Chapter 27: A Needle Hidden in Cotton

The herbal scent in the space hadn't dissipated yet. Li Ping'an lay sprawled on the ground, feeling as if a stick was stirring inside his stomach, each movement sending sharp pain. He gulped several mouthfuls of Spirit Spring Water, then chewed two bitter herbs that numbed his tongue, and a warm, sluggish energy gradually spread from his belly, beginning to mend the tendons and bones that had been nearly shattered by the shock.

He sucked in the cold air while feeling a lingering fear. That old Kongben Musashi was no pushover; he almost got killed outright.

"Baji Quan... can't practice it right now," he said, staring at the flickering light above his head, his mind racing. "That move is too conspicuous; once it shows, it's like blowing a big horn shouting 'I'm here.' During the day the Japanese Soldiers would hunt down martial artists like mad dogs, especially those who practice Baji."

Thinking of that, a chill ran down his nape. Being a cart‑puller was his lifeline, and he couldn't lose it.

"And the medicine shop..." he frowned. "Having an internal injury, taking herbs for treatment is only natural. The Japanese Soldiers have probably got every pharmacy in Four Nine City under surveillance; whoever goes to fetch a remedy for internal injuries becomes the prime suspect."

Fortunately, he himself was a makeshift mobile herb depot and a barefoot doctor. The herbs he grew in the space, plus the ones he had opportunistically pilfered before, were piled like a small hill, with that universally effective spring water as a backup.

"The old saying goes, 'With Tai Chi the civil world finds peace, with Baji the martial world sets the heavens right'..." Li Ping'an muttered, his eyes gradually brightening. "Can't use Baji, but can we at least practice Tai Chi?"

The moment the thought arose, he couldn't stop the cart. The Tai Chi theories and illustrations he had once skimmed through replayed in his mind like a film. The art is marvelous—slow, soft, and pliant; even the old men and women in the park practice it. Who could possibly link it to the black \"Evil Ghost\" who struck last night?

He endured the pain, sat up, and his mind began to run through the essentials:

**Relax, don't compete**, let your whole body feel as if it has no bones. Don't overthink; keep your movements natural, don't force them.

**The Qi must sink down**, not linger at the chest. Breathe evenly, directing it into the abdomen; this steadies your stance and makes it look effortless.

**Movements should be smooth**, not stiff in hand or foot; gestures must flow like kneading dough, one sequence linking to the next.

**The most crucial part is to lead with intention**, not to grunt and brute‑force with a hollow belly. Wherever your mind goes, the Qi follows, and the body moves thereafter.

There are also the technique names: Starting Stance, Wild Horse Splitting Mane, White Crane Spreading Wings, Embracing Knee Twisting Step, Cloud Hands, Twin Peaks Piercing Ears, Closing Stance… they sound impressive, but when executed, aren't they just the routine the old men in the park practice each morning?

"Subduing hardness with softness, restraining motion with stillness... this approach fits perfectly for feigning cowardice right now," Li Ping'an licked his dry lips, hissed again at the wound, and his eyes flashed. "A needle hidden in cotton—that's the high‑level move."

Spirit Spring Water and the herbs truly did the trick; after a night's work his internal injury was almost fully healed. Only his complexion remained off, pale as if a layer of window paper had been glued to his face, exuding a faint weakness.

As dawn just broke, he once again pulled the clanking broken cart out the door.

The moment he stepped onto the street, the smell was off.

Usually at this hour it's quiet, but there's still some trace of people. Today the air was stretched tight, like a rubber band about to snap. There were many more guard posts at the intersections, and the Black Dogs and Japanese Soldiers shot poisonous glances at every passerby.

Before he had gone two li, he saw a squad of Japanese Soldiers shouting and storming into a martial arts hall; chaos erupted inside, with clattering sounds and children's cries. A man in kung‑fu pants, his face bruised, was twisted by the soldiers, yanked out, and shoved into the side compartment of a three‑wheeled motorcycle.

"On what grounds are you arresting my master! We're just training!" a teenage boy shouted as he ran out, only to be knocked to the ground by a Japanese Soldier's rifle butt.

Li Ping'an pulled the cart, his eyelids never drooping, his steps steady, though inside he felt a sting of ice. He lowered his tattered felt hat, tucked himself into the driver's shell, and numbly inched forward.

When he passed the "Jishi Hall" medicine shop, indeed two plain‑clothes agents were posted at the entrance, their eyes darting wildly as they surveyed everyone coming and going. The Shopkeeper forced a smile, bowed repeatedly, his complexion chalk‑white.

Li Ping'an didn't stop, pulling the cart at a leisurely pace. He muttered under his breath, "Let them search, search all they want. My grandfather's private clinic is tucked in my pocket."

His gaunt, pale, slumped‑shouldered demeanor while pulling the cart became his best talisman. The Black Dog on guard, seeing his pitiful look, casually scanned his citizen ID and impatiently barked, "Move along!"

He kept pulling the cart, blending into the scattered crowds, like a truly petty figure drained of oil by life, gradually merging into Beiping's morning dread and oppression.

The gaze beneath his hat brim was still as an ancient well.

He had already begun to contemplate the power of Tai Chi. The more chaotic it was outside, the steadier his mind became.

In these times, brute force is exhilarating, but to live long one must learn to grind slowly with a soft blade.