Chapter 43: Ailing Tree Meets Spring, Secretly Sprouting New Branches

The sun climbed a bit higher, the light grew brighter, and through the window paper it cast a fuzzy patch of light on the floor inside. Li Ping'an felt that the clinging soreness in his body had eased considerably. The new strength brought by the poison antidote, like the earth's qi in early spring, quietly nourished his bones; although a trace of yin chill still lingered, the feeble weakness truly faded day by day.

He glanced at the wavering reflection of water in the tub; his complexion was no longer deathly pale, and the frightening gleam in his eyes he had to suppress hard to hide, lest he reveal the consumptive invalid he once was.

"This illness is healing too fast — that's also a problem." He muttered to himself, like holding a hot potato — both satisfying and scalding. Yan Bu Gui's beady eyes had been wandering over him lately, full of scrutiny and suspicion.

Sure enough, just as he pushed the door and shuffled into the courtyard, Yan Bu Gui came over with a broken teapot, his small eyes scanning his face: "Eh? Ping'an, I see your complexion… getting better?"

Li Ping'an's heart tightened; he immediately bent over, covered his mouth, and let out a series of weak, dry coughs, tears welling at the corners of his eyes before he could gasp: "Cough… cough… Teacher Yan… you… you shouldn't tease me… just at night… cough… I can barely close my eyes… it's still like that… I can't even stretch my legs a few steps…"

Yan Bu Gui was half‑believing, half‑doubting; after giving him a few more looks, he sighed: "That's right — in these times even good people fall ill… ah, my door panel…"

Seeing he was about to start chanting sutras, Li Ping'an hastily changed the subject, feigning frailty as he leaned against the wall: "You're busy… I… I'll go bask in the sun awhile… my whole body feels chilled to the bone…"

He shuffled slowly to the base of the courtyard wall, leaned against the mottled brick, squinted his eyes, and sunned himself in earnest. Warmth seeped through his cotton jacket, soothing his skin, but his mind raced faster than a spinning top.

His improving condition couldn't be concealed; he needed a plausible excuse. Moreover, he needed a more believable reason to go out, to gather news, even… to trace the whereabouts of that "blood‑stained flower."

An opportunity came quickly. After noon, a familiar cry drifted from the alley mouth, drawn out: "Sharpening scissors——cleavers——"

It was the itinerant old knife‑sharpener, also known throughout Four Nine City as the "Baodaoting" (the gossip), a motormouth who knew plenty of petty rumors.

Li Ping'an's heart stirred; he clutched his chest and staggered out the gate, three steps with a wobble. Yan Bu Gui watched him through the window, but didn't say much.

At the alley mouth, the old knife‑sharpener was holding court, spitting gossip with a few idle loafers and women, talking precisely about last night's "big news" in Nan Cheng.

"... What a fine fellow! It's utter chaos — heard that Deputy Director Liu's outer residence almost had its roof torn off!"

"Really? Who'd dare so boldly?"

"Hey, who knows! Word is two sides clashed — one side seemed to be… 'over there'!" the old sharpener lowered his voice, making a mysterious gesture, "the other side is even stranger, appearing and vanishing like ghosts, leaving a 'red flower' when they retreat — the Imperial Army's noses are bent out of shape!"

"Red flower? What does that mean?"

"You wouldn't know that, would you?" the sharpener gloated, dangling the answer, "That's the mark of the Blood Plum — a ruthless lot that won't let the Japanese off easy!"

Blood Plum!

Li Ping'an's heart clenched, yet his face kept the listless, curious look of a sickly man; he edged closer, slipped in a weak comment at the right moment: "Old… older brother… is the Blood Plum really that formidable? Even the Imperial Army can't catch them?"

The old sharpener glanced at him, saw a sickly fellow, and without suspicion clicked his tongue: "Exactly! They come and go without a trace, specially beating up traitors and Japanese — real men! Too bad… I heard they lost a few good hands recently, and now they're probably…"

He didn't finish, shook his head with a rueful expression.

Li Ping'an's heart churned. Blood Plum! Sure enough, it's them! And it looks like they're in a tight spot? They lost personnel?

He couldn't wait any longer. He had to find a way to contact them, even if just to pass a note.

How to make contact? Go looking for them directly? That's like fishing for a needle in the sea, and uncertain.

He needed an intermediary — someone who could draw their attention without selling him out.

He recalled the several crates of tobacco soil and arms in his space… plus that deadly poison‑gas data copy. Those items, he figured, were likely urgent "hard currency" for the resistance.

