leonardwarren Chapter 153 Murder, Leaving a Mark, Vanishing Without a Trace
Chapter 153 Murder, Leaving a Mark, Vanishing Without a Trace
Chapter 154 Murder, Leaving a Mark, Vanishing Without a Trace
"Slap! Slap! Slap! Slap!"
The four crisp sounds were like four tiny bubbles bursting on the surface of a lake in early spring—insignificant.
But in this heavily guarded secret room of the Special Higher Police, those four soft sounds became a death knell.
Lu Cheng's wide, moon-white sleeves swept across the room like flowing clouds, and when he pulled them back, not a single wrinkle appeared on the cuffs.
Four top Jonin, known as the "Shadows" of the Black Dragon Society, slammed their poisoned short swords onto the tatami mat with a clang, and fell straight backward like boneless sacks.
There was no splatter of blood, nor any agonizing screams.
Lu Cheng used the "Reversal of the River Chariot" technique, a martial arts master's move, to wield his sleeve.
The force penetrated their bodies, turning the internal organs of these four killing machines into a complete mess. They didn't even utter a sound before meeting their Amaterasu.
"You, you————"
Nakamura, the head of the Special Higher Police, was still holding up the Nambu Type 14 pistol that had just emptied its magazine.
The gun was emitting wisps of smoke, but his hand was trembling like a leaf.
He watched helplessly as his most elite guards were wiped out in less than a breath, as easily as dusting off a shoulder.
Bullets can't hit you, and in close combat you can't even touch the hem of someone's clothes.
Is this even human?
This is clearly a living Yama who crawled out of hell!
"Don't come any closer."
Nakamura felt his liver and gallbladder rupture, and his legs went weak.
With a "thud," he fell onto the tatami mat, using both hands and feet to back away until his back pressed firmly against the broken coffee table.
"I am an officer of the Great Japanese Empire. If you kill me, the Imperial Army's iron hooves will trample the entire Beiping, and your Qingyun Troupe and your theaters will all be bombed to the ground."
Nakamura screamed hysterically, trying to bolster his courage with the massive imperial machine behind him.
"Noisy."
Lu Cheng lowered his eyes slightly, his eyes, which appeared incredibly deep under the blessing of the [Exquisite Heart], were as still as a deep well.
He took a step, his black cloth shoes with thick soles making no sound as they stepped onto the tatami mat.
"You people always like to use guns and power to oppress others."
Lu Cheng walked up to Nakamura and looked down at him.
"In your eyes, we opera singers and martial arts practitioners are nothing but remnants of the old era, cattle and sheep to be slaughtered at will."
"Unfortunately, you've miscalculated one thing."
Lu Cheng slowly raised his right hand.
"What is it?" Nakamura asked instinctively, his voice trembling.
"Even cattle and sheep will butt people when cornered, let alone—"
"Chinese martial arts, passed down for thousands of years, cultivate a righteous spirit and forge an indomitable backbone. Guns and cannons can kill, but they cannot extinguish this spirit."
"I will kill you today, not for personal revenge."
"Just to seek justice for those Chinese martial artists in Tianjin and Beiping who have been oppressed and poisoned by you."
The words fell.
Lu Cheng's fingers, as if plucking flowers and leaves, gently touched Nakamura's brow.
He didn't use the powerful Bengquan (a type of fist strike) or the fierce palm technique.
Just one finger.
"Buzz—"
A subtle, almost invisible aura traveled along Lu Cheng's fingertip and instantly pierced Nakamura's skull, penetrating straight into his brain.
"Well----"
Nakamura's eyes suddenly bulged, and the whites of his eyes instantly became bloodshot.
He opened his mouth wide, making strange "clucking" sounds in his throat, but he couldn't utter another word.
That hidden force exploded instantly in his brain, destroying all his nerve centers.
His body convulsed violently twice, then his head slumped down limply, and he died completely.
Cause of death: Brain death.
In terms of appearance, apart from a barely visible red dot between his eyebrows, there were no other marks.
Lu Cheng withdrew his hand, took out a snow-white cotton handkerchief from his sleeve, and carefully wiped the finger that was not actually stained with any blood.
He turned around, his gaze falling on the wall riddled with bullet holes.
There, originally hung a ukiyo-e print of a Japanese ronin.
Lu Cheng took something out of his pocket.
That was a theatrical mask.
It's neither Guan Yu's red face nor Zhao Yun's handsome appearance.
This is an old man's face painted with crushed cinnabar, extremely tragic, and even somewhat ferocious.
