Chapter 679: All About Acting

Curiosity, nosiness, gossip—these are universal human flaws. Not just the Chinese, but people worldwide all enjoy them.

Recently, there have been rumors in the consulate that the new consul, Hirokawa Hideto, is a nobleman with powerful connections. This claim has been widely accepted by many Japanese staff within the consulate.

After all, everything leaves traces. Nobles are always few; most people in the consulate climbed step by step. Some came to China early to study or work, others were military officers transitioning to civilian roles, and still others were dispatched from the home islands. Other connections, lacking strong backing, were assigned to low-level jobs to shorten their promotion timelines. Only a few privileged fools were given easy posts to waste time.

Although Hirokawa Hideto had a resume, he lacked ability. When leading his subordinates, he never demonstrated the competence required of a consul. His arrogance in dealings with others was palpable to anyone. Such people were familiar to consulate staff—because the previous time-wasters had acted exactly the same when they first arrived.

Most crucially, Iwai Eiichi's unusually favorable attitude toward Hirokawa Hideto. Japan's internal hierarchy is rigid; without other backing, it's hard even to earn a kind word from a superior. So why does Iwai Eiichi, who ranks among Japan's top officials across China—even in Shanghai—treat Hirokawa Hideto differently? That deserves deep thought.

Thus, gradually, as rumors about Hirokawa Hideto spread, they became the hottest topic in the consulate recently.

Iwai Eiichi, of course, knew these rumors. He specifically summoned Fujiwara Shin'ya and warned him to keep a low profile, get along with colleagues, and humbly learn and ask questions where he lacked knowledge.

Fujiwara Shin'ya listened, but it made no difference—the rumors had already spread. At first he was cautious, because Wang Yan had warned him, and Iwai Eiichi had said similar things; he feared being killed. After all, as a Fujiwara, without ambition, he could still live comfortably for life.

But after being careful for a while and finding no anomalies, and especially after seeing no one wanted to harm him, he lowered his guard. His range of movement expanded beyond just Hongkou.

The most bustling parts of Shanghai were still the International Settlement and the French Concession. These areas had been developed for years and were far more complete—food, drink, brothels, gambling, opium—if you wanted it, you could find it. And given the Kuomintang's conduct, even without full-scale war or Japanese occupation of Shanghai, the Kuomintang's Greater Shanghai Plan remained a castle in the air.

It was mid-December. The Jinxi Incident had yet to be resolved. Walking the streets, one often heard people discussing and cursing the Kuomintang.

Dressed in a tailored suit, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, a trench coat over his shoulders, and a top hat on his head—making himself appear more mature, like a Western-educated talent—Fujiwara Shin'ya stepped out of his apartment on Yokohama Road, next to Ding Xiaohe.

Lately his mood had been good, with no pressing worries. If forced to name one, it was that everyone in the consulate speculated about his background, and his reputation had even spread outside—this annoyed him. But he performed well at work; his subordinates and colleagues he coordinated with all recognized his competence, giving him a sense of accomplishment. With accomplishment, how could he not celebrate and relax?

Though he had been in China for nearly three years, he had always been traveling outside. China was poor then; only a few major cities existed. Though he ate well, drank well, and was guarded by servants, the environment was still inferior to the bustling Shanghai.

He had always loved women. But that night, during Iwai Eiichi's welcome party, when he met Wang Yan's power, a shadow fell over his heart. Ever since, whenever he reached a critical moment, he recalled the sounds from next door that night, compared himself to Wang Yan, felt the crushing disparity—and lost his libido, at least for now.

So lately he had taken to gambling. He had no shortage of money—his status guaranteed it. For people like him, money was the least of their concerns. After that welcome party, the Chinese attendees, including Wang Yan, all gave him money afterward. Only Wang Yan had additionally sent him a generous supply of fine Western liquor.

