsing, none of which concerned him.

Along the main street of South River, at Gangcun Ningci's house, the air pressure was so low it could suffocate a fly. Sanben Yilang was stuck there, a fresh blood mark added to his blade‑thin face, splashed by the inspector yesterday. Before he could open his mouth, Gangcun's short, stout body slammed at him like a cannonball!

"Baka!" He shot arrows to both sides! Two big ear‑slaps whooshed, "Whack!" slapping Sanben's face! The crisp sound was like slicing frozen pork.

Sanben's head snapped sideways, stars swirled before his eyes, his ears buzzed, and all that remained was Gangcun's altered howl, like a dull saw hacking wood:

"So this is the Empire's top intelligence chief, huh?" Gangcun spat at him, his eyes narrow with a murderous glint that could carve flesh, "You let people get under your eyelid! The ones who slaughter you! Move your belongings! And damn it, you even moved them out of the bank vault! Come and go as you please! Acting like you're strolling the market? The Empire's face! My face! All thrown into the latrine by you bunch of deadweights!"

Gangcun was so angry his fatty flesh trembled, his fingers trembling as they jabbed the freshly delivered loss reports stained with blood spots, raving like a mad chicken‑claw fan: "Look! Supplies! Materials! Gold! One night's work! All the damn stuff grew wings and flew away! Leaving a field of corpses! The Empire's soldiers' blood—spilled white! An unparalleled disgrace! Shamed to the point of being sent to grandma's house!!"

He huffed and gasped like an old ox with a busted bellows. Finally, the Poison Snake's stare nailed itself onto Sanben's death‑pale face, a sound squeezed out between his teeth, cold enough to drop ice shards:

"One week! I'll give you one week!" Each word hit his ear like a poison‑tempered nail. "I don't care what low tricks you use! Swindling, deceiving, framing! I want results! I want the killer's dog‑head! I want my stuff! One week later…"

Gangcun paused, a cruel, mad grin stretching across his fatty face, his voice light yet as heavy as a weight: "Before I'm recalled by headquarters for seppuku, Sanben, your blade—I'll sharpen it myself. Now, scram! Move quickly!"

Sanben jolted, as if an invisible knife had pierced his gut. He stiffened his neck, bowed his head heavily, a broken gong‑like "Hai!" forced from his throat, stumbling out. When the door shut, cold sweat splashed across his back, soaking him with an icy, sticky chill. One week… either catch that ghost or turn into a ghost himself!

Sanben staggered back to the Special High Section's old lair, its remaining dignity already fed to the dogs. He ripped open the collar around his neck, his eyes blood‑red like a mad hyena, spitting at his subordinates:

"Baka ya lu! Fatheads! All of you are fatheads!!" He sprayed saliva over his men, "Listen! Starting today! Everyone! Don't even think of closing your eyes! Don't think of eating! Only catch rats! Turn Four Nine City upside down! Ransack the rat holes eight times!"

He snatched a stack of blank arrest slips from the table, not even glancing at them, crazily scrawling names as if drawing talismans, the papers fluttering like snowflakes: "Arrest! Anyone you see, seize! Street loiterers! Tea house waiters! Bathhouse back‑scrubbers! Rickshaw pullers! Beggars! Anyone who displeases you! Throw them all in! Can't pry open their mouths? Then smash their teeth! Break their legs! Fill them with chili water! Put them in the electric chair! I only need confessions! I only need a thread! I only need that ghost!!"

"And those Black Dogs! The two Japanese Soldiers!" Sanben's trembling fingers jabbed toward the doorway, "Send them all out! Tell them! If they can't find the thread, their whole families—young and old—go mine coal! Dig until they die of suffocation!"

Orders spread like plague. The whole Beiping City plunged with a splash into a boiling oil pot! The Special High Section's eyes reddened, like sharks smelling blood, lunging into every nook and cranny. The Black Dogs and the two Japanese Soldiers, eager for credit to save their skins, were harsher than the real Japanese—bashing doors, kicking households as everyday fare; a beat behind meant a gunstock. On the streets chickens fled and dogs scrambled, people wailing for mothers, the populace beaten like livestock. The oppressive black clouds of injustice weighed heavily over Four Nine City, the air thick with the metallic scent of desperate rust.

In the back courtyard of a coffin shop in East City, the Secret Door was shut tight. A few oil lamps flickered like ghost‑flames, smoke curling. Several men in long shirts and old suits gathered around an Eight Immortals Table, faces as if their fathers were dead. It was the Central Statistics' rat nest in Beiping.

"Bang!" The leading oily‑headed Shopkeeper hammered his fist onto the Eight Immortals Table, sending tea cups bouncing, his face so black it could scrape off two taels of pot ash. "Investigate! Dig up the ancestral graves! Find out which line of the Security Bureau that scoundrel is on! He eats alone without fearing choking!"

He was so angry his fingers twitched: "The cargo at West Station! The supply depot! They even dared to move the gold nuggets from the damn Gold Bank! What kind of appetite is that, huh? They didn't even let out a fart beforehand! Using our Beiping Station as a display?"