It was he who was preparing to play the role of Hua Yun, the Ming Dynasty general who would rather die than surrender, in the play "Battle of Taiping".
On this mask, two thick eyebrows are like inverted swords, and blood lines representing weeping blood are outlined at the corners of the eyes, revealing a heroic and unyielding spirit of "the city lives and we live, the city perishes and we perish".
Lu Cheng flicked his wrist.
"Take it."
This blood-red mask, representing the spirit of Chinese martial artists, was firmly nailed to the very center of that Japanese ukiyo-e print by a flying locust stone.
The pebble penetrated three inches into the wall, tearing apart the Japanese samurai depicted in the ukiyo-e print.
Beside the mask, Lu Cheng pointed his fingers like a sword, channeling his inner strength, and carved two lines of characters on the hard wall with flowing strokes.
The force of the finger penetrated the wall, and stone chips fell down in a flurry.
The handwriting was powerful and incisive, exuding a fierce and arrogant spirit.
[We've overcome countless obstacles; you lowly rats are nothing but targets for sale!]
[Lu Cheng respectfully submits this message.]
After finishing writing, Lu Cheng didn't even glance at the room full of corpses.
With a swift movement, he unleashed the [Ghostly Shadow Step], his entire being drifting out through the half-open window like a wisp of smoke, instantly merging into the night mist of the Haihe River in Tianjin.
It comes like thunder, then subsides with fury; it departs like the calming light of a still river or sea.
He kills, leaves his mark, and disappears without a trace.
This is what true mastery looks like.
The next morning.
The fog in Tianjin had not yet completely dissipated, and a cold wind carrying a fishy smell was blowing wildly through the streets.
The poor folks who get up early to make a living are hunching over, queuing up at the roadside breakfast stalls to buy a set of jianbing guozi for two copper coins.
In the Japanese concession, on Asahishiro Street, a three-story gray brick building was now eerily silent and desolate.
"Baka yarou!!!"
A fierce roar came from the third floor of the building with the "South Manchuria Railway Company" sign, making the Japanese military police on guard downstairs tremble.
The three-story Western-style building houses the top-secret interior of the Special Higher Police.
Major General Ichiro Ono, the brigade commander of the Tianjin Garrison Army, stared intently at the horrific scene on the tatami mat with bloodshot eyes.
His hands, which had been holding the sword for years, were now trembling violently.
The room was filled with the smell of blood and a foul odor.
Four Jonin, representing the Black Dragon Society's highest combat power, were bleeding from all seven orifices, their ribs shattered, their deaths extremely gruesome.
Meanwhile, Nakamura, the head of the Special Higher Police Section and the highest-ranking official in charge of the Japanese Empire's intelligence network in North China, was kneeling there in a strange posture.
There was no external injury, no bleeding, just a red dot between his eyebrows.
The person is already completely cold.
What made Ono Ichiro's scalp tingle and even sent a chill down his spine was the blood-red opera mask nailed to the wall.
And those two lines of wildly cursive script that penetrated deep into the wall, as if mocking their incompetence.
[We've overcome countless obstacles; you lowly rats are nothing but targets for sale!]
[Lu Cheng respectfully submits this message.]
"Lu Cheng—Lu Cheng!!!"
Ono Ichiro gritted his teeth as he muttered the name, his fat face contorted like a demon.
"A Chinese actor, a low-class thug!"
"He actually dared to single-handedly break into the heart of the Special Higher Police of our Great Japanese Empire, kill our chief, and leave behind this humiliating provocation."
"This is an utter disgrace, a blatant declaration of war against our Imperial Japanese Army."
Ono Ichiro suddenly drew his officer's sword from his waist and began frantically hacking and smashing everything around him.
The coffee table, the screen, and even the broken window were all hacked to pieces by him.
"Move troops! Move troops immediately!"
Ono Ichiro roared hysterically at his adjutant behind him, spitting all over the adjutant's face.
"Bring our two gunboats from the Haihe River over here, and point their cannons at the French Concession."
"Assemble the entire Third Regiment, load their bullets, draw their bayonets, and immediately advance into the French Concession to surround that National Hotel."
"I want to turn that Chinese pig named Lu Cheng, along with his entire opera troupe, into mincemeat. I want the French Concession to hand over its people. If they don't, I'll raze the French police station to the ground as well."
The adjutant turned pale with fright and stammered his attempts to dissuade him.
"General, please calm down."
