Chapter 7: Iron Rails North, Deep into Nanluoguxiang

The sky‑high stench drifting from Li Deng's house hadn't cleared yet, and Li Ping'an was already like a shadow, slipping silently onto the green‑skin train heading north to Beiping. He curled up on a hard wooden slat seat in the corner of the third‑class carriage, listening to the monotonous "clack‑clack" of the wheels on the rails, a cold sneer simmering in his heart that he couldn't suppress. A faint, mournful alarm came from the direction of Zhengzhou City? Let's investigate! Only a real mess will be fun!

Half an hour later, Li Deng's petty affair was finally uncovered by the secretary who delivered the documents. The alarm wailed in a gut‑splitting howl, the whole manor was surrounded like an iron bucket, lights flickered wildly, and people shouted and dogs barked in chaotic uproar.

The unlucky cooks in the kitchen became ready scapegoats; when the ferocious military police dragged them away, their wailing cries were heard clearly even a few alleys away. But Gold Mountain flew away, Literature Mountain emptied, Book Mountain vanished… The Japanese Army officers stared at the empty treasury, their faces turning as green as Li Deng's last trait before death, their eyes blood‑red enough to drip.

"Baka! It's definitely the Security Bureau of Chongqing! Cunning Chinese spy!" The Japanese soldier leader slammed the table, producing a mountain‑like clang, his spit shooting out for a long distance. Li Deng was the biggest official to have died since the invasion of North China!

Zhengzhou City instantly turned into an iron‑spined hedgehog, its gates sealed, a guard post every five steps and a whistle every ten, boxes and cabinets overturned, chaos everywhere. After toiling under the high noon sun, no clue was found. That batch of priceless "Chinese family fortune," together with Li Deng's samurai sword, side sword, and gold watch, vanished as if evaporated, leaving a massive question mark and a humiliating disgrace hanging over the heads of the Zhengzhou Japanese soldiers.

Li Ping'an was too lazy to care about the flood raging behind him. The train puffed heavily, chugging northward, and he curled up on the hard seat, fished out a handwritten copy of the *Compendium of Materia Medica* from his space, and, by the faint light filtering through the window, became entranced.

With a body fortified by Spiritual Spring and that overpowered "comprehension," reading was as easy as drinking water. Neat small‑script, complex medicinal pairings, obscure meridian pathways—he memorized them at a glance! Not only did he retain them, his mind raced on its own, pondering why the formula matched, what effect pressing that acupoint produced, drawing analogies and making connections.

Hungry? The space supplied enough fresh corn cobs, chewing them gave a sweet mouthful, and the cob was casually shoved under the seat.

The train lumbered like an old ox, stopping and going. The carriage was packed like sardine cans, refugees, lone bandits, petty traders… all walks of life, sweat, cheap tobacco, and children's urine odor mingling together.

Li Ping'an's tattered clothes and that shriveled old bundle (the good stuff was in his space) made him a penniless, rattling little refugee. That broken bundle had been eyed by at least three or four "skillful hands" along the way.

Some came coughing and brushed past, some pretended to fall and snatched it, techniques varied, but the result was oddly identical—the bundle was empty, cleaner than a mouse‑licked surface! The pickpockets bumped heads, all looking disgruntled and slunk back into the crowd.

Li Ping'an didn't even lift a eyelid; his mind stayed on the medical book in his hand. Hmm, this "Seven‑Leaf Single‑Stem Flower" clears heat and detoxifies, mashed and applied topically can also reduce swelling… Next time he meets a blindfolded Japanese soldier, maybe he can try the new formula?

Three days and three nights, the wheels rolled over the Central Plains, a small pile of corn cobs accumulated under the seat, and he devoured five or six medical books. His mind was packed with herb names, soup‑making chants, meridian charts. He wouldn't claim to be a divine doctor, but at least he was a "half‑bottle‑of‑water medic".

The roadside weeds he casually plucked in his space, with a sweep of thought, revealed their properties, toxins, preparation methods—clear as day, recognizing about seventy‑plus herbs. The theory of inspection, listening, questioning, and pulse‑taking was thoroughly mastered, and with the mind's cheat‑like "X‑ray eye," the theory was perfect! He only needed a live human to hone his skills; paper tactics felt shallow.

