Chapter 24: Let the Evil Ghost Legend Become Real

Outside, the legend of the Evil Ghost was spread to godlike proportions; Li Ping'an crouched in the space, listening until he amused himself.

He rubbed a piece of black lacquer leather he'd picked up somewhere, tough in texture. In his mind it played like a movie—everything was He Daqing's daytime gestures: blue face, fangs, walking by floating, specializing in gouging out hearts and livers.

"Evil Ghost mask… okay, I'll take this idea, saves brain cells." He muttered low, corner of his mouth twitching, no warmth. A ready-made horror persona—if you don't ride the hype, you're wasting this city's wind and rain. With this skin on, going out at night to "stroll," his confidence is three points higher.

Say do, then do. He took out a dagger, measured along the leather grain, cutting with precision and force. The hiss of the blade slicing the leather was especially clear in the dead‑quiet space. He needed no mirror—his fingers were the ruler, the image in his mind the template. The eye sockets had to be dug deeper to reveal his own eyes behind. The fangs must protrude, showing a domineering ferocity. The edges were pierced with thin leather cord, tied tight so they wouldn't fall off even if jumped.

This job tested patience, but he carried it out as carefully as mixing poison. Finally, he scooped a bit of dark‑red mineral pigment and traced a few lines on the mask's eye and mouth corners, like dried blood scabs.

Done.

He lifted the mask, examining it against the faint light in the space.

A face, a specialty of the netherworld, stared at him dead‑on. Hideous, grisly, exhaling a chill.

That's it.

The night in Beiping was black as the bottom of an ink vat, pressing on people's chests. The curfew order was like an iron clamp, snuffing out the last spark of life in this ancient city. Only cold wind swirled, rolling scraps of paper and dirt on the ground, wailing wildly. Occasionally the patrol squad's leather boots rang and a flashlight beam swept the street—like a poison snake slipping through grass, tearing a slit in the darkness, then snapping shut in an instant.

A shadow, almost welded into the darkness at the wall's base.

Li Ping'an pressed against the icy brick wall, clinging like a gecko. The mask on his face absorbed light, leaving only a outline that made the heart pound. The night cloak was another layer of camouflage. He kept his breath extremely light, ears pricked, catching the faintest sound in the air.

With this outfit and his current skill, in this dead‑still night he was practically indistinguishable from a ghost.

He muttered to himself self‑deprecatingly: "Well, I've truly become a night‑wandering god, the kind with performance metrics."

The few suspicious spots he'd noted while pulling a cart by day became his night‑check targets. He detoured the main road, threading through the web‑like alleys, his form drifting, his feet soundless.

The first spot was a shop hanging a 'Joint‑Stock Company' sign. Pitch black, but his nose was keen—he caught a faint whiff of electronic components and machine oil. Crouched against the rear wall, he heard inside an extremely slight, rhythmic tapping—dit‑dit‑dit.

"Nice find, a spy nest." He noted the location, then withdrew as silently as he'd come. No need to startle the snake.

The second point was even more concealed, hidden deep inside a large communal courtyard, though the entrance was unusually clean. He lay on the opposite roof ridge in shadow, holding his breath for about a quarter hour. He saw a man in a long gown, looking like a teacher, lower his head and hurry inside; at the doorway a shadowy figure whispered a challenge, letting him through only after the correct countersign. When that man flicked the lower hem of his robe, a flash of cold metal glinted at his waist.

"Security Bureau?" Li Ping'an frowned. He recognized the vibe—same as the Military Statistics side. Now, with guns pointed outward in unison, moving against them would be improper, actually helping the Japanese. He silently retreated again, only making another mental note.

After feeling out several similar spots, he gradually sketched a night‑operation map in his mind—where were Japanese covert posts, where might be Chongqing's people.

Passing through a narrow alley, a wave of drunken shouting—hee‑haw, mixed with lewd laughter—wafted downwind.

Li Ping'an's eyes turned icy in a flash; he sprang onto the wall like a cat, crouching low.

In the alley, three Japanese soldiers were clearly just out from some secret‑door tavern, having drunk their fill, arms linked, swaying three steps per step. Their rifles were slung casually over shoulders; one was making obscene gestures, mouth full of filth, savoring the little "fun" they'd just had.

At the alley's end, there seemed to be an extremely low sobbing, a blurred figure huddled in the corner.

Killing intent surged up without warning, icy shards stabbing, instantly seizing Li Ping'an. The daytime frustration of being inspected, the humiliation of pulling a cart, the anguish for his sister, plus this broken city's endless grumbling—all the pent‑up fire suddenly found an outlet.

Under the mask, his eyes went blank, nothing but an unfathomable cold pool.

He slid silently down the wall, landing a few steps behind the three fellows, truly like a mere shadow.

The last Japanese soldier seemed to sense something, muttered a curse, and swayed as he turned his head.

What he saw was a blue‑fanged ghost face, suddenly looming out of the faint light, and a pair of eyes devoid of any humanity.

