Chapter 68

The fire from the Railway Operations Section really punched a hole in the sky over Fengtian Cheng.

The late‑night explosions and soaring flames were like dousing a pot of boiling oil with cold water; the whole city seemed to explode like a temple. Before daybreak, the earsplitting alarm kept wailing like a death‑summoning talisman, and squads of Japanese Soldiers and Black Dogs poured out, the roar of motorcycles and trucks shattering the quiet before dawn.

Martial law! The whole city under martial law!

All intersections were blocked with barricades, barbed wire and sandbags piled high, machine‑gun muzzles blackened and aimed at the street. The Japanese Soldiers' eyes were all red; when they saw a suspicious person they immediately greeted them with the butt of their rifle, and at the slightest disobedience they opened fire. Collaborationist police trailed behind, shouting and barking, even more overbearing than the Japanese.

Search every house, every door! Even if they have to dig three feet, they will root out the troublemakers! A Japanese officer riding an Eastern horse brandished his saber, his spittle turning into white mist in the cold air.

Cries, scoldings, door‑banging, dog‑barking… all the sounds mingled, turning Fengtian Cheng into a huge cage. Every household shut doors and shutters, people were anxious, not knowing when misfortune would fall on them.

The Yue Lai Inn didn't flee either. At the first hint of dawn, the wooden door was smashed with a deafening bang.

Open the door! Imperial Army is searching! Open quickly! Or we'll set the house on fire!

The shopkeeper scrambled to open the door, and before he could finish a sentence, a rifle butt slammed into his shoulder, making him wince in pain. A few Japanese Soldiers, fierce as wolves and tigers, and Black Dogs rushed in, bayonets flashing, breaking into the house and overturning everything.

The door of Li Ping'an's small hut was kicked open. A short, stout Japanese Soldier and two Black Dogs barged in.

Get up! Inspection! The Black Dogs barked arrogantly.

Li Ping'an had already woken; at this moment he leisurely sat up from the kang, his face showing just the right mix of fear and confusion, matching the shabby interior, looking exactly like a destitute commoner.

Officer… I… I am a good citizen… he said, shrinking his neck, his words trembling with a heavy Henan accent.

The Japanese Soldier gave the drafty, empty‑of‑anything hut a disgusted glance and asked in stiff Chinese: What's your name? What do you do? Papers!

Li Ping'an hurriedly fished the identification of Zhao Shi'an from under the kang mat, handed it over with both hands, his fingers still trembling. Zhao… Zhao Shi'an, a teacher… still hasn't found work…

The Japanese Soldier stared at the photo on the ID, examining it a few more times. The person in the picture was gaunt and mute, and indeed resembled the man before him, whose face was blue from the cold and whose eyes darted away.

One Black Dog had already begun ransacking, pulling out all the old clothes and odds and ends from the broken rattan box, scattering them on the floor, then stabbing the kang opening with a bayonet, finding nothing.

When did you move in? Where were you last night after midnight? another Black Dog asked in a harsh, angry tone.

Lived… I've been here three or four days… last night… last night I went to bed early, heard noises outside, got scared… scared, didn't dare go out… Li Ping'an stammered, eyes darting, playing the role of a timid, fearful civilian.

The Japanese Soldier and the Black Dogs exchanged glances, evidently seeing no fault in this shabby teacher. The short, stout Japanese soldier waved his hand impatiently, as if shooing flies: Get out of the way! Next!

The searchers muttered curses as they left, moving to kick the next room's door. Li Ping'an slowly crouched, picking up the torn clothes one by one from the floor; his fingers paused slightly when he touched the lining of an old cotton coat—inside were a few silver dollars and emergency medicine, luckily undiscovered.

He could hear louder curses and a woman's sobbing from the next room, as well as the sound of things shattering. The whole inn was in chaos, everyone on edge.

It wasn't until noon that this wave of frantic searches finally calmed down. Occasionally the street still echoed with motorcycle revs and sporadic gunshots, the atmosphere still taut.

Li Ping'an slammed the door shut, leaned against it, and slowly exhaled the foul breath. It had truly been a close call; if any detail had given him away, it would have turned into a fierce battle. He wasn't afraid, but his identity was exposed, and the plan behind it would be ruined.

Miyamoto Musashi, that old Japanese bastard, strikes so dark and fast. This fire seems to have hit his sore spot.

In the following days, Fengtian Cheng was like a pressure cooker with its lid sealed. The overt frantic searches seemed to ease a bit, but the covert surveillance definitely tightened. The inn's shopkeeper was summoned repeatedly for questioning, returning each time with a death‑pale face.

