Chapter 657: Deadly Danger

The new moon of the first day cast no light; heaven and earth lay equally dark.

On the high walls of the vast estate, a hazy black shadow suddenly appeared. The shadow did not pause, nimbly leaping over the thorny barbed wire; the three-meter wall was cleared in a single bound, producing only the faint scrape of shoe soles against gravel—no heavy thud of a fall from height. His lightness was sublime, as if he had defied gravity.

Wang Yan leaned against the wall, glanced left and right, then slipped away swiftly. He ran to the safehouse, changed his attire, applied makeup, and secretly went to the Fuxing Pawnshop on Fuxu Road.

This time he did not go straight to knock, but spent a long time circling the perimeter, observing the surroundings. He could not be certain whether Lu Boda had been exposed. Nor was it just the Japanese—any normal decision-maker, upon suspecting someone yet wishing to avoid alerting them, would first act by setting up surveillance. In truth, more often than not, suspicious individuals were tracked for days to map their movements before being seized outright, to avoid delays and the risk of escape.

Fortunately, everything around was normal; Lu Boda had not been exposed. Wang Yan then went to the back door and knocked as usual: two short, two long, two short.

Soon, Liu Qiulan ran out to open the door, said nothing, hurriedly let Wang Yan in, and returned to stand guard at the entrance, listening.

When Wang Yan entered the study, he saw Lu Boda rubbing his eyes—he must have been asleep and had been startled awake by Wang Yan's sudden arrival.

"Comrade Pei Min, what's happened?" Lu Boda glanced around, saw no suitcase in Wang Yan's hands, and frowned.

Wang Yan sat down on the sofa behind the desk lamp, skipped pleasantries, and got straight to the point: "I received word that the Special Higher Police used a traitor's tip to capture a senior Shanghai underground party member in the International Settlement. You haven't heard the news yet, but the arrested comrade is suffering heavily and cannot be interrogated—he's being treated and recovering in a hospital. I couldn't press further to learn his exact name or hospital. I came to inform you—quickly confirm his identity. Also, to ensure my safety, keep the confirmation process as quiet as possible."

"What?" Lu Boda's eyes widened sharply, but years spent behind enemy lines had forged his calm under crisis. He immediately asked: "Is the information reliable?"

Wang Yan said nothing. Lu Boda paused, shook his head—since the man was sitting here, if the info were false, why would he come in the middle of the night to deliver it?

"I'll arrange an investigation immediately. If it's true, your participation in the rescue operation may still be needed."

"When the survival of the Shanghai party organization is at stake, I naturally bear full responsibility. The operation must be swift and covert. We don't know what the traitor has revealed, nor who among our comrades is being watched. If true, the Japanese will respond—they know I'm in Shanghai; they may well be setting another trap to lure me in. This rescue won't be simple—it won't be as easy as last time's jailbreak. That's all for today. I'll come back tomorrow night. Reporting to higher-ups can wait until we've clarified the situation tomorrow. I'm leaving."

Lu Boda nodded, stood up, and shook Wang Yan's hand: "Good. Stay safe."

Wang Yan left without hesitation. Passing the door, he nodded to Liu Qiulan, swiftly slipped out, and vanished. He and Liu Qiulan had spoken only once—during their first meeting.

Liu Qiulan closed the door, returned inside, and looked at her husband and leader, his face grim: "Something happened?"

"Comrade Pei Min received word that one of our key comrades has been arrested due to a traitor's betrayal. He can't confirm the identity—ask us to verify quickly. If true, prepare a rescue operation to avoid greater danger. Immediately contact Xiao Wu and the others—start with our Shanghai party standing committee members, confirm their safety. Be careful, be discreet. Tell them not to alert the enemy—if they sense our movements, Comrade Pei Min will be the first in danger. He's too important to risk. Also, their residences may be under surveillance—watch out."

"Yes, I'm leaving now."

"Be careful!"

Liu Qiulan gave Lu Boda a long look, said nothing more, turned to change clothes, called the guards in the front hall, and quietly left the pawnshop.

Every departure was a farewell—perhaps the last. In China today, this was utterly ordinary.

Lu Boda had no time for sentimental thoughts. He sat at his desk, lit by the small lamp, smoking one cigarette after another, his mind rapidly replaying recent reports sent to him…

The next day, though he had stayed up late last night, delivered the warning, and slept barely two or three hours, Wang Yan still woke early as always.

