Chapter 38: Wind Fills the Tower, Midnight Thunder

Daylight filtered through the paper windows, and inside the house one could barely see anything. Li Ping'an opened his eyes, and there was no sleepy haze—just a startling clarity.

Some noise rose in the courtyard outside. Yan Bu Gui was still muttering about his broken doorboard, a woman shouted for a child to get up, and a few scattered coughs sounded. The Siheyuan's morning was only this much lively.

Li Ping'an pricked up his ears and listened, but heard no sounds of a raid. The dock affair seemed not yet to have spread to this Alley. Yet his mind was clear: this peace wouldn't last.

He rose slowly, still hunched, putting on a sickly expression, even coughing deliberately a few times before pulling the door latch.

Cold wind whooshed in, carrying the smell of earth and coal smoke. Yan Bu Gui was indeed still fiddling with the doorboard, tapping it with a small hammer here and there, his brows knit so tightly they could pinch a mosquito.

"You up, Ping'an?" Yan Bu Gui said as he saw him, then began his complaints, "Look, this door got kicked! Fixing it will cost money…"

Li Ping'an hummed in his mind, forced a weaker look, and croaked, "Teacher Yan… the Japanese Soldiers kicked the door, you should make them compensate… why are you only staring at me, the sick one? You pride yourself as a cultured person, your calculations are sharper than an accountant's."

He choked on the words, Yan Bu Gui's face flushed, the hammer halted, stammering: "This… how to say… I'm not…"

"Neighbors and fellow villagers, I've never seen you be soft." Li Ping'an muttered low, just enough for him to hear, then erupted into a violent cough, tearing his chest, successfully silencing Yan Bu Gui.

He was too lazy to continue, wrapped his coat tighter, tucked his chin, and shuffled slowly toward the courtyard exit. That silhouette would draw pity from anyone who saw it.

Turning a corner out of the Alley, out of everyone's sight, his back straightened slightly and his steps steadied. His eyes were like spotlights, scanning the early‑morning street.

The air was tense. A few more Black Dogs police were present, their gazes appraising. Japanese Soldiers on motorcycles occasionally went "vroom" past, leaving a trail of exhaust.

At the tea house and eatery entrances, people clustered, speaking in low voices, eyes darting, all talking about the dock's chaos from last night.

"Did you hear? Someone died at the dock!"

"The Rakshasa Gate and Leopard Lord got into a fight?"

"Seems not… my relative works at the Police Station, whispered that something important was lost, and the Imperial Army got all worked up!"

"What thing?"

"Shh… don't pry, live longer…"

Fragmented talk drifted into his ears, and the string in Li Ping'an's heart tightened more and more. The Japanese Soldiers' activity was larger than he thought. That toxic gas information was truly a lifeline.

He couldn't stay long. He bought a few steamed buns and tucked them in his pocket, lowered his head and slipped out of the city. He needed to find an absolutely safe spot to contemplate his next move. The city was full of informants; even though the alley was safe, he feared missing changes outside.

At the foot of the city wall, beside a chaotic burial mound, there was a dilapidated earth temple, so desolate that even stray dogs avoided it. Li Ping'an looked left and right, saw no one, and slipped inside in a flash.

The temple was full of spider webs, the deity statue toppled, dust piled thickly. He found a wind‑protected corner, brushed off the dust, sat down, took out a cool steamed bun and chewed slowly.

His mind didn't stop.

Storming the Japanese Army camp to trigger the toxic gas? The thought was satisfying, letting the Japanese Soldiers taste their own medicine. But on a cooler thought, it was pure suicide.

The camp was heavily guarded, countless bright and secret sentries; no matter how skilled he was, slipping in would be hard. Even if he got in, he couldn't find the spot, and once detonated he couldn't escape. This route was blocked.

The hot blood cooled, replaced by cold calculation.

He needed clever force. Use leverage against force, divert disaster eastward.

Those few copied papers and the iron plaque were the key.

Could… "accidentally" leave this thing somewhere? A place where the Japanese Soldiers could pick it up and still be clueless about it?

Perhaps… a territory that cooperates with the Japanese Soldiers yet is also a pressure point? Maybe… the head of the Pseudo Police? Or… a gang boss the Japanese Soldiers don't trust?

Even… posing as an insider and causing a mishap during a handover?

This thought made his heart race a half‑beat faster. The risk was real; a misstep would trap him. But if it worked, the effect would be great: not only could he clear himself, but also make the enemy bite themselves.

He examined every detail carefully. Location, timing, method… how to ensure the item ends up in the hands of the "right" person? How to make the clue lead where he wants? How to wipe himself clean?

The sun slanted through the broken window, dust swirling in the beam. Li Ping'an sat in the light, his gaze flickering, like a leopard setting a trap in the shadows.

As time passed bit by bit, a wildly daring plan gradually took shape in his mind.

Tonight! With a moonless, windy night, it's perfect for action!

Location… he recalled a house he passed yesterday in Nan Cheng. It was the backyard of a gambling den; rumor had it the gambling boss and the Pseudo Police chief were sworn brothers, secretly doing dirty work for the Japanese Soldiers, profiting both sides. Dropping the item there would be perfect!

He could already picture the Japanese Soldiers finding the clue, and that the chief and the boss would jump into the Yellow River in panic!

As for how to get it in… Li Ping'an weighed a bun in his pocket, a smirk at the corner of his mouth. The gambling den was chaotic; there were plenty of ways to deliver "goods".

He made up his mind, stopped hesitating. After finishing the last bun, he clapped his hands and stood up.

Leaving the broken temple, the late afternoon sun was a bit harsh. The city's atmosphere grew tighter, checks became stricter. Yet he felt confident, steadier, still feigning illness, slipping back into the city crowd.

He needed to make some simple preparations.

The sky quickly turned black.

The gambling den in Nan Cheng was at its peak. Lanterns at the entrance shone brightly, people came and went, shouts, dice clatters, laughter and curses blended into a grotesque bustle.

Li Ping'an crouched in the street's shadows, like a stone. He changed into a more tattered short jacket, smelling of sweat, his face also looking rougher.

He stared at the gambling den's back door. That side was quieter, occasional thugs or delivery workers came and went.

The time had come.

He slipped through the street like a ghost, approaching a trash pile near the back door. He moved fast, making little noise, unnoticed.

His heart stirred; the oil‑paper packet—containing those deadly papers and the iron plaque—was now in his hand. Without hesitation, he flicked his wrist, the packet arcing precisely into a basket of freshly delivered vegetables being moved toward the door, cleverly hidden beneath a cabbage.

The whole process took less than two seconds.

He immediately stepped back, curled into the darkness, and within a few strides was gone, not looking back.

The seed was sown, now waiting to see what kind of "good" flower will bloom.

He circled a large loop, ensured no one followed, then dragged his "sick body" back to the dead‑silent Siheyuan.

The lights in Yan Bu Gui's house were off, probably to save oil.

Li Ping'an quietly returned to his own room and shut the door.

He didn't light a lamp, relying on the doorboard; in the darkness he listened to his own heartbeat and the distant city noise outside.

He could imagine the gambling den still bustling now. But it wouldn't be long; perhaps tomorrow, that place would have to change its "bustle" method.

Seeing the sleeping city, beneath it hidden currents roiled, about to be turned upside down by a little oil‑paper packet.

He exhaled lightly; the white vapor vanished instantly in the cold air.

The wind is about to rise.