Wooo—!

The whistle dragged a long, weary trailing note, announcing the end of the line. Beiping, arrived.

Li Ping'an pushed through the surging crowd out of the Front Gate railway station, a gust of wind mixed with coal smoke, dust, human sweat, and the ancient capital's unique scent hitting his face.

Unlike Zhengzhou's dead‑weight stillness, Beiping's atmosphere was denser, carrying a heavy, weary clamor. The gray‑hued city walls rose high, glazed tiles glimmering faintly under the pale winter sun.

The streets teemed with a woven flow of people, rickshaw pullers shouting as they weaved, bicycle bells jingling chaotically, those in long robes and mandarin jackets mixing with those in suits and leather, and now and then you could spot Japanese soldiers with noses pointing skyward and bowing Black Dogs (Pseudo Police).

Standing beneath the towering Front Gate tower, Li Ping'an felt, for the first time, a bit lost. The sea of people stretched endlessly—where could his sister be in some corner? Lin Ji Cloth Shop had moved to Beiping, but Beiping City is so vast, it's like finding a needle in the ocean!

A half‑grown child, with no place to settle, no means of livelihood, finds every step in this chaotic Beiping hard to take. He also needs a "Good Citizen Permit"; without that talisman, Japanese collaborators can easily find a pretext to throw someone into a prison.

"Nanluoguxiang…" the name popped into Li Ping'an's mind. In a TV drama from a past life, this alley was the stronghold of "Love‑filled Siheyuan." In his current time‑travel, did he fall into a Siheyuan set or a patriotic anti‑Japanese drama? Who cares! He first needed a place to settle. That spot was a mix of fish and dragons, well‑informed, rent probably cheap, perfect for a "black household" like him to lodge.

Decision made, he slipped like a determined loach, beginning to weave through Beiping's spider‑web of alleys. Asking for directions? He dared not be too conspicuous. Relying on a hint of sense of direction and a thief's sharp eyes, he dodged patrolling Japanese soldiers and Black Dogs, deliberately choosing the narrow alleys.

The bluish‑gray alley walls were tall and old, the plaster flaking off to reveal broken bricks underneath. Above, a narrow sliver of sky stretched, with clothes and trousers from various households hanging to dry, occasionally dripping cold water droplets.

The road beneath his feet was uneven and pitted, either dirt paths or broken bluestone slabs, dirty water slowly trickling along the wall‑base gutter. The air carried the smell of coal‑ball stoves, sour rot from spoiled vegetables, and a faint whiff of urine.

Grinding the scissors—cutting the kitchen knife!

Hard surface—bang!

The long‑drawn, Beijing‑flavored shout drifted lazily through the winding alleys, adding a touch of liveliness to the gray‑toned backdrop.

After seven twists and eight turns, his calves cramped. Finally, at a T‑junction, Li Ping'an halted. Before him lay an even deeper alley entrance, the blue‑brick wall looking a bit neater than elsewhere, the Old Locust Tree's twisted branches coiled, bearing a few stubborn dead leaves. A half‑worn blue‑background white‑letter enamel sign was crookedly nailed to the mottled plaster:

Nanluoguxiang.

No more running!

Li Ping'an inhaled deeply, the mixture of aged dust and smoky human scent filling his lungs. He tugged at the empty, shrunken bundle on his shoulder and stepped into this fated alley. Sunlight slanted across the bluish‑gray brick wall, casting long shadows. From deep within the alley, faint sounds of children's play and a woman's crisp Beijing‑dialect scolding drifted.

The next step is to dig up the legendary "Number 95 Courtyard" in this Nanluoguxiang, for himself and for his future sister, to find a roof that can shelter from wind and rain in this chaotic Beiping City.

He squinted, looking against the light toward the alley's depth, his gaze a mix of newcomer's bewilderment and a barely perceptible spark. In this tiger‑and‑dragon‑hiding Four Nine City, Li Ping'an has arrived!