Chapter 686: The Time of the Hunt

Egger always looked the same: he sat punctually at his desk every day, listening to radio programs or gramophone songs, savoring his wine. Now he drank wine produced by his own vineyard; the acquisition had been over a year, and as owner, he naturally sampled it first. After all, it was his own vineyard—even if the wine wasn't great, drinking it still brought him joy. Besides, the vineyard was decent, with some real depth.

After taking a sip, Egger swirled his wineglass contentedly: "Life is truly beautiful…"

"Germany has advanced westward and is preparing to attack you. Even if you don't care, you should at least worry about the losses to your vineyard, friend."

"What's there to fear? Wang, whether my vineyard suffers losses is still uncertain—you speak as if Falanxi has already been defeated, which is terrible. You must know we have the steel-and-concrete, glorious Ma Qinuo Line. We spent over a decade building it; inside are all kinds of artillery, trenches, fortresses, kitchens, power stations, hospitals, factories—all connected by endless passageways. Such an impregnable line, combined with our brave French soldiers, will be Germany's Waterloo right here!"

Wang Yan nodded. Egger was right—and not right. The part that was wrong: Germany's Waterloo would not be here. The part that was right: the "glorious Ma Qinuo Line" truly was impregnable. The key issue was, Germany never even tried to break it.

The Ma Qinuo Line bordered three countries: to the north, Belgium; in the center, Germany; to the south, Switzerland. Switzerland's side, where the Anglo-French forces had gathered to block Germany, had no line built. The northern stretch with Belgium was avoided because the border region was mountainous and roads were treacherous. Belgium also refused to build a line, so that section remained unconstructed. They also didn't believe Germany could advance through there, since Anglo-French forces were already stationed there.

But in fact, Germany had indeed gone around it…

Yet Wang Yan wouldn't argue with Egger about this. The reality was, every Frenchman firmly believed the Ma Qinuo Line was impregnable and could block and defeat Germany. They had poured so much money, manpower, and material into this "glorious, impregnable line"—if they didn't believe in it, wouldn't all that effort be wasted?

"Perhaps you're right," Wang Yan nodded. "But China has an old saying: if a man lacks foresight, he will soon face trouble. So you must look further ahead and prepare for the possibility of Falanxi's defeat. Know this: if Falanxi falls, the impact won't be limited to Europe—Falanxi's concessions in China will be affected too. If Japanese generals send troops in, our Shanghai French Concession cannot resist. When that time comes, Egger, though you won't die, your life will become unbearable."

"So what? Just some money lost. I've made enough over the years. How long can this war last? As long as I survive this stretch, won't everything go back to normal? Though I'm reluctant, I still know how to weigh life against property. Even if the Japanese seize the French Concession, Wang, my friend, you have good relations with the Japanese—you'll look after me, won't you? You will, right?"

Wang Yan laughed and nodded: "Of course, Egger. Don't worry—if that day comes, I'll guarantee your safety and make sure you eat well and drink well."

"Come, drink, my friend."

After more cheerful banter, Wang Yan left the police station and went out to inspect his various businesses.

His life was always so regular and natural; now with Ming Lou on the scene, he no longer had to worry about the Shanghai underground party's affairs. After all, anything important would first be known by Ming Lou—the real mole embedded deep in the core. So Wang Yan only needed to focus on his business.

Though he held high status and influence, daily troubles were never few. But relative to the worst—Japan—the rest were trivial. His relationship with the Japanese was handled very well; at least they'd stopped investigating him. Everyone was making money—it was acceptable.

In truth, his daily troubles were many: Qinglian Bank, for instance. Those bankers were genuine capitalists. With Qinglian Bank rising, it inevitably stole business. Besides, Wang Mou's name shone too brightly on the Shanghai Bund—he was trusted by the people, and his savings business thrived, which was a direct theft of livelihood. And Qinglian's own crew? Du Yong never stopped scheming; other messy affairs piled up too.

The dozens who died daily on the Shanghai Bund weren't all dying for ideology—many died for business…

"Hua Bisheng, your maternal uncle has arrived, waiting at the North Station Friendship Hotel. Please come quickly. Hua Bisheng…"

During the daily noon broadcast on the radio, Wang Yan, mid-meal, heard this missing-person message. It was an emergency contact code agreed upon with Lu Boda, the Shanghai underground party's first secretary, after the operation to rescue Song Xiwen ended a year ago.

Hearing the emergency code, he showed no reaction, continuing to devour his lavish lunch, his gaze drifting to the window, to a row of filthy street urchins across the street.

He'd once sent all the young beggars to school, feeding and housing them. The Shanghai Beggar Gang's top team vanished from the underworld; their vacant position was swiftly filled by a new top gang that scavenged Wang Da's leftovers.