He moved the smooth arm and leg of Wang Manchun, which had been draped over him, then pulled the blanket over her exposed skin. Dressed in a light, breathable, milky-white silk training suit and a pair of thousand-layer-soled slip-on cloth shoes, he dampened his hair, combed the tangled strands neatly back, stretched his arms, loosened his limbs, and went downstairs.

He drank the boiled water prepared by Uncle Wu and Aunt Liang, offered perfunctory concern for their rest the previous night, then stepped outside to warm up. Afterward, he ran laps around the small path in the Wang Tianyue Gongguan courtyard—cleared by Uncle Wu, redesigned and landscaped by others.

The residents of Julida Road were all wealthy; unquestionably, the roads here were excellent—lush trees on both sides, smooth pavement, fresh air. Morning jogging was quite pleasant.

But it was clearly unsuitable for someone of Wang Yan's status. Even if no one wanted to kill him, even if he could openly stroll about with Qi Si, he could never truly relax. If someone seized this opportunity, they might feel compelled to act—even if they hadn't planned to. There were too many ambitious men on the Shanghai streets; a pawn could kill a general, after all.

After finishing his run and strolling a bit, Wang Yan followed routine to the lawn to practice his fists. Slowly, each movement precise and proper—but not Tai Chi.

Techniques, methods—countless variations, all held within the mind. Today, Wang Yan's martial cultivation could be summed up in one word: "Wuji"—the origin. Only his physical limits prevented him from fighting many strong opponents at once—human strength has its limits.

If this world truly became mystical, he could likely attain Martial Godhood on the spot…

Just as he finished his practice and was washing up, Wang Manchun, still tired, arms crossed, watching from the side, clapped: "Every time I see you practice, you seem so powerful. They say you rose to power with your fists alone—I wonder who's stronger, you or Comrade Pei Min of the Red Party?"

Wang Yan raised an eyebrow: "You don't suspect I'm Pei Min, do you?"

"You?" Wang Manchun rolled her eyes so far back they nearly vanished into her skull—she had zero respect for Wang Yan.

"You say that, yet still compare me to Pei Min?"

Wang Yan shook his head helplessly, took the towel Qi Si handed him, and wiped his face: "Actually, your point isn't wrong. Among my men, there are martial artists—each with family traditions of Wu Gong, each a master. I've sparred with them, even learned their styles. None could match me. We're all flesh and blood—if it were one-on-one, I wouldn't fear Pei Min."

"But is that possible? Can he send me a formal challenge three days in advance saying he'll come to duel and kill me? He's an assassin—his movements are elusive, he emerges from nowhere. What good is my strength? At my level, there's no longer any 'can I fight' question—whoever's the boss goes out swinging a blade? It's mainly for health, to live longer, to enjoy more. You know that best. Besides, times have changed—we use guns and cannons now. A bullet from hundreds of meters away ends a life. No matter how strong you are, one bullet is enough. It's useless."

Hearing Wang Yan say she had the most authority on the matter, Wang Manchun punched him lightly: "You're useless in every way except this—this is why I can't let you go."

"That's value," Wang Yan chuckled. "By the way, don't forget Mingjing's matter—I promised him. Not handling it well won't look good. There's no need to target him. Think: you still have feelings for Minglou. When he returns and finds out how you've tormented his elder sister, how will he feel about you?"

Wang Manchun snorted: "I never expected anything. I'll call my uncle right away—so you, Detective Wang Da, don't break your word. I'm leaving…"

Minglou was her wound. She never brought him up unless forced, especially not to someone as strange as Wang Yan—rehashing old grievances was pointless.

Wang Manchun left. Wang Yan, with Qi Si in tow, strolled back, washed up, changed clothes, had breakfast as usual, then rode out in Qi Si's car.

"Boss, our billboards are all up," Qi Si said, leaning over the steering wheel, eyes wide as he stared at the roadside ads—everywhere, instant noodles and soda.

"That's promotion. We want people to think of our Shanghai brand when they think of soda, think of Master Wang when they think of instant noodles. We need them to form habits, to trust Master Wang's noodles and Shanghai soda—only then can we earn long-term profits. Drive. Circle the main roads in both the International and French Concessions—check if everything's done. We spent too much money to waste it."

Wang Yan had successfully taught people of this era what promotion and hype meant.

On every major road in the International and French Concessions, giant billboards loomed; building walls were plastered with massive posters. Every newspaper's front page, without exception, featured the photo of over half of Shanghai's elite eating instant noodles during the factory's opening. The follow-up news stories detailed the noodles and soda—from ingredient selection and production process to flavor profiles, and the evaluations of the elite.

