Chapter 23

The rickshaw's broken wheels rolled over the empty street, the sound dry and grating. Li Ping'an pulled the cart, his tattered felt hat pressed low, exposing only a cracked, frozen jaw. The once bustling street now was as desolate as a graveyard. Occasionally a few pedestrians, all hunching their necks, hurrying, eyes darting wildly, fearing being spotted by the slung Box Cannon on the side of the street and the Black Dogs whose gazes were like knives.

Business? It's a disaster!

From sunrise to the slanting noon, the authorities only hauled two jobs. One was an elderly woman who rushed out at dawn to fetch medicine; trembling, she fumbled out a few copper coins, and Li Ping'an only took the principal. The other was a slick, makeup‑wearing traitor minor leader; when he got off the cart his nostrils flared, he tossed a paper note, and said with a filthy mouth, "Get out quickly! Don't block my sight!"

The remaining time was spent entirely on endless interrogations.

"Stop! Civilian permit!" the Black Dogs at the checkpoint, holding a cigarette at a slant, almost spat on his face. Li Ping'an bowed, forced a smile, and handed over the documents. The Black Dog flipped the permit over three times, Sanjiao Yan scanned him from head to toe, then impatiently waved his hand, shooing him like a fly, "Get out, get out, get out! Bad luck!"

The next checkpoint was even stricter. A plainclothes operative wearing a white "Special High" cuff, skinny as a bamboo pole, his gaze so grim it could squeeze water. He pinched Li Ping'an's stiff paper card, twiddling the edges, and asked slowly, "Where are you from? How long have you been in Beiping? What kind of passengers do you usually haul? Last night… where were you staying?"

Li Ping'an felt a spark flare up inside, his grip on the cart handle tightened, nails digging into his palm with pain. He wanted to punch the lackey and let him taste the "Bajie Break"!

But his face still had to wear the numbness drained by life.

"Boss, I came here fleeing famine, been half a year. Pulling carts to make a living, I haul any passenger. Yesterday… yesterday I was exhausted, lying stiff in the house, the neighbors in the courtyard could vouch." The voice was listless.

The operative stared at him darkly for at least half a minute, then tossed the civilian permit back into his chest, squeezing out a single word through his teeth: "Get out."

The sun had just tilted west when Li Ping'an pulled the empty cart, his head drooping, and turned back to Nanluoguxiang. The few copper coins and paper notes in his pocket were only enough to buy a few hard dumplings.

Just as he pushed the cart into the courtyard gate, Yan Bu Gui's slender figure flashed out from the doorframe adorned with faded Spring Couplets, as if timed perfectly. His small eyes darted around Li Ping'an's empty cart, and a sour tone floated over: "Yo ho! Li Ping'an! The sun's already setting in the west today? Finishing work this early? You didn't take a big order and earn gold ingots, did you?"

Li Ping'an muttered "old cheapskate" in his mind, forced a wry smile, shoulders slumping: "Teacher Yan, stop teasing me! The streets are full of Yama Temple's ghost officials, their inspections give people headaches! There are hardly any birds, where's the business? I've been drinking north wind all day, my bones are bone‑deep cold." He waved his hand, too lazy to argue further, "I'll go back first, save some strength; tomorrow I still have to grind grain."

He returned early today, the daylight still bright. Li Ping'an didn't rush back into his pigeon cage; he leaned the cart against the wall at his own doorway, brushed the dust off his seat, and sauntered into the Central Courtyard.

He Daqing was squatting on the small horse‑drawn carriage at his doorstep, in the daylight, holding a broken kitchen knife with a gaping bite, slowly scraping a frozen, rock‑hard mullet scale. The water in the basin at his feet mixed with blood threads and ice shards, looking cold.

"Uncle He, are you cleaning the fish?" Li Ping'an leaned over, also found a half‑brick to sit on, and rubbed his reddened frozen hands.

He Daqing didn't lift his head, gave a "hm" from his mouth, his hands never stopping: "It's so cold today, even scraping fish scales freezes your hands. So, why finish the cart so early today? Outside it's a mess like porridge, no one taking carts, right?"

"Exactly!" Li Ping'an sighed heavily, his voice full of the lower‑class's helplessness and resentment, "The whole street is full of Black Dogs and 'Special High' guys, inspecting people like thieves! Anyone with a bit of vigor hides at home like quails; who dares go out? I ran all day and only earned two dumpling‑worth of money."

He paused, leaned closer, lowered his voice, with just the right mix of puzzlement and complaint: "Uncle He, you say… who on earth caused this? Stabbed such a huge hole! Made the Japanese Soldiers bite like mad dogs! Our humble folk's lives are now completely unlivable!"

