Chapter 51

Li Ping'an ran for his life, his lungs burning, cold wind hissing into his throat. He didn't dare look back or take the straight road, relying on his keen sense of danger, he zigzagged wildly through the wilderness, seeking ditches and thickets to dive into.

Gunfire and explosions behind him faded, grew sparse, until only the wind's whoosh in his ears and his own thudding heartbeat remained. He didn't dare stop, gritted his teeth and sprinted another one or two li, until he plunged into a dark, dense grove, then dared lean against an old tree, slip to the ground, mouth open, gulping air, his whole body shaking like a sieve.

It wasn't an act; he was genuinely terrified. In that firefight, bullets don't discriminate—if he'd been half a beat slow or his luck off by a bit, he'd likely be lying in the graveyard now, food for wild dogs.

He panted while straining his ears for distant sounds. Gunfire had ceased entirely; occasionally he heard a few muffled barks, probably the Japanese soldiers' wolfhounds combing the hills. His heart tightened again—he couldn't linger here.

After regaining a little strength, he struggled to his feet, enduring the ache that made his whole body feel like it was falling apart, and continued feeling his way deeper into the woods. He needed to put as much distance as possible from Fucheng Gate and from that ill-fated spot.

After that dark, frantic escape, he didn't know how long he'd run, but guessed it was around three or four in the morning when he finally felt his way back to the base of Beiping's city walls. All around was dead silence, only the wind.

He found the familiar low wall, glanced left and right—no one—took a breath, used hands and feet, and in a few moves silently vaulted over, landing like a cat.

The alley was pitch dark, even the stray dogs asleep. He kept to the wall's shadow, tip-toeing, slipping back to the siheyuan like a ghost. He didn't use the gate; instead he went to a secluded stretch of the compound wall, again employing his agility to slip over silently, landing without a sound.

The courtyard was deathly silent, every house dark, Yan Bu Gui's room shaking the heavens with his snore. He exhaled, crouched low, and crept to his own window—he eased it open, pushed up with both hands, flipped in nimbly, then closed the window softly and secured the bolt.

The whole process took less than ten seconds, as light as a night breeze passing.

Only when his back hit the cold door panel did he fully relax, going limp, sliding down the door to the floor, mouth agape in silent gasps, cold sweat bursting forth and soaking his jacket lining.

Safe… for now.

He sat in the dark for a good while before slowly pushing himself up. With a thought, the torn, mud‑stained coarse‑cloth outfit on him vanished instantly, sucked into his absolutely secure personal space without a trace. Then, using the faint light seeping through the window crack, he felt his face and hands, confirming no obvious camouflage remnants remained, and only then did he relax a little.

He reached the water vat, ladled out a scoop of cool water, and sipped it slowly to quell the fire in his throat. Only after the icy water hit his stomach did he finally feel completely recovered.

He lay on the kang, eyes open, staring at the pitch‑black beams, feeling no trace of sleep. His mind replayed the scene like a film—nothing but the chaotic graveyard from earlier.

It's over, all ruined.

Fifty rifles, five thousand rounds of ammunition—surely all lost. The Blood Plum people… that tall fellow and his partner—could they break out? It's doubtful. The Japanese have obviously set a trap, waiting to close the net.

Who will Blood Plum blame for this? Did Li Ping'an leak the word? Or is there truly a traitor among them?

Either way, this connection of his is completely severed. All the effort and risk he'd poured in have gone to waste. He hasn't gained any allies—instead he may have made a mortal enemy.

Even the gold bar and silver dollars in his space felt hot to the touch now.

What to do? What now?

There was movement in the courtyard. Yan Bu Gui coughed as he pushed the door open, splashing water while rinsing his mouth, then spat.

Li Ping'an closed his eyes, pretending to still be asleep.

After a moment, he heard Yan Bu Gui's footsteps pacing the courtyard and the scrape of that broken little broom on the ground. This old geezer is up early.

The sky grew a bit lighter. Li Ping'an judged the time was about right, then feigned just waking—he yawned, stretched, rubbed his eyes, and pushed the door open.

"Well, Ping'an, you're up early today?" Yan Bu Gui immediately came over, his small eyes scanning Li Ping'an up and down, as if looking for something.

"Cough… never mind," Li Ping'an said, affecting a half‑asleep, listless air, even rubbing his waist on purpose, "I don't know what happened last night—I felt weak all over, tossed and turned, couldn't sleep sound… I woke before dawn, felt awful lying down, so I just got up."

His words were vague, explaining why he rose early without mentioning any specifics.

Yan Bu Gui eyed him suspiciously: "Really? I thought I heard some movement outside late last night—didn't you hear anything?"

Li Ping'an's heart clenched, but he feigned confusion, shaking his head: "Movement? What movement? I slept like a log, heard nothing… Old Master Yan, what did you hear?" He turned the question back on him.

Yan Bu Gui was taken aback by the question, stammering: "I… I didn't really hear it clearly, maybe just a dog barking… perhaps I misheard." He obviously didn't want to dwell on why he'd woken in the night, then shifted to sizing up Li Ping'an: "How come your complexion looks off? Are you really alright?"

"Really nothing," Li Ping'an waved a hand, then coughed twice on cue, "Probably just didn't sleep well, feeling a bit weak… alas, this frail body…"

He successfully steered the conversation back to his own "illness." Yan Bu Gui indeed lost interest, pursed his lips, and bent his head to keep scraping the ground.

Li Ping'an secretly exhaled in relief, then braced himself for another worry. Old Fox Yan Bu Gui's nose is sharp—it seems he's picked up at least a hint of what happened in the city last night.

He needed to be even more careful. The Blood Plum side had suffered heavy losses, and the Japanese would surely tighten their manhunt; who knows how long this compound could stay peaceful.

He lifted his head to look at the overcast sky; that unease in his heart spread like ink dropped in water, slowly diffusing.

He couldn't just let it go. He had to find a way to work out exactly who had double‑crossed whom last night.