Chapter 63

The train huffed and wheezed, and at last with a clang it stopped at Fengtian Cheng Station.

The platform instantly erupted into chaotic clamor. Japanese expatriates in woolen coats, Chinese civilians wrapped in thick cotton jackets, pseudo‑Manchurian police shouting to keep order, and Kwantung Army soldiers bearing loaded guns all squeezed together. The white steam from the locomotive mingled with the heat exhaled by the crowd, intertwining and rising in the cold air, blurring face after face.

Li Ping'an carried a rattan box, and as the crowd moved he gradually stepped down from the carriage. A sharp, biting cold rushed onto his face, far colder than inside the city, like countless tiny ice needles pricking his skin. He instinctively tightened his collar, while his eyes scanned the surroundings sharply.

Fengtian Cheng Station was not without grandeur; its Russian‑style soaring dome rose high, yet the bullet scars on the walls and the still‑unreplaced shattered glass windows silently testified to the battles once fought here. Japanese signs and plaster‑flag banners were everywhere, glaringly reminding everyone who now owned this place.

The exit checkpoint was especially stringent. Kwantung Army soldiers wore cold expressions as they inspected luggage and documents one by one. Pseudo‑Manchurian police stood nearby, bowing and nodding to assist, yet often put on a fierce, hostile face toward their own countrymen.

Li Ping'an's documents were obtained through underground contacts in Tianjin, listing his identity as a history instructor at the Changchun Great Unity Academy, under the name Zhao Shian. The papers were extremely convincing, even bearing just the right amount of wear. He calmly handed over the documents, opened the rattan box—inside were only a few old clothes, two yellowed old books, and some miscellaneous herbs, fitting the profile of a poor teaching craftsman.

The Japanese Soldiers glanced at the papers, then gave him a few more looks. Li Ping'an slightly bowed, his face bearing the typical restraint of an intellectual and the weariness of travel.

"Where are you going?" the Japanese Soldiers asked in halting Chinese.

"Going... going to report to the academy," Li Ping'an replied, with a hint of a Henan accent.

The Japanese Soldiers waved their hand, signaling him to pass.

Stepping out of the station, the full view of Fengtian Cheng unfolded before him. Wide avenues, a mix of Russian and Japanese architecture, with occasional Chinese paifang gates, created a strange and oppressive blend. Trams clanged as they passed, packed with people. There were many pedestrians on the streets, but most hurried, faces solemn, and few smiles could be seen.

A cold wind swirled snow foam across the streets, also whipping past the rag‑clad beggars huddled in the corners. A few Japanese women in kimonos laughed as they emerged from a department store, lugging large and small bags, starkly out of place amid the surroundings. A black sedan bearing a plaster‑flag honked its horn arrogantly and sped by, prompting pedestrians to scramble aside.

Li Ping'an found a modest inn not too far from the station, unassuming in appearance, named Joyful Arrival Inn. The room was narrow and damp; the heated brick bed was not very warm, but at least it shielded him from wind and snow.

After settling in, he did not act immediately. Instead, like a true newcomer, he spent several days wandering Fengtian Cheng. He visited the Grand Marshal's Mansion—the once‑grand building that symbolized the power center of the Northeast, now guarded at its entrance by Japanese soldiers. He also went to the industrial district, watching the towering smokestacks belch black smoke, a sign of the Japanese plundering the area's resources. Most of the time, however, he sat silently in teahouses, taverns, and even beside street stalls, listening.

He heard the common folk whisper their complaints. "Soy oil price went up again, how are we supposed to live!" "Our youngsters were taken for being diligent and obedient, it's been almost a month with no word..." "Lower your voice! The walls have ears!"

He heard the pseudo‑officials' helpless grumbling. "This job really can't be done, we're squeezed from both sides..." "Sigh, just scrape together enough to eat."

He also heard the traitorous collaborators bragging. "The Imperial Army has won another victory! China is helpless!" "Working with the Great Lord guarantees us benefits!"

All sorts of information poured into his mind like shredded paper, gradually assembling a more realistic picture of Fengtian Cheng and the entire Manchukuo: harsh economic plunder, ubiquitous oppression, undercurrents of resistance, and the shameful betrayal of a few.

That evening, he ate lamb soup with steamed flatbread at a Hui restaurant. The place was crowded and steamy. At the neighboring table, two middle‑aged men in railway uniforms whispered to each other, their tones angry.

"Damn it, they've added two more military trains, all heading north." "North? Heihe? Or…" "Where else could it be? I heard that… sigh, never mind, let's eat."

North? The Heihe direction? Li Ping'an felt something stir inside. That area lay near the Soviet border, the Japanese defenses were tight, and… it seemed to match fragments of memories from a past life. Could it be more than just a border defense?

He finished his meal without a hint of reaction, paid the bill, and left.

Back in his icy guestroom, he shut the door and slipped into the space.

Inside the space it was warm as spring, spiritual energy swirling. He did not rest first; instead he resumed practicing his fists and kicks on the open floor. The ferocious power of Ba Ji Quan, the circular softness of Tai Chi, and the uncanny unpredictability of the Carefree Step. He knew Miyamoto Musashi was likely already on his way to the Northeast, perhaps already arrived. The next encounter would certainly not end as easily as in Beiping.

Sweat soaked his clothes, muscles stretched and contracted to their limits, inner breath surged like a river. He poured all his anger and murderous intent into each movement.

After finishing his practice, he gulped down Spirit Spring Water, the fatigue vanished, leaving him feeling invigorated, his five senses increasingly sharp.

He approached the pile of supplies "moved" from Tianjin, meticulously inventorying them, especially the explosives and flammable materials. He also retrieved a map of the area around Fengtian Cheng (taken casually from a Japanese warehouse in Tianjin), and, by the gentle light in the space, studied it carefully.

Fengtian Cheng is a transportation hub of the Northeast, a key Japanese stronghold. Yet its significance seems to go beyond that. What secret does the unusual military train heading north conceal?

His finger traced the map, finally stopping at a region north of Fengtian Cheng. There, some vague symbols and Japanese annotations were marked.

"It seems, before heading to Harbin, I must first leave the Japanese a little 'thought' here in Fengtian Cheng," he muttered softly, his gaze as sharp as a blade, "And, by the way, feel the water up north, see how deep it truly is."

Miyamoto Musashi, are you looking for me?

Very well. I'm right here, waiting for you.

The cold night of Fengtian Cheng seemed to grow even more ominous and turbulent, its currents stirring, because of the silent presence of this man and his space. A larger storm was quietly brewing in the "heart" of this pseudo‑Manchukuo.