"That's the French Concession. Although the French forces are small, they represent the West. If we rashly open fire and send a large army in, it will cause an extremely serious international diplomatic dispute, and Nanjing will also take advantage of the situation—"
"I can't worry about that anymore!"
Ono Ichiro's eyes were bloodshot; he had been overwhelmed by the successive defeats and humiliations.
First, the spy at Dengying Tower was eliminated, then the sword saint at Hongkou Dojo was killed, and now even the head of the Special Higher Police has been assassinated in a secret room.
If he doesn't tear Lu Cheng to pieces, Ono Ichiro will have no choice but to commit seppuku to apologize to the Emperor.
"I am the highest commander here. I will take responsibility if anything goes wrong."
"Go and give the order immediately: in five minutes, have the cannon aim at the National Hotel and fire."
The adjutant was sweating profusely, and was just about to bite the bullet and go to relay the order.
Just then.
"Thump."
A sound of a cane hitting the ground came from outside the door.
The sound wasn't loud, but strangely it drowned out Ichiro Ono's roar.
Immediately afterwards, footsteps were heard outside the door.
An elderly man dressed in a black kimono, thin as a rake and with a slightly hunched back, slowly walked into the blood-soaked secret room, supported by a Japanese samurai.
The old man had his eyes closed, his eye sockets deep-set, and he was holding a string of shiny black Buddhist prayer beads in his hand.
Although he was blind, the aura he exuded was as deep and unfathomable as an abyss.
Even the furious Ichiro Ono subconsciously restrained his rage the moment he saw the old man.
A grandmaster of the Japanese martial arts world.
Matsutokan elder, Funakoshi Kazuo.
"General Ono, your heart is in turmoil."
Funakoshi Kazuo's voice was old and hoarse.
He didn't look at the corpse on the ground; his blind eyes seemed to see through everything.
He slowly walked to the wall, stretched out his withered, bark-like fingers, and gently stroked the characters carved deep into the brickwork.
"Such domineering finger strength, such pure internal energy."
"7
As Funakoshi Kazuo sensed the lingering martial arts essence within the handwriting, his brow furrowed slightly.
"Yin and Yang intertwine, dragon and tiger complement each other. This young man is no longer at the level of internal strength."
"He crossed that threshold. He achieved enlightenment."
Neutralize the force!
Upon hearing those two words, the several high-ranking Japanese officers in the room all gasped in shock.
They were all too aware of the destructive power of a Grandmaster of Internal Energy on the battlefield.
That was a terrifying existence that could stroll leisurely through a hail of bullets and take the head of a general amidst thousands of troops.
"Funakoshi-sensei————"
Ono Ichiro swallowed hard, his tone becoming much more respectful, but still tinged with resentment.
"Even if he's a master of internal energy cultivation, he can't stop our cannons. He's humiliating the empire, I must—"
"madness."
Funakoshi Kazuo uttered two words calmly, ruthlessly interrupting a major general's speech.
"Do you think cannons can solve everything?"
When Funakoshi Kazuo turned around, his pale eyes, though unseen, made Ono Ichiro unable to meet his gaze.
"You bombarded the National Hotel to the ground and killed that opera troupe. And then what?"
"The only people you'll kill are innocent civilians and that insignificant opera troupe."
"Moreover, your shelling of the French Concession will inevitably provoke the West. The Empire's layout in Manchuria is at a critical juncture, and we must not create any unnecessary complications."
Funakoshi Kazuo's words were scathing, utterly refuting Ono Ichiro's ridiculous impulsiveness.
"But, teacher—"
Major General Ichiro Ono knelt at the lower end of the table, the veins on his forehead throbbing.
"Is the Imperial Japanese Army really going to swallow this insult?"
"madness."
Funakoshi Kazuo slowly uttered two words.
"Ono, you only saw his arrogance, but you didn't see his level of understanding."
"Do you think that sending a few hundred soldiers with rifles to surround and kill someone who can silently infiltrate the Special Higher Police's secret room and shatter Nakamura's brain with a single finger strike of qi?"
Funakoshi Kazuo's withered fingers tapped lightly on his knee.
"A master of Transformation Realm, with unparalleled foresight. He sensed the army's movements even before they were launched."
"A forceful attack on the French Concession would not only provoke a joint protest from Nanjing and the West, jeopardizing the empire's grand plan," but would also force him into hiding.
"A master assassin with no ties, hidden in the shadows, will make you, me, and even Your Excellency the Commander, afraid to close your eyes even when you sleep at night!"
Ono Ichiro shuddered, and a cold sweat involuntarily broke out on his spine.
