Chapter 1551 - The Mission
None of those who had come to Lingao knew the specifics of the mission. Clearly, the Stone Elder had no confidence that they could safely infiltrate Lingao. That was precisely why he had firmly refused to reveal the operation's details in advance.
According to their agreement, in three days they would rendezvous to discuss the next phase of the plan.
However, Sima Qiudao had not yet received any new instructions. Zhuo Yifan's group had arrived as immigrants; there was nothing suspicious about them exchanging large sums for circulation vouchers, so he had no need to hand over operational funds.
Sima Qiudao left the train station and strolled to the Fourth Postal Station in East Gate Market, then walked inside.
He went to the "Rental Mailbox" section. The local products company maintained a dedicated business mailbox here; all correspondence with commercial partners was handled through it.
At the Seventh Lord's suggestion, Sima Qiudao had volunteered to pick up the mail each day after joining the company. This gave him a convenient and reliable contact address.
Exchanging greetings with the postal staff, Sima Qiudao opened the company's business mailbox. It was stuffed with various letters and circulars. He laid them out on the sorting table, reviewed each one, then placed them in his satchel.
Suddenly, one ordinary-looking letter made him pause. Outwardly, it was indistinguishable from the others—another commercial circular. But the sender's address and company name were false. This was the recognition code for a contact message.
Back at the shop, he handed the mail to the manager. After work, he went out alone, found a small tavern, and took a private booth. He ordered a pot of fruit wine, a dish of sprouted beans, a plate of salted snails, a few skewers of grilled squid, and a large bowl of Lingao rice noodles—the picture of a bachelor enjoying a cheap night out.
The tavern was not crowded tonight, and the food arrived quickly. Sima Qiudao cocked his ear to listen—no suspicious sounds outside. Only then did he tear open the letter.
Inside were a few thin sheets. The contents seemed innocuous: business talk about local products. Of course, this letter could never be allowed to fall into company hands—the sender's name corresponded to no actual client. Sima Qiudao held the letter to the flame of the gas lamp; from the blank areas, characters gradually emerged.
After reading just a few lines, he drew a sharp breath. Damn! This is far too difficult.
The letter contained the mission: kidnap one or two True Shorthairs—actual transmigrators—and smuggle them back to the mainland.
Having spent these past days in Lingao, Sima Qiudao had learned something of local conditions. Kidnap a True Shorthair? Easy to say—but finding one in the heart of Shorthair territory was as hard as scaling heaven!
It was not that the transmigrators were recluses. Sima Qiudao often saw newspaper reports like "Such-and-such Chief attended such-and-such event." Occasionally, at the local products company, he overheard talk of this or that Elder visiting a Commerce Bureau enterprise. The problem was that Lingao teemed with naturalized citizens. Unlike red-haired foreigners whose foreign features drew attention, transmigrators blended in among them. Moreover, the transmigrators' work and living circles were composed entirely of naturalized citizens; the only natives who could approach them were a handful of early local elites.
For someone like Sima Qiudao—just now entering a "state enterprise," head still unshaved—he was an outsider. He had virtually no opportunity to come near any transmigrator, let alone carry out a kidnapping. He rarely even caught a glimpse of any "Chief."
And even if one could seize a True Shorthair, spiriting the captive away was even more unimaginable. Lingao was the Shorthairs' capital, with open and hidden agents everywhere. Just in plain view were police, garrison troops, and National Guard—omnipresent. Their side had neither connections nor inside help here. Approaching a transmigrator was nearly impossible; kidnapping and escaping with one was simply beyond comprehension.
Which idiot dreamed up this scheme?! Sima Qiudao cursed inwardly as he held the paper to the lamp flame and set it alight.
There was nothing for it but to take things step by step. He calculated silently: kidnapping a True Shorthair was nigh impossible—perhaps capturing a Fake Shorthair cadre would be easier. But even then, the target would need to be a high-ranking official. If they snatched just any "four-pockets" cadre they passed on the street, and it turned out to be a mere clerk, what good would that do? Here was another difficulty: the Seventh Lord had told him that the Fake Shorthair "cadres" were ranked, with various titles and grades. But outwardly they all wore the same four-pocket jacket—no official robes, no embroidered insignia squares. On the street, there was no telling who ranked higher. They would need an inside guide.