But their structure was loose, unable to track Wang Yan's movements well. In the early days, they relied on luck, unable to pinpoint where Wang Dahan ate—he traveled by car, they walked, couldn't keep up. Over time, this gang compiled a list of Wang Dahan's favorite restaurants, absorbed the old beggar gang's experience, and followed the same path as before—living comfortably enough.

This proves China has no shortage of talent. Even illiterate beggars who rose from fierce survival struggles proved themselves clever. What determined their ceiling wasn't just opportunity, but character. People fail at things not because they lack ability, but because they can't persist. Those who persist often grow arrogant, complacent, satisfied with small gains, and collapse on the road ahead.

Of course, this applies only to those who've already broken through the first wave of obstacles and achieved something. Most people are killed in that first wave…

Wang Yan's mind was highly active. Having just marveled at the beggar gang's talent, he returned to the matter at hand: why had the Shanghai underground party urgently contacted him?

Synthesizing all he knew and heard, he could think of only one task requiring a top assassin like himself: assassinating Nan Tianyangzi.

At yesterday's banquet, he'd thought: this was the last time he'd see Nan Tianyangzi. Yet now the job had landed on him—words should never be spoken too confidently. He'd considered he might be called upon. But he also thought Ming Lou, that show-off, might handle it himself. After all, Ming Lou was proud; their mistakes might be covered up by sheer force of will. In the original plot, they did exactly that. It seemed forced, yet they succeeded.

But his presence was an anomaly—so powerful. Without him, fine. But he existed. So if a simpler, more efficient, safer solution existed, why force unnecessary difficulty? Understandable.

Thus, Ming Lou was still wise. The show-off's attitude hadn't sunk into his bones.

Of course, that was just a joke. Ming Lou, even as a show-off, operated in the covert warfront—careful, meticulous. When to act, what to choose—he knew his limits…

After yesterday's incident, Wang Manchun had no time to come and enjoy herself. And Yu Manli? With several middle schools opening recently, problems had surfaced over the past month—systems weren't fully developed, and elementary school matters demanded attention too. She'd suddenly become busy and had no time to visit him.

So after wandering all afternoon and eating dinner, he unusually retired early. Once everyone in the mansion was asleep, around nine, he changed his appearance, slipped out of the Wang Tianyue Gongguan, retrieved his hidden car and cash packed in a suitcase, circled around, and arrived at the Yonghe Hotel on Batignolles Road.

At the back door, he knocked twice short, twice long, twice short. Liu Qiulan cautiously opened the door, let Wang Yan in, and patted his shoulder, brushing off nonexistent dust: "It's been over a year—come in, we've been waiting."

Wang Yan said nothing, smiled, nodded, and walked straight into the study, settling into the single armchair opposite the desk, hidden in the shadows of the lamp.

"It's been over a year. How have you been?"

Lu Boda smiled and nodded: "Thanks to you, I lack nothing—so everything's fine." As he spoke, his eyes fell on the suitcase by Wang Yan's feet.

"You're right—it's the funds I brought. It's been over a year; I assume the money I gave before is long gone. This time, I brought thirty thousand U. S. dollars."

As he spoke, Wang Yan opened the suitcase and placed it on the desk.

Lu Boda stared at the stack of colorful greenbacks, grabbed a bundle, and rubbed it between his thumb and fingers: "No money, nothing gets done. You've been on a single-line connection with the organization—you may not fully grasp the situation. The penicillin you obtained was a monumental achievement. These past two years? Each year has been better than the last…"

He chattered a while, describing the CCP's real situation over the past two years, then turned to the matter at hand: "We've contacted you because a comrade embedded in the enemy's ranks is in danger—exposure is imminent. I don't know your cover identity, but I assume you've already identified our mole; otherwise, during these past dozen crises, you'd have contacted me."

"The mission: assassinate Nan Tianyangzi, chief of the Shanghai Tokumu-ku. She possesses sensitive information. To protect our comrade, she must die. Before you arrived, I contacted Chongqing to confirm you'd act. Their reply: you decide. If you're confident, act. If not, don't."

Though a choice was offered, it was no choice at all—it would always be "act." To any CCP member, the answer was identical: if conditions exist, act; if not, create them. Must act. Must succeed. This was the red spirit of courage, responsibility, and willingness to sacrifice.

Undoubtedly, in this era, it was pure faith, pure spiritual will. Even decades later, many still toiled silently, striving, acting, fulfilling the mandate to serve the people. The disgusting part? Only a fraction. Demons and monsters had multiplied.

Wang Yan nodded and asked: "If we're to eliminate Nan Tianyangzi, it must be because of something specific. If we kill her abruptly, won't that draw attention to this operation, leaving our mole still in danger?"

"We've already considered this. Once Nan Tianyangzi is gone, all other problems vanish," Lu Boda smiled. "Since you asked, you're going to act? We have only one week. When will you strike? And after over a year without action, you haven't grown rusty, have you?"

