Chapter 61: Undercurrents Stirring

The fire at the western end of the Tianjin Guard burned nonstop for an entire night.

When dawn was dim, black smoke still stubbornly hung in the sky, the air filled with a burnt, charred smell mixed with humidity that made you cough when you inhaled. The streets were much more deserted than usual; many shops remained closed, and pedestrians pulled their necks tight and hurried by, eyes darting away.

The Japanese Soldiers were truly furious this time. The whole street was filled with reckless motorcycle gangs, trucks blaring shrill horns as they roared by, and squads of Japanese Soldiers and Black Dogs went house to house, smashing doors and conducting checks, dragging away anyone they disliked. The entire Tianjin Guard felt as if it were sealed in a steamer, suffocating.

The docks and West Station were both taken, the loss was huge, and the embarrassment even greater. It is said that the stationed army Commander was so angry he smashed his office, shouting that he would turn Tianjin upside down; if he couldn't catch anyone, he'd have all his subordinates commit seppuku.

In the back alleys, the common folk whispered. "Good fellow, the fire at West Station lit up the whole sky, half the heavens turned red!" "Heard it was the Arsenal that exploded? The commotion was terrifying!" "What Arsenal? It was the food and clothing depot! The Little Devils are really in trouble this time!" "Damn! Let them loot! Just… don't let them vent on us again…"

The words contained some venting, but mostly fear. The Japanese Soldiers, having lost such face, will surely bite like mad dogs.

In an inconspicuous small inn room, the curtains were drawn tight. Several solemn men whispered in low voices. "Did we figure it out? It wasn't our people who did it?" "Absolutely not. The method was too clean, left no trace, we don't have such talent." "Then who is this deity? The technique… is too ruthless." "Whoever it is, the Japanese Soldiers will go mad this time. Pass the word: all points stay silent, don't act unless it's serious. First, dodge this wicked wind."

Inside the Pseudo-government Building, another scene unfolded. Several officials in long robes and horse jackets gathered, each sweating at the forehead. "The Imperial Army set a big fire… what… what do we do?" "Quickly, send more people to watch the streets; report any unfamiliar faces immediately!" "Also, get every newspaper moving, write how the Imperial Army heroically fought the fire and maintained order, to dispel the bad luck…" "Sigh, this job is getting harder."

Amid the chaos, a black sedan slipped in silently to the Tianjin Japanese Garrison Command Headquarters. When the door opened, out stepped Miyamoto Musashi. He wore a full Samurai Uniform, a long samurai sword at his waist, his eyes so dark they seemed to drip water, heavier than the Tianjin sky.

He ignored the junior officers busy putting out fires and rounding up people, and went straight into the Intelligence Section. On the wall hung detailed maps of the docks and XiZhanHuChang, with the explosion points and possible ingress routes circled in red.

Several intelligence officers were arguing, sweating profusely. "It must have been done by a professional Explosives expert! Ordinary people don't have that skill!" "But we haven't found any residue of Explosives at the scene!" "With so much stuff, how could it disappear in one night? Could there really be a ghost?"

Miyamoto Musashi scanned the map with cold eyes, his finger tapping the bent ventilation window iron bar of the West Station warehouse. "It's not a Japanese Soldier," he said quietly, silencing everyone, "it's an Evil Ghost. He's coming."

He moved to the map, his finger tracing the line from Beiping to Tianjin. "Beiping Military Camp, precise poisoning. Tianjin Port, sneak in to blow up ships. XiZhanHuChang, empty the warehouses, set fire." His tone showed no fluctuation, yet carried a chilling aura that made the hair stand on end, "Each method is slicker than the last, each more reckless. He's taunting, and also… saying farewell."

"Farewell?" a young intelligence officer couldn't help asking.

"He's leaving Tianjin," Miyamoto Musashi turned, his gaze as if it could pierce walls, looking outward, "This uproar is for two reasons: one, for the loot, and two, to draw our attention and hide his true destination."

"Where can he run to?" another officer asked.

Miyamoto Musashi fell silent for a moment, his mind sifting through every thread: Li Ping'an's background, style, targets… "Dongbei." He slowly uttered the two words, "Only that remote corner has a goal worth a man like him to risk his life for."

He thrust his hand sharply: "Immediately investigate every train, automobile, even back road leaving the border! Focus on obtaining any Explosives and anyone with special skills! He may be slick as water, but he can't leave the tiniest trace!"

"Ha!"

The Command Headquarters buzzed with activity again, but this time, there was a clear direction.

Meanwhile, Li Ping'an had already changed his appearance, disguising himself as a drug peddler heading east, blending into the noisy crowd, having bought a hastily issued ticket to Fengtian. He sat on a long bench in a corner of the waiting hall, head down as if dozing, his ears perked to the broadcast announcing tightened security checks and the surrounding passengers' complaints.

He knew Miyamoto Musashi was probably already in Tianjin, and could surely guess his plan.

But he didn't care.

The train's approaching whistle wailed long and deep, sounding as heavy as the gong that opens another grand drama.

Li Ping'an lifted his head, tipped his hat brim, grabbed the unremarkable wicker box at his feet, and, following the crowd, walked toward the ticket gate.

Outside the pass, the snowstorm was fierce—perfect for warming his body with Japanese Soldiers' blood.

With that step forward, Tianjin behind him descended into chaos like a pot of porridge, while ahead lay Dongbei, a larger snowstorm waiting there.

The train chugged on, the carriage packed with people, a mix of unpleasant odors filling the air. Li Ping'an curled into a window seat, closing his eyes to rest. When the train passed Shanhai Pass and the surrounding crowd thinned, he timed the gap between carriages and slipped into the space.

Inside the space it remained tranquil. He didn't rush to rest, but walked to the open ground beside the Spiritual Spring, assuming his stance.

The ferocity of Ba Ji Quan, the fluidity of Tai Chi, the lightness of Carefree Step—each move he practiced with utmost seriousness. Sweat beads streamed down his temples, muscles tensed then relaxed, his breath long and powerful.

He knew Miyamoto Musashi was no ordinary opponent. That old Japanese Soldier came in a Samurai Uniform, clearly intending to settle matters through the way of the sword. The last encounter at Beiping, relying on surprise attacks and medicinal strength, had left him wounded. A direct duel now would be unpredictable.

"Old Japanese Soldier, if you want to speak with a blade, I'll spar with you." He muttered low, a flash of steel in his eyes, delivering a crushing elbow strike that sliced through the air with a whoosh.

After finishing his practice, his whole body steamed with heat. He scooped up Spirit Spring Water, took a few sips, then washed himself, only then feeling his muscles loosened and his spirit fully revived.

Back in the carriage, he still wore that limp demeanor, yet deep in his eyes hid a sharpened edge.

The train roared toward the interior of Dongbei.