A plan slowly took shape in his mind — bait the fish.

He needed to find a suitable, mixed‑crowd spot where the Blood Plum might notice, and subtly leak word of those supplies, but the method had to be extremely covert and natural.

He thought of Heavenly Bridge Market. There, all sorts of people mingled, news flowed freely, and it was also a hub where various underground dealings churned.

The next day, Li Ping'an pleaded the need to fetch medicine and, with difficulty, "shuffled" out of the siheyuan. Yan Bu Gui watched his swaying back and muttered, "This consumptive ghost, why's he been running out lately?" but didn't dwell on it.

Li Ping'an circled a few times, made sure no one was tailing him, then quickened his pace and blended into the bustling crowd along Heavenly Bridge.

He crouched in the corner of a secondhand‑book stall, pretending to rummage through tattered thread‑bound volumes while his ears perked up to catch nearby chatter. At the same time, he seemed to absentmindedly complain in a low voice only the vendor could hear — a man who looked honest and simple, yet his eyes gleamed with shrewdness.

"Ah… old sir, you say in these times… if you've got some old things stashed at home and want to trade them for lifesaving medicine money, there's no reliable channel… I heard Nan Cheng was restless again last night?"

The old stall‑keeper didn't even lift his eyelids, slowly brushing dust off the books with a chicken‑feather duster: "What old stuff? These days gold, silver and antiques aren't worth much — they can't compare to the price of sulfapyridine…"

Li Ping'an lowered his voice, as if afraid yet unable to boast: "Not those… it's… some 'Black Lump'… and moreover, the more heavy 'Iron Gadget'…"

The stall‑keeper's hand, barely moving as he brushed dust, paused imperceptibly; his cloudy eyes flicked to him then dropped: "Kid, are you addled from illness? What nonsense are you spouting? Hurry up and get your medicine!"

Li Ping'an instantly feigned being startled, coughing repeatedly: "Oh dear… look at this rotten mouth… my illness makes me spout nonsense… please don't blame me… don't blame me…" He set down a few classical‑language novels, paid, and rose in a flustered hurry to leave.

He knew the seed had been sown. If the old stall‑keeper really was as he guessed — a contact in some underground network — then word about the "Black Lump" (tobacco soil) and the "Iron Gadget" (arms) would likely leak out through secret channels.

Over the next few days, Li Ping'an continued to go out each day "feeling under the weather" to "get some air" or "fetch medicine," but in fact he loitered around various teahouses, book stalls, and even the outskirts of open‑ground juggling grounds near Heavenly Bridge, watching for any suspicious sign. He became more vigilant than ever, his honed senses sharpened to the utmost, noting whether anyone was secretly observing or tailing him.

His body truly improved day by day; the feeble lack of strength in his movements was gradually replaced by an inward calm and steadiness, yet he had to deliberately keep up the limp, listless posture of a recent convalescent — which was more exhausting than being genuinely ill.

On the third afternoon, as he again shuffled weakly to the edge of Heavenly Bridge, stopping before a stall selling wind‑mill clay figurines, he noticed a detail.

The stall's owner, a silent, dark‑thin man, while shaping a horse‑riding clay figurine, used an extremely fine bamboo skewer to leave a faint impression on the saddle's side — a blurred mark resembling a plum petal.

Had Li Ping'an's eyesight not been far beyond ordinary, he could never have spotted it!

His heart skipped a beat.

The fish… seemed about to bite the hook!

He didn't rush forward; instead, like any passerby, he bought the simplest clay figurine, and when paying, his finger seemingly absentmindedly tapped the edge of the vendor's wooden cash box, leaving a similar but even fainter mark.

The dark‑thin man's hand, barely moving as he took the money, hesitated imperceptibly; his eyelids lifted and he flicked a quick glance at him — his gaze sharp as a hawk, showing no trace of a vendor's dullness.

Their gazes met and then parted.

Li Ping'an took the clay figurine, turned slowly, blended into the crowd, but his heart pounded strongly in his chest.

Contact, established.

What followed was waiting — waiting for the other side's further probe, or… an invitation.

He gripped the rough clay figurine, feeling the gritty earthiness through his fingertips, as if he'd seized a slender thread of hope — and also a double‑edged sword.

The door to the Blood Plum might already have cracked open a slit. But whether beyond it lies an ally or a greater trap remains unknown.

He drew a deep breath; the air mingled with dust, sweat, and the cloying sweetness of candied hawthorn.

This game is growing ever more complex. And he, this piece that stumbled into the board by accident, is trying to shake up the whole situation in his own way.