He had arranged to meet his newest Japanese friend—the son of a Japanese Army lieutenant general stationed in Shanghai—to gamble together in the International Settlement. He didn't care about winning or losing; he simply loved the thrill of uncertainty. After all, how much could he lose? Even if he lost everything, he could double it back the same day—and still keep his life.

He got into the car driven by his subordinate, met his new friend along the way, and the two cars drove one behind the other across the Suzhou River into the International Settlement.

Just then, a tram clanged its bell as it passed along the tracks. The two cars stopped one behind the other, waiting for the tram to pass.

At that moment, eight people, tightly wrapped up, emerged from the crowd on either side of the vehicles.

As they walked, they threw open their coats, revealing concealed black firearms underneath.

Fujiwara Shin'ya had been sitting in the car, bored, watching the crowd outside. He watched helplessly as those damned Chinese pulled out guns, their black muzzles aimed straight at him through the window.

His mind went blank—he didn't know what to do. But at the same time, overwhelming fear surged in his chest, instantly paralyzing his body. His bladder loosened, and a hot stream gushed out.

But he hadn't yet felt the warmth between his legs—it was too late. In his eyes, the black muzzles aimed at him had already begun spitting flames.

In a daze, he saw a bullet spin out of the chamber, pierce the car window glass, and hurtle straight toward him. In his brief but wicked final moments, his consciousness seemed to return to three years ago—to the woman who had held a submachine gun, her face twisted in a triumphant, cruel grin, spraying bullets at him—*tatata*—puncturing his body with countless bloody holes…

Six men occupied the two cars. Eight gunmen fired from multiple angles on both sides. The six unprepared Japanese were instantly riddled with bullets. That wasn't enough—two more pulled out hand grenades and tossed them through the shattered windows. Two explosions later, the battle ended.

At the first gunshot, people with street-fight survival experience had already screamed and scattered. Only after fleeing far from the scene did they hide in corners, peering out cautiously.

The eight gunmen confirmed everyone inside the cars was dead. They hid their guns under their coats, hunched shoulders, arms crossed, and sprinted in all directions, blending into the crowd of onlookers and vanishing.

Not long after, a whistle blew—and officers from the International Settlement rushed over…

"Mr. Iwai, I heard Mr. Fujiwara was killed in the International Settlement this morning. I came specially to see you. What a pity. I once planned to go out and have fun with him, and now, barely half a month later, this has happened. Truly…"

In Iwai's residence, Wang Yan spoke to Iwai Eiichi, who wore an expressionless face, as if he truly regretted it.

Ming Lou, standing quietly to the side, tried his best to lower his presence, watching Wang Yan's performance. He had once felt a small pride—after all, navigating among many factions, stealing intelligence, secretly steering events, gave him a sense of accomplishment. But since Wang Yan had uncovered him, he had corrected his mindset, becoming more cautious and careful.

Now watching Wang Yan perform before him, he had to admit—even as a professional undercover agent—he couldn't match this. If he hadn't known Wang Yan had proposed killing Fujiwara Shin'ya, if he hadn't known Wang Yan had secretly spread rumors about Fujiwara's identity and provided intelligence to Chen Gongshu, he would never have suspected Wang Yan's involvement.

Ming Lou couldn't tell. Iwai Eiichi couldn't tell either. He was confident in the sincerity of Wang Yan's regret. He never doubted Wang Yan's loyalty to the Japanese—because he knew Wang Yan had zero loyalty to the Great Japanese Empire. After all, who could be loyal to those who invaded their homeland? He knew well: Wang Yan stayed in Huaxia not out of loyalty, but because he couldn't bear to leave Shanghai.

But he was certain Wang Yan wouldn't stir up trouble—he'd rather avoid them entirely, wishing to stay eight hundred meters away. Today's visit was surely to reassure him, to show concern.

So he waved his hand: "Wang Sang, we've known each other nearly a year. How could I not know your character? Put your mind at ease—I won't think you wanted Fujiwara dead. You're the local kingpin of Shanghai—you know the situation better than we do. Tell me what you've learned."