"I'm a killer. How could I grow rusty? As for timing—sooner the better. The longer we wait, the more unpredictable things become."

Lu Boda's eyes widened: "Now?"

"Of course. Is killing Nan Tianyangzi harder than holding off a thousand Japanese soldiers?" Wang Yan stood, smiling. "After it's done, I won't come back. Just keep an eye out. For the next contact code… use Ren Biwang. My uncle from home is looking for me."

"Ri Bi Wang—excellent," Lu Boda stood too. He wanted to say more, but the words died on his lips. All he said: "Take care!"

"I'm off!"

Wang Yan waved and left with ease.

Though his back looked confident, to Lu Boda's eyes, it carried the solemn, irreversible resolve of a man walking into frost and wind, never to return…

Wang Yan didn't think so much. For him, infiltrating enemy territory to assassinate was easier than holding a defensive line.

He knew the addresses of many Japanese officers—just in case something happened, he could respond instantly. These men were his partners; he sent gifts to their homes for holidays—not just Chinese ones, but Japanese ones too, especially the Emperor's birthday. Every year, bribing the Japanese cost a fortune.

He knew Nan Tianyangzi's address too. She lived in a large three-story garden villa on Jiangwan Road in Hongkou.

Wang Yan had anticipated the underground party's urgent contact, so when he left, he'd already applied the makeup of the Tokumu-ku agents he'd killed earlier. Leaving Yonghe Hotel, he drove straight to Hongkou without hesitation.

Those credentials were still flawless—even after two years, they granted him unrestricted access.

He didn't drive directly to Jiangwan Road. Instead, he parked his car down a distant alley and walked the rest. Basic precaution—cars made noise.

Nan Tianyangzi lived in the middle stretch of Jiangwan Road, in a very nice area. As chief of the Tokumu-ku, her security level was high—not just her residence, but the entire street was well-guarded. Many Japanese officials lived here. The military police patrols were dense and focused.

War ultimately depends on comprehensive national strength—and high-quality senior officers are part of that strength. A train runs fast because of its locomotive. Undoubtedly, Nan Tianyangzi's rank placed her among the locomotives.

At the entrance to her villa stood four guards; the interior situation was unknown, for Wang Yan had never entered. But it was likely there were still several people inside—though more likely women, given that Nan Tianyangzi was a woman. Even at her level, gender distinctions had become less important, yet the physical differences still constantly reminded her.

Wang Yan lay prone on the roof of the adjacent house, observing the conditions around Nan Tianyangzi's residence.

The three-story villa had lights only on the second floor. Four guards patrolled the front, four the back, to prevent ambushes from behind. They worked in pairs, taking turns on night watch.

These men could not be moved, for they were on night duty, patrolling the courtyard, while outside on the streets, military police conducted dense patrols. Even if they didn't know each other, they all had familiar faces. Even if none were familiar, daily patrols always saw the guards at Nan Tianyangzi's gate—sudden disappearances would draw military police attention too soon and expose him.

Although Nan Tianyangzi's death would inevitably be discovered, there was a world of difference between being found tonight versus being found tomorrow morning.

Thinking of this, Wang Yan quietly slid down from the roof, climbed along the adjacent wall, and slipped to the side of Nan Tianyangzi's residence.

Though four guards still stood watch in the backyard, human attention is limited; prolonged duty, prolonged absence of incidents, and Japan's continuous victories had made them lax in their duties.

Conveniently, there was a window on the side of the house. Wang Yan moved swiftly, opened the window silently, leapt inside like a fish, and quietly closed it again.

This was a storage room, unoccupied. Because it faced north and was on the first floor, it was uncomfortable to live in.

After checking the environment, Wang Yan carefully opened the door a crack, saw no one outside, slipped out, and crept to the door of the adjacent south-facing room, drawing out Han Feng from his space.

Tonight's half-moon cast faint moonlight through the windows, dimly illuminating the room. Wang Yan revealed no face—only a shadow, and the shadow of his long blade in hand.

He gently opened the door, peered through the crack: on the bed lay a woman, perfectly still, breathing evenly—deeply asleep.

Wang Yan spoke no wasted words. He stepped in silently, placed the long blade against the Japanese woman's throat, applied slight pressure—three parts into the flesh—slashed her throat, and withdrew the blade, catching against her neck bone.

The Japanese woman gasped twice, then suddenly opened her eyes, clutching her neck as blood spurted, staring fixedly at the cold silhouette standing at the head of the bed—too dark to make out.

Blood poured from her hands; within moments, the white cotton quilt and sheets were soaked in a vast, horrifying stain.

This was intentional. Wang Yan could have simply snapped her neck, but it had been a long time since he'd killed—he wanted to let some blood flow. It was somewhat perverted, but applied to these Japanese, it seemed perfectly normal.