Li Ping'an went into full hiding; during the day he rarely left his room, surviving on the dried rations he had bought and the food stored in his hidden compartment. At night he entered the compartment, desperately practicing his cultivation: the ferocity of Bajiquan, the softness of Tai Chi, the ghostly footwork of the Carefree Step, twisting back and forth, converting the suppressed murderous intent and raging fire into a purer force; meanwhile he studied the map carefully, sensing the thread of intention heading north.

The Death Train seemed to linger at one spot for a long time, then began to move slowly again, still heading north, but into an even more desolate region.

We can't afford to waste more time. Fengtian Cheng has become a hotbed of trouble; Miyamoto Musashi roams like a mad dog, sniffing for scent—each extra day adds a risk. Moreover, every compatriot on that train, each moment of delay increases the chance of disaster.

We must slip out of Fengtian quickly and chase north!

But how to go? The whole city is under martial law, every intersection is checked rigorously, and without a Special Pass you can't get out. Sneaking over the city wall is too risky, easy to be caught by the Patrol Squad.

He needs to assume a new identity, one that plausibly allows him to leave Fengtian.

The opportunity came quickly. That afternoon, the shopkeeper, with a mournful face, knocked on his door.

Mr. Zhao… I'm sorry… this inn… I'm afraid we can't keep it open… the shopkeeper sighed, "the Imperial Army said that inns like ours have too many people of unknown background; they want to reform… they're urging us all to return to the countryside to lay low…"

Li Ping'an felt a stir inside, but his face showed worry: Ah? What… what am I supposed to do? I still haven't found work…

The shopkeeper looked at him, lowered his voice: I think you're an honest man… let me point you a way. Outside the city, at Ma San's Family, there's an Imperial Army… uh… farm that seems to be hiring, providing food and lodging, and even paying money. The work is a bit hard… but with Imperial Army paperwork, you can leave the city. Want to give it a try?

Imperial Army farm? Hiring? Li Ping'an sneered inwardly, sure it can't be good. But for him, it's a good opportunity!

Really? Thank you, shopkeeper! Thank you, shopkeeper! I'll go try right away! Better than starving to death in the city!

Early the next morning, Li Ping'an followed the shopkeeper's directions and found the recruitment point set up in West City. A long queue had already formed, filled with gaunt, desperate souls. A few collaborationist clerks sat behind a desk registering people, while Japanese Soldiers bearing rifles stood nearby, watching.

When it was Li Ping'an's turn, he used the same story of Zhao Shi'an, a Henan refugee who had studied a few years but couldn't find work. The collaborationist clerk lazily recorded his details, glanced at him: Can you read? Physically you seem okay. Go to the back, press your palm, receive a badge, and be there early tomorrow for the assembly, we'll send you off together!

The procedure was frighteningly simple. Li Ping'an pressed his palm, received a wooden plaque with a number, and felt a chill—this wasn't recruitment, it was clearly conscription! The fate of those taken away was obvious.

But he didn't care. This was the pass he needed.

Back at the Yue Lai Inn, he made a final check of his belongings. Destroy what needed destroying, store what should go into the compartment.

At night, he entered the compartment again, meticulously cleaning the southern handgun and loading it fully. He also prepared some explosives and incendiaries, hiding them in an easy‑to‑reach corner of the compartment.

He looked at his calm reflection in the Spiritual Spring, his gaze sharp as a blade.

Fengtian, farewell.

Miyamoto Musashi, I have taken your gift. Next time we meet, I will return an even greater one.

At dawn the next day, the overcast sky began to drizzle fine snow again. Li Ping'an, clutching the cold wooden plaque, followed a group of numb people toward the West City assembly point.

A broken truck waited there, its canopy draped with rough canvas. Japanese Soldiers shouted loudly, herding people onto the truck like driving livestock.

Li Ping'an kept his head down, squeezed into the crowd, and climbed onto the truck.

When the canvas was lowered, the cargo hold was pitch black, filled with the smell of sweat, fear, and despair.

The truck's engine hummed and rattled as it headed toward the heavily guarded city gate.

Passes checked, cleared to go.

The wheels pressed through the packed snow, driving out of Fengtian Cheng.

Li Ping'an leaned against the icy wall of the carriage, closed his eyes, and sensed the thread of intention heading north.

Death Train, I'm coming.

Harbin, I'm coming.

731… your good days are coming to an end.