He Daqing stopped scraping the fish scales, lifted his oil‑shiny face stained by smoke, looked left and right to make sure no one was around, then lowered his voice even further, speaking cryptically: "Hey! You didn't know this, did you? I heard some wild gossip today, it's really strange!" A spark of neighborhood‑gossip excitement lit his eyes, "They say the vault of the Gold and Silver Bank was emptied! Not a single hair left! The Japanese Soldier guards were left sprawled on the ground, their necks wiped clean! Even more uncanny… " He paused deliberately, teasing, "I heard the one who did it wasn't human!"

"Not human?" Li Ping'an widened his eyes in feigned curiosity, his face saying "Please, tell me."

"Hmm!" He Daqing nodded vigorously, brandishing the kitchen knife over the frozen fish, "They say it wore a pitch‑black robe, a mask of a blue‑faced, fanged evil ghost on its face! It walks silently, like floating! It specializes in extracting people's hearts and livers! It's an evil ghost that crawled up from the eighteenth layer of hell! It specifically hunts the little Japanese Soldiers for souls!"

Li Ping'an almost burst into laughter, quickly lowered his head, his shoulders twitching slightly as if frightened, muttering, "Evil‑ghost mask? Extracting hearts and livers? This… how did this get twisted… that's too much fabrication…" Inside he thought: "Fine, this rumor's strong enough, even stranger than I imagined!"

The two chatted a few more idle lines, merely cursing this cursed life and worrying whether tomorrow could still open for business. The sun fully set, the courtyard grew cold. He Daqing lifted the half‑frozen fish and stood up: "Alright, go back and light the stove; if the fish freezes more it'll turn into an ice lump. Ping'an, you should head back early too, it's cold."

"Hey, Uncle He, you're busy." Li Ping'an also patted his seat, stood up, and sauntered back to his own East Wing Room.

He closed the door, latched the bolt. Li Ping'an didn't rush into the space. First, following the old custom, he scooped a ladle of cold water, symbolically poured two pieces of broken coal ash into the half‑dead stove, set the kettle on it. Watching the thin steam rise slowly, a thought sparked in his mind.

Inside the space, the little world of Gold Mountain Silver Mountain and stacked sundries remained. Li Ping'an ignored the yellow‑white items, walked straight to the tall stacks of medical books and sat on the floor. He lit an oil lamp; bean‑sized flames flickered, illuminating his focused face.

These days, he was like a sponge dropped into an ink vat, desperately soaking up the wisdom of these ancient texts. The Qimen acupuncture from "Qing Nang Secret Essentials", the exquisite diagnostics in "Treatise on Cold Damage and Miscellaneous Diseases – Ancient Annotated Edition", the bizarre poison‑countering methods in "Poison Classic Summary" had already become ingrained. His skill in toxin‑making advanced by leaps. In his hand he held a pinch of freshly harvested mandrake pollen and Heavenly Immortal root powder from the space, mixed with several auxiliary ingredients into the "Three‑Step Drop". The powder was fine, colorless, tasteless, melting on heat, the dosage measured to the tiniest fraction. The theories of inspection, listening, questioning, and pulse‑taking also churned in his mind countless times.

But inside, a constant urge simmered. It was like having just acquired a treasure sword that can cut hair, yet being forced to swing it at empty air every day, the blade nearly rusting from stagnation! This skill had nowhere to be used!

He twirled the pinch of "Three‑Step Drop", his gaze landing on the pile of assorted blades in the corner of the space. The blade edges glimmered coldly in the dim light. The "evil‑ghost mask" He Daqing mentioned lay beneath a heap of junk.

Outside, the mad dog kept barking wildly.

Japanese Soldier Okamura and the poison snake from Sanben were still panting.

Sister… still no word.

A wave of irritation mixed with icy murderous intent crawled through his veins like tiny insects. He took a deep breath, forced it down. No rush. Right now this pool of water, murky and bubbling, is the time to lie in wait. The sword, honed in its sheath, becomes sharper the more it's ground.

He stopped overthinking, picked up the ancient manuscript of "Jin Kui Summary" again, and, by the dim yellow oil‑lamp light, read it word by word. His fingers unconsciously traced the rough pages, as if feeling the millennial life rhythms sleeping within. In the space, only the soft "rustle" of turning pages and a lone silhouette drifting between ancient wisdom and cold murderous intent remained.

Sharpening a blade doesn't delay the wood‑cutting work. Lying in wait is to bite the next piece of flesh more fiercely. He understood this principle.