Seeing the woman dead, Wang Yan took his blade and left the room, carefully searching every room. As he passed the living room sofa, he casually severed the telephone line.

After checking every room on the first floor, he killed two more Japanese women—one also asleep, the other just beginning to drift off, having only recently lain down to serve Nan Tianyangzi.

It was past midnight. Nan Tianyangzi treated Japanese people fairly well—perhaps because she was a woman herself, she didn't make things difficult. Otherwise, if she stayed awake, someone would always have to be on hand to serve tea and water.

Dealing with these two Japanese women was equally easy. Even if they'd been fully armed, if they'd so much as cried out to raise the alarm, Wang Yan would have deserved to have spent his years as a dog.

Having searched every room on the first floor, Wang Yan did not pause on the second floor but went straight to the third. Judging by the light, Nan Tianyangzi—hard at work, devoted to the Empire—was undoubtedly on the second floor. He needed to confirm no one was on the third floor before killing her, so no unexpected interference would arise after he struck.

After confirming the third floor was empty, he returned to the second floor, checked all rooms except the lit study, then slowly approached the study door.

Nan Tianyangzi wore a kimono, her hair loose, seated beside her desk processing documents. Normally she wore her army uniform; she rarely had occasion to wear a kimono. She was, after all, a woman, a Japanese woman—occasionally she admired herself, often thought of home; the kimono was her solace.

She worked with intense focus—there was no choice. A woman who reached this position had to work harder than any man to earn male recognition. She had poured out her heart and soul, exhausted herself completely.

Because she was so absorbed in her work, she noticed nothing amiss. By the time she sensed something wrong, Wang Yan was already beside her.

Startled, she jerked upright, instinctively looking up at the figure beside her. The room was brightly lit. When she saw Wang Yan's familiar yet alien face smiling at her, her eyes widened in shock—she recognized him. The Chinese man who gave her the most money, the one Chinese she could never easily control. In that instant, she understood the truth: Wang Yan was Pei Min; Minglou and Mingcheng were Red Party members. She opened her mouth to scream—

Wang Yan swiftly grabbed her throat, crushing her cry back down, then dragged her swiftly to the study door—because the light would cast their shadows on the window, and those outside would notice.

Nan Tianyangzi's eyes rolled white from suffocation; her hands desperately pried at the hand choking her neck. Being short, her feet kicked helplessly in the air as she fought for her life.

Wang Yan was no man who enjoyed theatrics or unnecessary words. Without hesitation, he spun her around so her back faced him, pressed the blade to her throat, released his grip, and drew the blade—like slaughtering a chicken.

Freed, Nan Tianyangzi collapsed to the floor, clutching her neck, staring fixedly at Wang Yan's smiling face. She gasped, "Huh… huh… huh…"—so many words she wanted to say. But in her unblinking eyes, the light faded at last.

This female major of the Imperial Army, chief of the Shanghai Tokumu Kikan, a woman stronger than any man—she was dead!

Confirming her death, Wang Yan stepped around the pool of blood, turned off the study light, then went to turn on the bedroom light, returned to the study, severed the telephone line again, and began searching through documents.

He had overlooked it earlier—he told Lü Boda he wouldn't return. Only here did he see: Nan Tianyangzi's home held many classified documents. How could he not take them?

Looks like he'd have to make another trip… He leisurely sifted through the documents in the study…

Killing Nan Tianyangzi wasn't difficult. What set him apart from ordinary men was his near-superhuman speed, his extraordinary self-control, and his meticulous mind. Together, these three ensured his actions approached zero error.

He never accidentally touched anything or made a sound during operations. When scaling walls, no sound. Opening windows, no sound. Killing, no sound. Walking, no sound. Or rather, even if he made noise, it was like wind rustling grass—not the kind that drew attention.

That was why, even in a brightly lit room, he had reached Nan Tianyangzi's side while she was absorbed in work before she realized it. Only when he entered the lethal proximity did her subconscious alertness trigger. And even that was because Nan Tianyangzi was somewhat alert—if she'd been ordinary, Wang Yan could have stood right beside her without being noticed.

Of course, this success relied on the premise that Nan Tianyangzi was absorbed in her work, a loyal subject of the Empire.

But had she spotted him immediately, he would have simply thrown a dagger through her throat—no difficulty at all.

Yet despite such formidable strength, he could kill only one Nan Tianyangzi. After she died, others would immediately raise their defenses; then he'd have to launch a direct assault. So even if he wished to assassinate many high-ranking Japanese officers, it was impossible. But he could still prolong the operation—though with lower efficiency and greater risk.

Calmly, methodically, he gathered the documents, spending over ten minutes stuffing them all into his space, then strolled over to turn off Nan Tianyangzi's bedroom light.

Perhaps earlier than her usual bedtime, perhaps later—but regardless, the focused Nan Tianyangzi had fallen asleep…