Wang Yan nodded: "The moment I heard the news, I called the local police station. The chief inspector told me eight well-trained, efficient assassins used American submachine guns to attack Fujiwara and his companion. They emptied all their rounds in seconds, then threw two American hand grenades. They immediately questioned bystanders—no one saw the assassins' faces or knew their whereabouts."

Such equipment, paired with such trained operatives, I believe it was almost certainly the Military Intelligence Bureau's Shanghai station. The Communists are poor—they don't have these weapons. And the new head of the Action Section, Chen Gongshu, has been in Shanghai for months. Aside from killing one Chinese inspector from the French Concession's Political Department, he's done nothing. Dai Yun must be dissatisfied, forcing Chen Gongshu to act."

I'd heard rumors in the consulate about Fujiwara's background. Perhaps Chen Gongshu heard them and chose Fujiwara as his target. In Chinese terms: whether there's grass or not, sweep first—kill Fujiwara and see what happens."

Mr. Iwai, Fujiwara is from the Fujiwara clan. Now he's been killed under your command—they won't…"

He recited a long list of facts the Japanese already knew—essentially saying nothing—but effectively demonstrated his deep concern. Finally, he asked how this affected Iwai Eiichi, showing clear care for him. Combined with his worried expression and anxious eyes, who could suspect he had instigated the Military Intelligence Bureau to assassinate Fujiwara Shin'ya?

Iwai Eiichi shook his head, then couldn't help sighing: "Trouble always arises—it's unavoidable. Shin'ya… he was simply too young. I repeatedly warned him to be humble, to keep a low profile. Perhaps too many years of luxury blinded him—he couldn't look down. His death isn't anyone else's fault—it's the result of his own arrogance."

He was genuinely troubled. This was an unforeseen disaster. His position was high, true. The Fujiwara clan wasn't as powerful as in the past, true. But that didn't mean he could disrespect them. They had merely learned from experience and hidden themselves better.

Though they wouldn't directly blame him, Fujiwara Shin'ya had died under his command. Other retaliation aside, he had already lost the Fujiwara clan's friendship.

He didn't dwell on the topic. He lifted his head, his gaze fierce: "You're right—it was the Military Intelligence Bureau. Before you came, I already ordered them to intensify crackdowns on both parties."

Seeing Wang Yan lower his head, staring silently at the floor, he waved his hand impatiently: "Enough, Wang Sang. I understand your intentions. You and Ming Sang may leave now. Ming Sang—don't forget my orders. I expect results during this period."

Ming Lou stood and bowed: "Yes, Mr. Iwai. I'll return to work."

Wang Yan also responded, and the two left Iwai's residence together.

"Mr. Wang, your acting is truly superb. Had I not known beforehand, I'd never have suspected you were involved. In fact, Iwai Eiichi didn't suspect you at all. Amazing, amazing."

"Life is a play. Without good acting, how can one survive in this world?"

"But I noticed Iwai Eiichi's reaction—he didn't seem greatly affected?"

"He's reached this status. The Fujiwara clan isn't so tyrannical. The impact isn't now—it's in the future. From what I've learned, he's next in line for Chief Consul. But now, with this incident, if the Fujiwara clan merely plants a small obstacle, he'll remain Deputy Chief Consul for years. He might even be transferred out of Shanghai to some poor, backward place. All unknowns. It depends entirely on Iwai Eiichi's power."

"He'd be better off gone. That man terrifies me. Do you know what he's researching? How to castrate the Chinese mentally."

"A fine idea. Whether it can be done is another matter. From what I know, the Communists have many hard bones—but also some soft ones. I hope you're a hard bone. Don't disappoint me." Wang Yan waved his hand, unwilling to discuss spiritual matters further. "Enough. We've talked too long here. Contact me later. I'm leaving."

"Alright, Mr. Wang, take care."

