Chapter 29: Yan Bu Gui Schemes Li Ping'an

Yan Bu Gui tucked his hands, crouched behind the doorframe of his house, looking just like an old mouse that had become a spirit; his tiny pupils rolled around, scanning outward through the crack. Even the slightest stir in the courtyard could not escape his eyes, honed like beads on an abacus.

When Li Ping'an pulled his cart into the courtyard, he immediately sensed something was off.

The kid, though usually limp when he returns, still has a sturdy frame. Today, however, he looks ominously pale, with a hint of greenish hue, as if just scooped out of a dough tub. His steps on the corridor feel weightless, as if a light breeze could blow him away. When he leaned his cart against the wall, his arm trembled noticeably and he let out a faint hiss, as if a tendon had been pulled.

"Yo he! Li Ping'an!" Yan Bu Gui flung open the tattered door curtain, his lean body slipping out, his face wearing that usual calculating smile, "Back so early today? Oh, that complexion… looks terrible! What's wrong? Frozen?"

He stepped closer, his small eyes sweeping Li Ping'an's face and body like a searchlight, focusing on his slightly stiff left shoulder and unsteady stance. "Tsk tsk, pulling a cart is hard work, but don't treat yourself like a beast of burden; your body is your capital. How about I go to Old Liu at Hu Tong Kou and give you two batches of sweating broth on credit? Put the money on my account first!"

His words sounded human, but the probing in his gaze and the words "credit" pierced like needles.

Li Ping'an's mind was as clear as a mirror; the old miser had smelled something fishy. He muttered "old fox" in his gut, but his face forced out an even thicker look of cowardice and suffering, his shoulders slumped further, and he coughed twice, his throat dry: "Cough… thank you, Yan teacher… nothing serious, just… just frozen, a bit feverish, body weak… a night's rest should fix it… I can't keep asking you to front the money…"

He waved his hand, as if saying "don't catch my bad luck," and floated over to his East Wing Room. "I'll lie down for a while, recover my blood…"

Yan Bu Gui stayed rooted, staring at the shut broken wooden door, his small eyes flashing with a sharp light. Frozen? Fever? He, Yan Lao Xi, has dealt with medicine jars all his life; he's seen every kind of sickly case. The kid's instinctive protective gesture over his ribs, and the sudden tightening then forced looseness… didn't look like a simple fever.

His little abacus in his mind clattered loudly. This Li Ping'an, background unknown, claims to have fled famine, but his physique… lately the street rumors have tightened like a choke, targeting the strong, possibly trained in techniques… yet this kid happens to 'fall ill' at this critical moment… and falls ill in such an ominous way…

There's something fishy. There must be something fishy in here!

Yan Bu Gui licked his cracked lips, like a starving wolf that smells meat. Is it to report? Could he trade for a few catties of mixed noodles? Or to stare longer, seize the chance, and squeeze out more profit?

He crossed his arms behind his back, leisurely trudged back to his room, already plotting how to play this move. Flip the table outright, or simmer slowly?

Inside, Li Ping'an leaned against the icy door panel, slowly exhaling foul breath. Yan Bu Gui's gaze earlier, like a needle tip, had left him feeling weak all over. This old fellow is harder to deal with than the street's plainclothes thugs.

He shuffled to the half‑dead stove, ladled a scoop of cold water into it; the icy shock jolted him, and his mind cleared further. The spot under his left rib, brushed by the empty Musashi fist wind, throbbed faintly, and the breath in his belly remained a bit chaotic.

"That old stick, eyes really poisonous…" he muttered low. In this big mixed courtyard, many people and noisy mouths, a fart can be heard throughout. If Yan Bu Gui truly grew suspicious, wandering around babbling or snitching, trouble would flood in.

Although he could use the freshly grasped Tai Chi method to forcefully compress his qi and blood, feigning illness, it still injured his interior; his movements and demeanor inevitably showed cracks. He could fool distant patrols, but not a nearby, ever‑watchful old neighbor who constantly scrutinizes.

A surge of wicked fire and murderous intent rose quietly. How about… tonight find a pretext and make this old schemer's "accident" disappear?

The thought sprang up, but he forced it back. No. Though Yan Bu Gui is repulsive, his crime isn't death‑worthy. Moreover, he just "fell ill," and Yan Bu Gui had an incident—too coincidental, it would only raise suspicion, especially that empty Musashi, who is certainly not a vegetarian.

He shuffled to the edge of the kang, sat down, closed his eyes, and tried to circulate the little Tai Chi mental method he had just begun to learn.

