Chapter 64: Night Prying at the Military Train

The night in Fengtian Cheng was so cold it could freeze a chin.

The north wind, like a knife, whistled across the empty streets, swirling snow foam, clattering against doors and windows. Not long after dusk, the city was almost cleared of people, except for the occasional Japanese Soldiers patrol squad and a few howls of stray dogs; the surroundings were eerily quiet.

In the small guest room of Yue Lai Inn, Li Ping'an sat cross‑legged on the icy earthen bed, as if asleep. Yet his ears were perked, catching every odd sound outside the window.

The words he heard at the Muslim tavern during the day formed a knot in his mind. "The military train heading north"… North—aside from the border, what else could be so important to the Japanese Soldiers that they dispatch train after train?

He opened his eyes, his pupils bright and clear, without a hint of sleepiness. Guessing by sight was useless; he had to see with his own eyes.

Just after the hour of the Rat, the time when people are most drowsy, he slipped silently off the bed, changed into a deep‑gray Night Cloak—made from ordinary cloth stored in the Spiritual Spring Space, impossible to find in the crowd. He brushed a little stove‑bottom ash on his face, then slipped out the window like a shadow, melting into the pitch‑black night.

Fengtian Cheng was like a huge maze, but he had already etched the map into his mind. He avoided the main roads, deliberately taking the winding Small Alley and shady spots for speed. With Carefree Step pushed to the limit, his feet on the snow made barely audible "creak" sounds, his figure flickering at the border of moonlight and shadow, moving so fast only a vague silhouette remained.

The nearer he got to the northern Fengtian Yi and the assembly yard, the tighter the air grew. Patrol squads came one after another, their searchlight beams crossing over the rails and freight yard, bayonets flashing cold light. Dark stakes were surely present as well.

Li Ping'an crouched behind a broken wall, frozen still, patiently watching the pattern of the searchlights' sweep and the patrol squads' gaps. His heartbeat was steady, his breathing slow, as if he were merging with this ice‑cell like night.

Opportunity arrived! A patrol unit had just passed, and the two searchlight beams swung to either side, leaving a gap of less than ten seconds.

Now!

His body jolted, yet as light as a feather, silently drifting over a dozen yards, slipping over the barbed wire without a sound, and precisely slipping into the massive assembly yard's shadows.

Inside the assembly yard was a different scene. Countless rails coiled together like black pythons, upon which lay train cars of varying lengths. Some emitted dim, flickering black lights, others glowed with a faint gloom, and vague silhouettes of people could be seen inside—Japanese Soldiers escorting the trains.

The air carried a whiff of coal smoke and iron rust, tinged with a faint… hint of disinfectant?

Li Ping'an clung to the icy carriage skin, moving like a gecko, heightening his senses to the maximum, scanning for any conspicuous spot. Most cars carried ordinary military supplies: food, clothing, ammunition boxes. Yet a few cars had windows nailed shut and a massive iron lock on the door, exuding an indescribable oppression.

He evaded a patrol unit leading a wolfhound, circled to the rear of a freshly assembled train whose locomotive was still huffing and puffing. The train was mostly a tanker, but in the middle were a few modified passenger cars, curtains drawn tight, with noticeably more guards than elsewhere, and an antenna seemed mounted on the roof.

This is it! Such a bizarre combination surely bodes no good.

Using the black shadows beneath the cars and the pile of assorted junk as cover, he inched toward those special cars. As he drew nearer, the disinfectant smell intensified, mingling with an indescribable, hair‑raising odor.

At the car door, two Japanese Soldiers clutching three‑eight rifles stood, shivering so much they stamped their feet, their breath a white haze.

"It's damn cold… this lousy job…" "Stop nagging… the 'wood' in there doesn't even feel cold…" "Tch… yeah… let's change posts quickly, I really want to chew on a hot knife…"

"Wood"? Li Ping'an's heart lurched. He had seen the term in terrifying records from his past life; it was a beastly slur for Chinese people captured for experiments!

Could it be that this northbound military train wasn't hauling cargo, but…

A surge of ice‑shard‑like fury surged through their body, colder than the night in Fengtian Cheng. They almost couldn't restrain the murderous urge to rush out.

But they forced it down. Acting now would only startle the snake, rescuing no one, and would only entangle themselves further.

They needed to make it even more precise.

Silently, they slipped to the other side of the car, where the shadows were denser. They held their breath, gently pressing an ear against the frozen carriage skin.

From within came faint, intermittent whimpering, and the soft scrape of iron chains on the ground. Even… there seemed to be a low, Chinese plea of "water… give water…", which was instantly cut off by a harsh Japanese curse and the crack of a whip.

Crack! A half‑brick beneath Li Ping'an's foot shattered under his accidental step; the sound was small but piercing in the silent night.

"Who?" the Japanese Soldier on the roof lookout instantly raised his rifle, and the searchlight beam slammed toward them!

Li Ping'an tightened his throat, and almost as he was about to speak, a thought flickered—he vanished in an instant!

The searchlight swept over the spot where he had just stood, empty. Only the half‑broken brick lay in the snow.

"What's up?" the Sentinel below shouted.

"Seems like something moved..." the rooftop sentinel looked around uncertainly.

"A wild cat? This damned sky..." "Maybe… damn, my eyes are freezing shut..."

The two sentinels muttered a few words, tightened their skin, and became even more vigilant than before.

Within the Spiritual Spring Space, Li Ping'an leaned against the pile of gold‑bar antiques, breathing heavily, a fine sweat beading on his forehead. It wasn't fear, but rage! The extreme anger made his fingers tremble.

"Wood"… living people… the northbound military train…

All the threads have connected! This train is bound for that hell! What the cars carry are compatriots the Japanese Soldiers use as experimental material!

Fire flared in his eyes; the murderous intent was about to solidify.

He couldn't let it go like that!

He forced himself to stay calm, his mind racing. Blow up the train directly? No, there are innocent compatriots inside. Hijack it? The target's too big, impossible, and it would expose him, delaying even larger plans later.

Then… he could only make a "mark" first, then figure out a way on the road… or once at the destination, finish it off!

He sensed the outside again, confirmed it was clear, and flashed out. The searchlight had just moved away.

He slipped like a ghost beneath the chassis of those special cars, moving so fast his eyes blurred. He steadied his mind, imprinting a thread of extremely subtle yet unusually resilient spiritual intent, like an invisible watermark, slowly searing it into the deepest hidden metal structures of the car chassis. The mark was formless, yet linked mystically to his Spiritual Spring Space; within a certain range, he could vaguely sense its location.

Having done that, he dared not linger. Using patrol gaps and visual blind spots again, like a Buddha, he slipped out silently from the heavily guarded assembly yard, disappearing into the pitch‑black alleys of Fengtian Cheng.

Back in the ice‑cell like guest room, he slammed the door, leaned against the panel, and slipped onto the floor.

Outside the window, the north wind kept howling.

But the cold wind in his heart was colder and harsher than the outside.

That northbound Death Train was like a massive stone pressing on his chest.

Miyamoto Musashi, 731… the sin you created has added another line.

He watched his slightly trembling hand, slowly clench into a fist, the joints of his bones cracking.

Just wait.

Your "good days" are almost over.