Ming Lou closed the rear door for Wang Yan, smiling and waving farewell. He understood Wang Yan's meaning—it was a gesture of goodwill in response to his self-revelation. Now, Wang Yan knew he was Military Intelligence Bureau and Communist; he knew Wang Yan had instigated Fujiwara's assassination. Though this wasn't a real lever—if he were captured and confessed, it wouldn't truly harm Wang Yan—it would still make the Japanese suspect Wang Yan.

For someone like Wang Yan, once suspected by the Japanese, death was nearly certain. He'd have to be cautious in everything, unable to act freely, constantly defending against false accusations. He might escape for a while—but never forever.

He believed Wang Yan had simply been too lazy to act himself, and had let him do it. After all, with Wang Yan's strength, if he disliked Fujiwara Shin'ya, he could easily have hired someone to kill him and make it look like a Military Intelligence Bureau operation. After all, both parties' agents had taken the blame for many killings in Shanghai—it would have been flawless. So Wang Yan, being lazy and wanting to return the favor, had handed it to him neatly. His depth was too great—he couldn't fathom it…

In fact, Ming Lou was right. Wang Yan simply didn't want to act—he used the Military Intelligence Bureau's hands. If he acted himself, he couldn't send subordinates—he'd have to go personally. And his assassination style was unmistakable: silent, nocturnal, killing without a sound. The Japanese would immediately suspect him. Backlash against the Communists would follow.

Though enemy agents had never relaxed their operations against the Shanghai underground party, this incident created a clear primary target. Even if the two parties truly cooperated, they'd still distinguish between "us" and "them." So it was better for the enemy to focus on the Military Intelligence Bureau. It had nothing to do with anything else—it was simply a matter of faction.

Moreover, the Jinxi Incident has yet to be resolved, and the two parties are still fighting each other…

However, regarding the Jinxi Incident, he received commendation from his superiors during his communication two days ago. He also received a reply from Li Zhao, who stated that the cause of the previous incident had been thoroughly investigated, issued a stern rebuke to Li Zhao, and told him to relax and continue doing his work well—without mentioning anything else, such as his subordinate Gu Zhang Yongcheng.

This is naturally normal; although both are on the covert front, their positions and duties differ—how could one casually expose a comrade? This is mutual protection.

He himself is of great importance; Gu Zhang Yongcheng's side should also be able to pull out a group of people. If they exchanged identities and one was arrested, or if one cracked under pressure, it would harm both sides and destroy the organization's plan.

Now, by not exposing him, when Gu Zhang Yongcheng truly meets with misfortune, it's still the same phrase: Wang Yan knows nothing—and he'll just shrug it off…

Fujiwara Shin-ya's death is of no major consequence to the situation—it merely annoys the Japanese, and the only one who suffers is Iwai Eiichi.

Wang Yan has returned to his former peaceful life.

His current position has reached its limit; there is no further room for advancement.

At the Police Bureau, he has already reached the highest rank a Chinese person can attain—what remains is merely to court other inspectors, unify their stance, and establish his authority as the de facto Chief Chinese Inspector.

With the Qinglian Group, he cannot act yet—it is not the right time; he is still quietly infiltrating.

In business, China is only so large, the goods it can absorb are only so many, and with the current poor situation on both Eastern and Western fronts, the market has already become saturated. The only thing enabling his breakthrough is penicillin—a wartime necessity—he has already sold it to the Soviet Union and Germany. Other nations have yet to develop it; making this money is easy and pleasant.

At this point, what else could he do but enjoy himself every day? He only wants to stay low-key, to keep the Japanese from obsessing over him, and to keep the struggle at a distance—that is enough.

The struggle has stayed away from him, yet it continues to unfold.

In January, a special train carrying a Japanese military inspection team was bombed; everyone aboard died.

On the night of the Spring Festival in February, a gunfight broke out in a Western restaurant on Avenue Joffre in the French Concession…