Chapter 66: Probing the Tiger

The Western-style building of the Fengtian Lvguan stood like a burly man in a kimono, planted in the cold wind, giving off an indescribable awkwardness. The guards at the door had been replaced by puppet Manchukuo policemen carrying lunch boxes, their eyes darting around, scanning everyone who approached.

Li Ping'an didn't step forward; he squatted beside a roasted sweet‑potato stall across the street, rubbing his hands and blowing white breath, pretending to be a laborer waiting for work. The warm aroma of the roasted sweet potato drifted over, making people's stomachs growl.

"Big brother, give me a big one, with a sweet center." He fished out a few copper coins.

"Sure thing!" The vendor nimbly picked a large one, cracked and oozing honey, wrapped it in old newspaper, and handed it to him.

Li Ping'an held the hot sweet potato, nibbling while blowing on it, and pretended the heat was making his eyes water, but in fact he scoped out the guards at the inn's entrance, the rough floor layout, and any possible routes inside.

The top‑floor private room… Miyamoto Musashi, that old devil, sure knows how to enjoy himself. The place has a good view, easy to defend, hard to attack, and his men can rush up to help at any moment. A frontal assault? That's like an old man eating arsenic—just asking for trouble.

He, Li Ping'an, is here for revenge, not to donate his head. If he can't win outright, he'll surely think of another way.

A man in a long robe and gold‑rimmed glasses rolled his suitcase toward the inn; the puppet Manchukuo police immediately nodded and bowed, letting him through. Li Ping'an's eyes flickered.

He finished the sweet potato in a couple of bites, clapped his hands, stood up, and sauntered to the narrow alley behind the inn. Piles of trash and junk lay there, quiet and secluded. He leaned against the cold brick wall, closed his eyes, and centered his mind.

That thread of thought striking the military line was like a fine spider's silk in the night, stretching northward, pointing to a distant place. It was still moving, but seemed to have slowed, as if pausing at a station—or… nearing its destination.

Not the endpoint, but more like a transfer stop to rest one's feet.

He withdrew his thoughts, focusing entirely on the inn before him. The Spiritual Spring Space gave him an extraordinary perception, like invisible feelers, slowly extending into the building and probing inside.

Noisy chatter, clinking bowls and dishes, the Japanese soldiers' laughter—various sounds and fragments of information surged in. He held his breath, concentrated, filtering, seeking that particular, icy, sinister aura.

Found it!

In a room at the east end of the top floor, a cold, sharp aura lay coiled like a poisonous snake in its den. The aura carried a solid killing intent and the oppressive pressure only a martial artist can have; though restrained, to Li Ping'an's perception it stood out like a lamp in the dark.

Miyamoto Musashi. He really was holed up here.

He wasn't alone in the room. Two other presences, somewhat weaker but still sharp, were likely his subordinates or bodyguards. The three seemed to be whispering in rapid Japanese.

Li Ping'an couldn't understand Japanese at all, only a few swear words. But he could sense the urgency and gloom in their speech—it wasn't casual chatter.

Just then, Miyamoto Musashi's voice suddenly cut off, as if he sensed something. That icy aura snapped to sharpness, like a blade drawn from its sheath, and he swept his gaze warily around.

Li Ping'an's heart gave a jolt; he instantly severed his perception, drawing all his focus back, pressing himself against the wall like a frozen stone, his breath nearly held.

In the top‑floor room, Miyamoto Musashi sprang to his feet and walked to the window, his eyes scanning the street below and the opposite buildings like a hawk's, his brows knotted.

"Sir, what's wrong?" a subordinate asked.

"Just now… it seemed something was watching us." Miyamoto Musashi's voice carried doubt and vigilance, "The trace is faint, but… it grates on the nerves."

"Maybe it's just a stray cat passing by, or something else." The subordinate dismissed it, "In Fengtian Cheng, who'd dare tail you?"

Miyamoto Musashi fell silent for a moment, then slowly shook his head: "Don't be careless. That 'Evil Ghost' is slicker than we thought. Keep watch, especially at night."

"Hai!"

In the alley below, Li Ping'an slowly exhaled, his padded jacket damp with cold sweat. Phew! That old devil's intuition is deadly—he almost gave himself away.

He didn't dare linger, let alone go up and attack. Charging up now would be like throwing a meat bun at a dog—pointless.

He slipped out of the alley silently, blended into the street crowd, and vanished.

Back in the ice‑cellar room of the Yue Lai Inn, he bolted the door, leaned against the door panel, and his heart kept thudding.

He couldn't win, not at all. Just the oppressive pressure of that aura was stranger than what he'd felt in Beiping. This old devil surely hasn't been idle lately; his skill seems to have grown again.

A head‑on clash is a dead end.

But just give up? No way. The north‑bound Death Train, those compatriots called "Wood," the Demon Cave outside Harbin… these things tug at his heart like a small knife.

He needs to improve his abilities, and also wait… for an opportunity.

Sitting cross‑legged on the kang, he entered the Space again. This time he didn't practice fists; he went straight to the Spiritual Spring, scooped up a handful of cool water, and poured it over his head.

The bone‑chilling cold made him shiver; all his chaotic thoughts were suppressed, and his mind became terrifyingly clear.

He must become stronger, and he must find a perfect opportunity. Miyamoto Musashi has to die, but he won't throw away his life for nothing.

He eyed the pile in the Space that had been shipped from Tianjin to Fengtian—especially the explosives and flammable materials. He also glanced at the few military manuals and maps he'd snatched from the Japanese soldiers' warehouse.

A daring scheme began to take a hazy shape in his mind.

Perhaps… he didn't need to clash head‑on with that old poisonous snake.

Perhaps… he could borrow some strength, borrow even greater strength, and thoroughly stir up this stagnant pool!

A flash of wild yet calm light crossed his eyes.

Miyamoto Musashi, enjoy your stay in that luxurious inn.

Wait till I prepare you a… earth‑shaking "big gift"!

By then, let's see if you can still keep your seat!

Outside the window, the north wind howled, as if it were warming up for the coming excitement.