"Uh…" half the alcohol‑induced bravado fled; his throat made a gagging sound, wanting to shout but feeling as if his neck were choked.

A flash of cold light!

So fast you could barely catch a shadow.

Li Ping'an's hand moved like the most precise surgical instrument, sweeping accurately. The dagger's cold gleam cut flesh, severed vessels, emitting a barely audible "hiss."

The Japanese soldier clutched his bleeding neck, eyes bulging, and fell straight backward.

The two Japanese soldiers ahead heard the thud, still laughing as they turned: "Yamada, you useless lump, just lying down…"

The words caught in his throat.

A demonic face loomed before him.

He gave them no chance to react. Li Ping'an moved, leaving only an afterimage. The dagger struck like a poison‑snake's tongue, piercing the second Japanese soldier's heart‑spot precisely; a twist of the wrist instantly crushed his vitality.

The third Japanese soldier jerked fully awake, let out a strange cry, and fumbled frantically to grab the rifle on his shoulder.

Too slow.

Li Ping'an slid sideways, dodging his flailing arm, left hand gripping his jaw like an iron clamp and wrenching hard! At the same instant the bone‑cracking sound made teeth ache, his right hand drove the dagger deep into the man's belly and ripped upward.

Warm, foul‑smelling fluid spurted out, splashing onto his mask and collar.

All that remained in the alley was a thick, nose‑stinging smell of blood and the dying man's ragged gasps.

Li Ping'an panted heavily—not from fatigue, but from the after‑shudder of released ferocity. He looked at the three corpses rapidly cooling at his feet; his gaze went blank for a moment, then was immediately covered by an icy shell.

He crouched, pulled out the dagger, and gestured on the chest of the first Japanese soldier whose throat he'd slit. Remembering He Daqing's "gut‑the‑heart‑and‑liver," he pressed down, precisely opening the chest cavity.

Having done all that, he rose. He didn't look at the alley's end, where a figure, scared stupid and too frightened to utter a sob, lingered.

He was like someone who'd just finished a odd job, vanishing quickly into the darkness at the other end of the alley. All that remained were three gruesomely dead bodies and the unlucky fellow whose chest had been opened, silently announcing that the Evil Ghost had passed through.

The subsequent "stroll" gained an extra pleasure of casually plucking wool.

Whenever he passed a shop flying a medicated‑plaster flag, or a storefront that looked like a bank or company run by the Japanese, a thought flashed in his mind.

Inside, anything valuable, useful, even canned food and medicine by the box—if it wasn't welded shut, it was as if an invisible mouth swallowed it whole, disappearing in batches into his space.

One shop, two shops, three shops…

He was like a nocturnal glutton, silently making a fortune. Imagining the next day, when those Japanese discovered their treasury and warehouses cleaned out again—so clean even mice would have to leave crying—he couldn't help but curl the corner of his mouth beneath the mask.

"Let you investigate! Let you search! I've hauled off your home bases! See how much leisure you still have to torment the common folk!"

This revenge, tinged with dark amusement, sparked a wicked delight. Though he knew he couldn't strike at the root, he could harass the enemy, sow chaos, make them stumble and fray their nerves—goal achieved.

That night, in Beiping's darkness, the Evil Ghost worked overtime.

It harvested lives, and also gathered supplies.

It asserted its presence with the most primitive, bloody means, letting icy fear crawl up the Japanese soldiers' spines.

Until the sky showed a hint of gray‑white, Li Ping'an slipped back, like dew seeping into soil, silently to the dead‑still siheyuan at Nanluoguxiang.

He bolted the door, then flashed into the space.

A strong smell of blood rushed in. He took off the mask, peeled off the blood‑stained night cloak, and tossed it straight into a specially cleared corner. Watching the pile rapidly swell with "spoils"—gold and silver, medicine, food, even several boxes of freshly polished rifle ammunition.

He felt no happiness at all, only a deep weariness and emptiness.

He walked to the water barrel, scooped up cold water, and rubbed his face and hands over and over, as if what he wanted to wash away wasn't blood but some sticky, invisible filth; water droplets rolled down his tense cheeks.

After rubbing for a long while, he finally walked over to the stack of medical books and sat down habitually; he didn't open them, just stared at the flickering oil lamp flame, his gaze a bit vacant.

The sensation of killing still clung to his fingertips, cold and slick; with supplies gone out of nowhere, he could vividly picture the chaos the other side might have tomorrow—chickens flying, dogs jumping.

Outside, it was even more chaotic.

Okamura and Sanben must have gone even crazier.

But his sister…… still had not a shred of faith.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, forced himself to calm down; the road was still long, the night still deep. He needed this cold, needed the ferocity hidden beneath the Evil Ghost's skin.

A sharpened knife must eventually see blood; he didn't know when it would next be drawn, or whose throat it would slash.

In the space, only his steady yet icy breathing remained.