Other literary newspapers carried articles by writers of the era—chronicles, lyrical pieces—all without exception praising the instant noodles and soda.

Four days had passed. Too far to reach, but in nearby Jiangsu, Zhejiang, and Shanghai, promotion was complete. Factory orders were surging—all from Jiangsu, Zhejiang, and Shanghai. More machines were being manufactured under the guidance of Datong's faculty and students; future capacity would be far greater. As for hiring, it had never stopped—people were recruited daily. The entire factory operated twenty-four hours a day—people rested, machines did not—maximizing production.

Of course, Wang Yan kept his word—Datong received full payment, and he arranged new premises for them. Without exaggeration, among the few universities still operating in Shanghai, Datong University was now the wealthiest and best-equipped. Because of this influence, its previously sparse student body had transformed—new students flooded in, and many scholars joined.

All of this was because Wang Yan's promised share of the noodles and soda profits gave them money to pay teachers. In this era, even experts suffered—they all struggled. As for increased enrollment, that too was due to Wang Yan: as long as students studied quietly and avoided ideology, he could provide them with an excellent learning environment. Stability—this was the rarest luxury of the age…

After circling about, Wang Yan finally went to the police station, gathered information, then went to his superior, Mitchell.

"Oh, Wang, you're here—I was just about to send someone to find you." Seeing Wang Yan enter, Mitchell warmly rose from his desk and invited him to sit on the sofa.

"Has something happened?"

"Yes—but it's good news."

Mitchell walked to the liquor cabinet, took out two bottles of wine, poured two glasses, returned, took a sip with Wang Yan, dragged out the suspense, then continued: "I'm being transferred back to Falanxi…"

He watched Wang Yan's face naturally shift to congratulations, and before Wang Yan could flatter him, he added: "I recommended you to Superintendent Sulaiman Heid to replace me as Chinese Superintendent, responsible for public order in the Central District."

"Oh, my goodness!" Wang Yan's congratulations turned to astonishment—he mimicked a foreigner's exaggerated gestures, over-the-top expression, voice trembling with suppressed excitement: "Thank you so much, Mr. Mitchell. To be honest, Egger hinted you were planning to return to Falanxi, but I never thought it was true. And I never imagined you'd recommend me. Sorry, Mr. Mitchell—forgive me, I should be sad you're leaving—you've always been so kind to me all these years—but I'm just so happy…"

The position of Chinese Superintendent was different—especially as Superintendent of the Central Police Station. He would control the largest number of Chinese constables, wield greater influence, enter deeper into the French Concession's power center, gain more prestige and clout—and consequently, earn far more money. Of course, not from legitimate business…

"It's fine, Wang. You're young—if I were you, I'd be even more excited. But even without my recommendation, this position was always yours. Among Chinese, you have immense influence. We should place people like you where they can truly serve."

Wang Yan nodded with a smile, then asked: "What will you do after returning to Falanxi?"

"Still police work—but logistics."

"This is a good assignment—just look at Aige, no need to get tangled up in so much right and wrong, and it's leisurely, saves worry."

"Yes, this is a good assignment." Mitchell nodded repeatedly, smiling so wide his gums showed, clearly very satisfied with the position: "But it'll be two more months before I can wrap things up here, you may have to wait patiently."

The two chatted cheerfully for a while. Seeing that Wang Yan showed no reaction, Mitchell let out a long sigh, took a swig of his brooding wine, and said with feeling: "Wang, don't think this assignment of mine is easy—I've paid a lot for it. In your Chinese people's words, you have to sacrifice the child to catch the wolf; I've poured in half a lifetime of savings…"

This is openly asking for money, shameless…

Wang Yan smiled and nodded: "To gain, one must pay—that's the rule of the world. Mr. Mitchell, you've looked after me a great deal over the years. Although going back to Falanxi you could still earn that money back, it would be too slow in the end. You know, my instant noodles and beverages have been selling very well lately, and you've tasted them yourself.

I think, how about this: I supply you with goods, you go back to Falanxi and find people to sell and promote them. The beverages may be fairly ordinary, but the instant noodles—only my family has them. Once the goods reach Falanxi, factoring in shipping costs and other expenses, selling them a bit dearer is understandable.

Besides, the people of Falanxi are richer. Even if my instant noodles sell a bit dearer there, how dear could they really be? They have a novel taste, a wonderful experience—I think even in Falanxi, sales won't be poor. On the final profits, I can give you sixty percent; I think this will let you quickly recoup what you put in."