The gaunt assistant, like a dry reed (the "Accountant"), leaned in, his voice cold: "Shopkeeper, this matter is shady. Those few pieces of material from the Security Bureau, our side is clean, we lack the capability! We also lack the nerve to play this big inside the Japanese's heart! Could it be… using people as guns?"

"As a gun?" "Shopkeeper"'s eyes flashed coldly, "Who the hell fired the gun! Now the shit bowl is strapped to our heads! The Special High Section's mad dogs bite anyone they see! Several brothers have already been ripped in! This blood debt must be counted on the Security Bureau's heads! They caused the disaster! Casualties! Losses! They must spit them out! Double the spit!"

He took a harsh drag of the choking smoke, slammed it onto the table: "Send an immediate report to Chongqing! Use an urgent Encrypted Telegram! State that… certain members of the Beiping Security Bureau, for selfishly swallowing huge funds, acted independently, employing brutal methods, causing massive organizational losses! Request severe punishment! And order them to immediately spit out the 'enemy assets' they've swallowed! Transfer them to my station! Rush them to Chongqing!" He deliberately stressed "enemy assets" and "transfer", his eyes flashing green.

Deep inside a dilapidated courtyard complex in West City, the windows were tightly sealed with thick blankets. Large oil‑lamp flames leapt, illuminating several faces clouded with sorrow. It was a temporary meeting spot for the Beiping underground party.

"Old Smoke‑bag" clacked his empty pipe, his brows knotted into a dead lump: "…the matter is just that. West Station, supplies, bank… one night's work, the Japanese lost their backsides. The method… fast, ruthless, absolute. They even left a framing trail on purpose at the scene."

Opposite him, a middle‑aged man in a gray short coat, looking like an old accountant ("Old Zhong"), murmured: "They don't look like our people. We haven't received any orders. This commotion… is way too big."

The youngster beside him ("Shuan Zhu") lowered his voice, a hint of excitement: "Could it be… a spear‑team sent from the mountains? Specializing in stabbing the Japanese at the waist?"

"Old Zhong" slowly shook his head, his gaze sharp: "No. The mountains are already strained, they wouldn't pull men to the rear to do this… like a robbery. The targets are too scattered, not our style." He paused, his voice dropping further, "The Special High Section and the Black Dogs are now mad, biting everyone. They think the Fruit Party, especially the Security Bureau, is responsible. Dogs bite dogs, full of fur in their mouths."

"Old Smoke‑bag" tapped his pipe, sparks scattering: "No matter who did it, the Japanese's meat really hurts! Chaos is good! When the water gets muddy, our fish swim better! But…" His cloudy old eyes swept the crowd, "Notify all covert posts: stay hidden for now! Don't surface unless necessary! Avoid this wave of mad dogs! Report the situation, word for word, back to the mountains!"

At daybreak, Li Ping'an pushed open his door and rolled out the meticulously polished Rickshaw. His face bore the numbness of a driver drained by life, his tattered felt hat pulled low, covering most of his face. After a day's rest, if he stayed any longer the beasts in the courtyard—sharp as monkeys—would start suspecting—a destitute rickshaw puller, if he didn't run all day, he'd just be breathing wind and farting?

Stepping onto the street, what a scene! Like poking a hornet's nest! The whole street was filled with people, but the atmosphere was like a funeral procession. Every three steps a guard, every five steps a whistle. Black Dogs and two Japanese Soldiers, lugging Box Cannons, agents wearing the Special High white rings, and Japanese soldiers brandishing three‑eight caps, eyes as sharp as knives, sweeping the street like a rake.

Pedestrians craned their necks and hunched, stepping hurriedly, their eyes not daring to stray. Shop doors on the roadside were half‑open, clerks poking heads out. Every now and then shouts, curses, cries and wails erupted from the alleys, surely another household whose door had been kicked in.

"Stop! Civilian permit!" a black dog with a crooked hat, slanted eyes and a face full of flabby flesh blocked Li Ping'an, his spittle nearly spraying his face.

Li Ping'an quickly halted the rickshaw, his waist bent almost to the ground, a flattering yet nervous grin plastered on his face, his hands fumbling as he produced a stiff paper card, holding it up with both hands: "Boss, you've worked hard! Look, a civilian permit, freshly issued, the photo still warm!"

The black dog gave a cursory glance, his Sanjiao Yan flicked over him and the half‑old rickshaw several times, apparently thinking this wilted‑like‑eggplant driver couldn't possibly be the type to empty a bank vault, and impatiently waved his hand:

Yes, yes, yes! Thank you, Chief Xie! Li Ping'an, as if he'd received a great pardon, lifted the cart, hunched his back, and trotted away. Beneath his torn felt hat his eyes were hawk‑like, sweeping sharply over the chaotic street, over the sentry posts, flitting like startled birds, and lingering on the desperate looks of those captured at Hu Tong Kou.

"Yes, yes, yes! Thank you, boss!" Li Ping'an, as if pardoned, lifted the cart, hunched his back, trotted away. Beneath his tattered felt hat, his eyes were like an eagle's, sharply scanning the chaotic street, the startled sentries like birds taken off, and the desperate glance of those seized at the alley mouth.

The water was so murky it was bubbling.

The mad dogs were biting, their mouths full of fur.