"Then—in your opinion, teacher?"
"Attack the mind, break the spine."
A cold smile appeared on Kazuo Funakoshi's age-spotted face.
What do traditional Chinese warriors value most?
"He values reputation, rules, and that intangible sense of integrity." Since he's an opera singer, and supposedly a "leading figure in the opera world" and a "shining light of Chinese martial arts," the stage is his Achilles' heel.
Funakoshi Kazuo leaned forward slightly.
"Go and deliver a message to the pro-Japanese faction in Nanjing."
"Wasn't that customs commissioner Song Ziqi humiliated by Lu Cheng at the flour mill last night, with his wrist crippled? His father is a high-ranking official in Nanjing, with connections everywhere."
"Tell Commissioner Song that our Great Japanese Empire is willing to help his son get revenge."
"We need to put pressure on the French Concession Municipal Council to unseal the Chinese Theatre, which has been closed."
Ono Ichiro was taken aback.
"If the lockdown is lifted, wouldn't that allow him to finally go and perform?"
"Yes, let him sing."
Funakoshi Kazuo's pale eyes revealed a venomous glint.
"But this is not an ordinary grand performance. We will, in the name of the Imperial Japanese Army, unite with consuls from multiple countries to upgrade it to a 'Martial Arts and Arts Goodwill Exchange Conference.'"
"Invite all the prominent figures, celebrities, and journalists from home and abroad to the stage."
"Under the spotlight, in front of the foreigners' long guns, short cannons, and cameras."
"I, this old man, wish to take the stage myself."
Funakoshi Kazuo clenched the prayer beads in his hand tightly, making a "crunching" sound.
"I want to beat this shining star of Chinese martial arts to death on that small stage, in a fair and square manner."
"I will crush his bones inch by inch and throw them at the feet of those Chinese."
"I want all Chinese people to see with their own eyes that their proud martial arts, their last spiritual backbone, are nothing but a pathetic joke before the martial arts of the Great Japanese Empire!"
"Only in this way can the blood of resistance be completely drained from this land."
Ono Ichiro was so excited by what he heard that he suddenly bowed his head.
"Hai."
"Teacher's insight is brilliant. I'll get on it right away."
The sky over Tianjin was gray and gloomy, exuding a sense of oppression.
The atmosphere outside the National Hotel in the French Concession was extremely eerie.
On the surface, it still looks bustling with traffic, but the cigarette vendors, rickshaw pullers, and shoe repairmen on the street corners have almost all been replaced by a new batch of unfamiliar faces.
Those men, with their sharp eyes and bulging waists, were clearly spies planted by the Japanese military police and plainclothes collaborators.
The entire National Hotel has been surrounded by an impenetrable subway tunnel.
However, in the heart of this tense and paranoid encirclement, a completely different scene unfolded in the luxury suite on the third floor of the National Hotel.
-
The morning light is dim.
The room wasn't filled with a tense, murderous atmosphere; instead, it was filled with a smoky, inviting aroma that made one's mouth water.
On the mahogany round table, there were authentic Tianjin breakfast items that had just been bought from a time-honored brand in Nanshi.
The freshly fried cakes have a golden and crispy outer layer, and when you bite into them, the red bean filling inside is piping hot and sweet and sticky.
Two large bowls of steaming hot Gaba Cai (a type of Sichuan hot pot), mung bean noodle pancakes cut into willow leaf strips, drizzled with rich vegetarian sauce, sesame paste, fermented bean curd sauce, sprinkled with bright green cilantro and bright red chili oil, the aroma is irresistible.
There were also several sets of freshly made jianbing guozi stacked next to it, with crispy fried guozi sandwiched inside.
In those days, it was rare for ordinary families to have such a sumptuous breakfast all year round; this meal would cost almost half a dollar.
But Shunzi and Lu Feng, who were standing by the table, didn't move their chopsticks at all, just like clay sculptures.
Shunzi's towering frame was taut, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. Every now and then, he would lift a corner of the heavy velvet curtains and glance down at the street below. With each glance, his brows would furrow even deeper.
"Master————"
Shunzi swallowed, his voice a little dry.
"The shoe repairman at the street corner has been replaced by a ronin with a Japanese sword, and behind the window on the second floor of the teahouse across the street, there are at least two machine guns mounted. We're—we've been surrounded."
Lu Feng didn't speak, but the wolf cub's hand remained firmly pressed on the hilt of the knife at his waist.
The newly developed internal energy was thrashing about under his skin like a mouse, clearly indicating extreme tension.