Chapter 49: Disguise Transaction

Returning to the Siheyuan, Li Ping'an sneaked back to his own room like a thief, bolted the door, his heart still thumping. That night outside Fucheng Gate at the Chaos Grave Hill, fifty rifles and five thousand rounds of ammunition—such a commotion was too big, the risk skyrocketed. The Blood Plum bunch must be either crazy or driven to desperation.

He couldn't keep relying on darkness and speed to force his way in as before. He needed to change his way of life, become someone else entirely.

He sank his awareness into the space, rummaging through the pile of assorted junk. A half-worn coarse cloth jacket, patched trousers, a greasy felt hat, a few bunches of messy white fake beard, plus an eyebrow pencil charcoal stick and dull foundation from somewhere—everything was there.

He didn't rush to act; first he filled a basin with clean water, washed his face, then began to sketch on the blurry reflection in the water.

First he mixed the dull foundation with some pot-bottom soot, carefully patting it onto his face, neck, and the backs of his hands until it matched the weathered skin of someone constantly exposed to wind and sun. He didn't overlook easy-to-spot spots like the earlobes, hair part, and wrists.

Next he used the charcoal stick to deepen the eye sockets, drawing a few rough crow's-feet lines, and etched deep worry lines on his forehead. A hard life ages a person fastest.

Then he carefully applied the bunch of white fake beard, securing the edges with his homemade adhesive so close up it was hard to tell real from false. The beard was unkempt, fitting the look of a miserable, unkempt man.

Finally he put on the coarse‑cloth outfit that smelled of sweat, the trousers a little loose, which he cinched with a grass rope. On his feet were worn‑out cloth shoes that barely covered his toes, and he placed the tattered felt hat low on his head, pulling the brim down.

After finishing, he looked again into the water basin.

The reflection showed a man in his forties, brow furrowed with worry, his back bent from life's burdens—a poor laborer. His gaze also had to change; he withdrew any sharpness, replacing it with a dull, numb look tinged with timidity.

He tried hunching his back, dropping his shoulders, taking a couple of steps, and adopted the shuffling gait from years of carrying heavy loads.

It was done. As long as nobody stared at him face‑to‑face, no one would recognize this as the 'consumptive ghost' Li Ping'an.

Weapons and such needn't be hidden on his person; they were all in the space, a matter of a single thought—more secure than anything.

He waited patiently for darkness. Outside, the wind still howled; the search operations showed no letup, and the air held the suffocating tension of an impending storm.

At last he endured until dusk on the day of the trade.

He didn't wait for deep night; a laborer loitering outside at midnight was already suspicious. He planned to slip out of the city early, find a spot outside Fucheng Gate to hide, and wait until midnight.

He gave his disguise one last look—no problem. He picked up an empty, torn sack, posed as someone just off work, head down, shoulders hunched, silently slid the bolt, slipped sideways out the door, and gently closed it—making no sound.

The courtyard was quiet; Yan Bu Gui's room had its light off, presumably he'd already retired. Convenient—no need to run into him and make up excuses.

He kept to the shadows along the wall, tip‑toeing outward like a true phantom. As he neared the gate, his heightened sense suddenly picked up movement outside the alley—two Japanese soldiers were puffing on cigarettes, cursing as they staggered over.

"Damn it, having to patrol the streets in the middle of the night…"

"Cut the chatter; if the captain sees you slacking, you won't get away with it…"

Li Ping'an instantly shrank back, darting into the shadow behind the gate, holding his breath. His awareness had already swept twenty meters out, hearing the two slackers' complaints crystal clear. After they lumbered slowly past the alley mouth and moved away, he slid out like a gecko, quickly merging into deeper darkness.

He slipped through pitch‑black, filthy‑water alleys, avoiding main roads and patrols. His heightened sense was his eyes; within a radius of several dozen meters, any hostile or nervous heartbeat couldn't escape him. Spotting Japanese soldiers or Black Dogs in the distance, he immediately detoured, never confronting them head‑on.

He successfully reached a secluded spot at the base of the city wall. The wall was low there, with a few collapsed sections, easy to climb. He glanced left and right, confirmed no one was present, took a two‑step run‑up, tipped his toes into the brick cracks, placed a hand on the top, and silently vaulted over, landing as lightly as a leaf.

Beyond the city it was even more desolate. The sky was pitch black; in the distance the mounds of the Chaos Grave Hill looked like a cluster of crouching monsters.

He didn't head straight for the destination; instead nearby he found a half‑collapsed earth kiln and slipped inside. The view was decent, and it offered concealment.

Curled in the corner like an old wolf waiting for prey, he patiently chewed through time, his ears pricked, monitoring every sound around him.

The night spread like spilled ink, wind sweeping over the dry grass stalks, making a wooing sound like ghosts wailing.

Midnight was approaching.

Over at the Chaos Grave Hill, it was pitch black, no lights, no voices.

Li Ping'an slowly rose, loosening his frozen arms and legs. The time had come.

With a thought, the fifty oil‑cloth‑wrapped rifles and five thousand bright yellow cartridges appeared neatly stacked behind the dry hay in the kiln's corner, well concealed.

He drew a deep breath of lung‑stabbing cold air, stepped out of the kiln, and set off toward that dark expanse that signified danger and the unknown.