The distance between Falanxi and Shanghai is too great; an outgoing official with no further use has no value. Once he leaves, most likely they'll never meet again in this lifetime. So Mitchell was clear-headed: he wanted to squeeze a lot of money out of Wang Yan—that was a pipe dream. If he pushed Wang Yan too far, he might not even get the chance to go back to Falanxi for that good assignment. Still, whatever he could grab was something; the current outcome suited him fine. He wasn't a fool—of course he understood the money-making power of a new thing.

He laughed heartily, raised his glass, and clinked it against Wang Yan's: "That's the way. Once I'm back in Falanxi, we must keep in touch."

"Of course. I've been under you for so many years—even after you leave, we're still friends. Cheers, Mr. Mitchell."

The two exchanged a smile and took big gulps of the wine, heads tipped back. Only Wang Yan knew: in less than a year, Falanxi would be dragged into war; in less than two, Falanxi would be defeated and surrender, and a puppet Vichy government would be set up—those days wouldn't be easy either.

After discussing the specific details of the plan with Mitchell, Wang Yan left and went to the commissioner's office. Now that the news was out in the open, of course he had to be sensible and go offer money himself, to settle the matter once and for all.

Now he was idle too, without the previous research activities, a lot of work had vanished at once. Although the instant noodle and soda business, because it had just opened, was in a flurry for the moment, that was all his subordinates' affair, nothing to do with him. If there were problems, they'd naturally come to him; if they hadn't come to him, then naturally he just kept an eye on the progress and waited for the results.

In the afternoon, he received a call from Wang Fuqu, saying that the batch of medicines from the Ming family had been cleared, and asking to find a time to have a meal together. Wang Yan refused—no time for that.

No sooner had he hung up on Wang Fuqu than Ming Jing called too, the gist being to thank him—the goods had cleared customs—and saying a check for ten thousand U. S. dollars had been delivered to his home, and putting on a show of inviting him to dinner to express gratitude.

Wang Yan of course refused—take the money, do the job, no need for an extra dinner. Ming Jing's skill at flattery was pretty poor, and dinner would be boring.

Just like that, a boring day passed. Today was for keeping healthy, so after dinner with Qi Si, Wang Yan returned early to the Wang Tianyue Gongguan, read and wrote, and rested early.

Once everyone was asleep, he secretly slipped out of the Wang Tianyue Gongguan, changed clothes and disguise at the safe house, went to Fuxu Road to scout the surroundings once more, and only then entered the Fuxing Pawnshop to meet with Lu Boda.

"It's been confirmed—it's Comrade Song Xiwen, the one in charge of the transport line in our Shanghai underground Party organization." Those were the first words Lu Boda said upon meeting Comrade Pei Min, expression solemn.

"Who is the traitor? And at which hospital is Comrade Xiwen receiving treatment?"

Lu Boda sighed and shook his head: "For your safety, we didn't dare investigate deeply. Only last night's emergency contact—all the senior comrades were reached, except Comrade Xiwen, who didn't respond. There are also special agents surveilling near his residence. This morning, after inquiries, it was confirmed that Comrade Xiwen went to Aiwenyi Road in the International Settlement yesterday noon, and a disturbance broke out there too. Now this traitor is likely still lurking in the ranks, watching our movements. As for which hospital, the preliminary judgment is the Japanese Army Hospital, but further confirmation is needed."

"What about Comrade Xiwen's family?"

"In his old home in Hunan. His cover identity was that of a traveling merchant. The Anhe Trading Company mentioned before when we sanctioned Xia Changguo—that owner is Comrade Xiwen. The penicillin documents transmitted last time were also handled by Comrade Xiwen."

Wang Yan furrowed his brow: "There must be our people in that trading company—why was there no unusual movement on their end?"

"Because Comrade Xiwen had gone to Zhejiang earlier; before he reached the trading company, he was seized. There's a time lag in the information—those comrades are still in the dark, being monitored by the Japanese."

Wang Yan nodded and got to the main point: "You said preliminary judgment just now—based on what?"

"Medical conditions, and Comrade Xiwen's importance—the Japanese must value his life even more than Comrade Xiwen himself does. Of course, we're also investigating hospitals in other Japanese-occupied areas, but that takes time."

Wang Yan said nothing, hidden behind the streetlamp, curled up in the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, fingers interlaced over his belly, the two thumbs circling round and round…

Lu Boda didn't disturb him either. He silently lit a cigarette, and in the ashtray already crowded with butts on the table, tapped the ash off again and again…