Chapter 25: The Ominous Star Arrives from the North

Life drags on like a donkey pulling a grindstone, round after round, grinding the soul out of a person. Li Ping'an still hauls a cart by jutting his hips during the day, his tattered felt hat nearly perched on his nose bridge; when he sees people he nods and bows, that cowardly demeanor, even he is beginning to believe it himself.

But once night falls, Beiping becomes his all‑you‑can‑eat buffet.

When he snaps the Evil Ghost mask onto his face, he instantly stiffens. The daytime cowardice drains away completely, replaced by a cold, cutting aura from head to toe. He targets lone, unruly Japanese Soldiers, his skill getting slicker and his chosen spots more remote. The dull thud of a dagger sinking in is almost his lullaby.

The effect is rock‑solid. The Japanese soldiers are noticeably more obedient at night; the once raucous tavern Secret Doors have quieted. The Black Dogs and the Special Higher Police in civilian clothes wandering the streets have a hint of fierce suspicion in their eyes, especially when they enter pitch‑dark alleys, their flashlights swinging like they're dancing.

The common folk are going crazy in private.

"Heard about it? Yesterday in Dongsi, not a single one left! It emptied the pit of my heart clean!"

"Really… really was that Evil Ghost's doing?"

"How could it be fake? My seventh great‑uncle's niece's son‑in‑law was sweeping in the patrol police office, he said! The scene was so tidy, not even a single footprint! If it's not a ghost, then what is it?"

"Damn! Let those little Japanese bring the smoke! Retribution!"

Such fearful yet venting gossip spreads quietly in the tea house corners and wall nooks, becoming a twisted bit of amusement in these stifling days.

Inside the Command Headquarters of the North China Front Army, Gangcun Ningci could not muster any amusement. The stack of "Evil Ghost Death‑Demand" reports on the desk grew thicker, each death a copy, the scenes eerily efficient. The soldiers were too cowardly at night to leave their quarters, patrols dragged, and some even feigned illness to avoid night watch.

"Baka!" the old Japanese soldier slapped the table, making the teacup jump. His face was as black as a pot bottom, his eye sockets hollow, all his pretended cultured airs fed to the dogs. This isn't resistance; it's a slap in the face, a direct hit on Gangcun Ningci's old mug! It's a poisonous knife lodged in the Imperial Army's heart!

He stood with his hands behind his back, pacing the room, then halted abruptly and growled at the adjutant poking nearby, "Generate power for the nation! Under my name, summon Master Kongben Musashi here at once!"

"Kongben… Musashi?" the adjutant clearly recognized the name, his face twitching.

"Yes! The same weapon‑madman who became the empire's century‑old lone sprout! Only he might be able to cure this mischievous Evil Ghost!" Gangcun Ningci's voice carried a fierce, blood‑shot intensity.

A few days later, Beiping railway station was under martial law. A squad of Japanese soldiers, faces as slack as the dead, escorted a man in a kimono and wooden clogs out of the station.

He looked to be around forty, his frame not particularly sturdy, even a bit gaunt. Yet each step his wooden clogs made a terrifyingly steady thud, as if nails were driven into the ground. His eyes stared straight ahead, hollow and chilling, like two dry wells with no spark of life. Those nearby involuntarily craned their necks, feeling a cold at the back of their throats. This was Kongben Musashi, whose very name sounded like a demon blade.

He skipped any formalities at the Command Headquarters, sending a car straight to a temporary mortuary outside the city. Inside stood the memorial tablet of his prized disciple—the karate master who had sent Li Ping'an home with a single "Eight Extremes Collapse".

The mortuary was so dank it seemed to squeeze water out. Kongben Musashi knelt before the tablet, motionless, as if molded from mud. He shed no tears, made no sound, just knelt there, yet the air was heavy with pent‑up frustration and smoldering fire, so oppressive that the surrounding Japanese officers and thugs could barely breathe, sweat beading on their foreheads.

After an indeterminate period of kneeling, he finally rose slowly, turning his face toward Sanben Yilang, who was lingering at the side.

"Speak."—just a single word, like a shard of ice.

Sanben Yilang dared not stammer, and rattled off everything he knew like beans: the dead fell instantly, the technique clean, like a practiced fighter; no clues at the scene; the mastermind seemed to hold a blood‑deep grudge against the Imperial Army; fragmented rumors said he wore an Evil Ghost mask…

Kongben Musashi listened in a low murmur, his facial flesh unmoving, yet deep within his dead‑water eyes flickered a faint glint, like a predator spotting prey.

"Evil Ghost? Mask?" he croaked, a rasp like sandpaper on wood, "a hide‑and‑seek trinket. I'll strip that skin myself, crush the bones inch by inch, and use them as a coffin base for my disciple."

He waved his hand, and Sanben Yilang hurriedly bowed his head and slipped away. With no clues, he had never expected any. A true veteran hunter never trusts a story someone else has chewed over.

From that day onward, in Beiping's dark nights, besides the ever‑appearing Evil Ghost, there was another even more chilling, more suffocating hunter. Kongben Musashi shunned those foreign gadgets, trusting his fists and instinct. Every night he became like a true specter, drifting alone atop the alley roofs of Beiping, his breath nearly gone yet his senses heightened to the maximum, scavenging any hint of something out of place. He used his own method to probe the city, feeling for any trace the Evil Ghost might have left that mortals could not even smell.

Lethal danger, like an invisible tide, silently flooded Beiping's city walls.

At that moment, Li Ping'an had just seen off a troublesome traitor client, massaging his sore, aching lower back, pulling an empty cart toward Nanluoguxiang. He was still mulling over where to "open for business" tonight, while venting that the Japanese had become cowardly, ruining his KPI.

He had no clue at all about the impending disaster about to smash his skull.

Night fog again slowly blanketed Four Nine City. In tonight's wind, there seemed to be a whiff of iron‑rust stench never before smelled.