"Relaxed and natural… qi sinking to the dantian…"

His intention guided the faint internal breath downward, caressing the injured meridians. The restlessness that had risen from being stalked and threatened seemed to exhale away bit by bit. No recklessness. The more critical the moment, the more one must steady the breath. Tai Chi emphasizes not only the form but also this unflappable, yielding‑over‑hardness power.

Yan Bu Gui is an abacus master, always after profit. So… feed him some visible "gain" to divert his gaze?

Li Ping'an opened his eyes, his gaze steadied. He patted his chest, feeling a few crumpled, wrinkled cash notes—the only earnings from today's cart‑pulling. He also thought of the mountain of food and drink stacked in the space…

A vague idea slowly took shape in his mind.

For the next two days, Li Ping'an welded the "sickly" persona onto himself. Apart from being forced to go out pulling a cart (naturally he couldn't even haul any wool), he spent most of his time in the house; when he occasionally fetched water, he coughed continuously, his pale face forcedly held up, and he even deliberately splashed water in the courtyard, wetting his sleeves, making himself look so feeble that even lifting a bowl was a struggle.

He noticed Yan Bu Gui's gaze shift from probing suspicion to a slightly disdainful appraisal, as if assessing a soon‑to‑break, loss‑making item.

That night, after the courtyard darkened, Li Ping'an timed it when no one was around, shakily carried a coarse porcelain bowl out the door; inside were two buns of white flour mixed with a bit of cornmeal that he would never normally touch, still steaming with a faint heat (just heated after sneaking out of the space).

He shuffled to Yan Bu Gui's doorway and knocked.

Yan Bu Gui opened the door, saw him standing at the threshold, froze for a moment, his small eyes full of vigilance and bewilderment.

Li Ping'an pushed the bowl forward, his face plastered with a flattering, cowardly smile, his voice as feeble as a mosquito: "Yan teacher… these past two days… cough cough… thank you for your concern. I'm… feeling better, made a little snack… not much, please don't disdain… consider it a token of my gratitude…"

Those two white‑flour buns are a treasure these days, especially when a "pauper" cart‑driver like Li Ping'an produces them, making the gesture both abrupt and… reasonable? — a man whose illness is about to cripple him, pulling out his last savings to curry favor with a well‑connected courtyard master, just hoping for less pressure later, perfectly matches the survival tactics of the lower‑class common folk.

Yan Bu Gui stared at the two buns, his Adam's apple gurgling audibly. He eyed Li Ping'an skeptically up and down; the kid's gaze darted, full of flattery and fear, showing no trace of a cultivator's spirit, looking rather like a pitiful creature afraid of being chased away.

Could it be… just his imagination? He happened to get lucky, stumbling upon this good stuff from nowhere, and rushed to offer it as tribute?

Yan Bu Gui's little abacus rang again in his mind. There were doubts, but for such intangible suspicion, abandoning the tangible benefit before him seemed unwise… moreover, if he pressed him too hard, he'd get nothing at all…

A fake smile instantly spread across his face, and he unceremoniously took the bowl: "Oh, Ping'an, look at you, so unorthodox! In the neighborhood, we're supposed to help each other, right? Your health just improved, you should be recuperating, yet you're still thinking of me… how embarrassing…" He said that while gripping the bowl tightly.

"Of course, of course…" Li Ping'an forced a laugh, coughing twice more, "Then… you eat, I… I'll head back…"

He turned, hunched his back, and slowly shuffled back to his room. The moment he shut the door, the humble sickly expression vanished in an instant, leaving only a cold calm.

Yan Bu Gui carried the bowl back inside, pinched a bun and took a bite—truly fragrant and chewy. As he chewed, the doubts in his mind were considerably diluted by the solid food.

"Perhaps… it really was the illness that confused him?" he muttered, but the lingering suspicion in his eyes wasn't fully gone, merely set aside for now. He decided to keep watching. Li Ping'an is a fox that will eventually show its tail, a fat sheep… so he'll slowly reap.

Outside the courtyard walls, the hunt had not ceased, and people's hearts were restless.

Inside the courtyard, this silent test and camouflage came to a temporary pause.

Li Ping'an sat on the icy edge of the kang, listening to the chewing sounds from next door, his gaze heavy.

The "softness" of Tai Chi is not just gentleness, but another kind of resilience and coiling power.

In these chaotic times, survival sometimes hinges not only on who wields the sharper blade, but who can endure longer, whose act is more genuine.

He slowly clenched his fist, his knuckles turning slightly white.

This episode can be considered temporarily survived.

But Yan Bu Gui's thorn has pierced his heart. He must find a chance to pull it out completely, or… keep him forever silent.