What they lacked now was precisely that "inside man." The Seventh Lord could provide valuable intelligence, but still refused to reveal his identity.
Alternatively, they could simply assassinate one or two True Shorthairs. Sima Qiudao mused: a fierce fight would be inevitable, and few would return alive. Unifying their story would be easy—just claim that the True Shorthair had been captured, then killed in transit when intercepted. That left no body to produce.
As long as they brought back some authentic transmigrator artifacts, the Stone Elder would have to believe them. And even if he doubted, what could he do? Sima Qiudao had already secured the promise of a high official in the capital: whether the mission succeeded or failed, if he returned alive, he would be recommended to Hong Chengchou's staff.
If so, he should focus his planning on "assassination." Huang Zhen would present no problem—as the senior disciple of Mount Hua, he was seasoned enough to grasp the stakes with a single hint. Zhuo Yifan, on the other hand—though Sima Qiudao had limited contact with him, the man was the son of an official household and the disciple of the White Stone Daoist. A young man who had known nothing but success—if he clung stubbornly to notions of "loyal service to the realm," he might not be easily fooled.
After much deliberation, Sima Qiudao decided to contact Zhuo Yifan first. After all, Zhuo Yifan's group was the main force in this operation. Once contact was made, they should act quickly—the less time spent in Shorthair territory, the better.
Upon receiving Sima Qiudao's coded letter, Zhuo Yifan set out that day, following the instructions, to meet Huang Zhen and the others in Nanbao.
Nanbao was far less prosperous than East Gate Market, with little commerce or industry. After leaving the station, the streets seemed almost deserted. Yet for Zhuo Yifan—who in recent days had been compelled to accompany the "housing tour group" all over town and maintain the pretense of "head of household"—the quiet was a welcome relief.
This area was near the Li territories: classic hilly terrain. Though coal mining had damaged some of the original landscape, the mining zones were limited; most of the land remained scenic. The township's greening efforts were quite good.
The sky was overcast, threatening rain. Zhuo Yifan, fearing a downpour, quickened his pace.
Rounding a bend, he suddenly heard a commotion ahead. He looked and saw a young man dressed like a wealthy scion, flanked by several brutish servants, accosting and harassing a Fake Shorthair woman.
The young master held a fine Xiangfei-bamboo folding fan, wore a lake-blue silk straight robe, a scholar's square cap, white cloth socks, and crimson Chenqiao cloth shoes. He had the appearance of a scholar, yet there was a certain vulgarity in his eyes. Seeing his "prey" now surrounded, he smirked with delight, hiding half his face behind the fan, casting what he imagined was a suave and rakish smile—though in truth it was merely lascivious and repulsive.
Zhuo Yifan recognized him: the White Family's young master, nicknamed "Refined Bai"—a fellow lodger at the same inn.
As for the Fake Shorthair woman, she hardly looked like a respectable lady. She wore a light-colored cross-collared blouse with sleeves that barely reached her elbows, tailored close—so that her chest was... quite pronounced—and though that was already provocative, her blue skirt was short to an outrageous degree. Not only were her calves fully visible, but one could even see her knees clearly. In her alarm, she stumbled backward; the hem of her skirt rose, revealing glimpses of her thighs.
At first, Zhuo Yifan had felt nothing but contempt for the lecherous young master harassing a woman. But seeing the Fake Shorthair girl so "indecent," his righteous indignation ebbed. She brought it upon herself!
Still—a commoner woman being accosted and molested—surely one ought to step in. Yet he was in a precarious position, unfamiliar with this place. If he intervened and complications arose, and his identity were exposed...
He hesitated. Suddenly the street erupted with shrill whistle blasts. The onlookers scattered at once. Startled, Zhuo Yifan did not understand what was happening—then he saw a policewoman running toward them, blowing her whistle as she shouted: "What's going on here? Stop!"
Seeing that the only responder was a woman, Zhuo Yifan worried silently. Whatever drug the Shorthairs were taking, they staffed so many public positions with women. Amazonian types would have been one thing—but these were mostly ordinary young girls. This one, still some distance away, seemed quite comely.
Women were naturally disadvantaged in strength; thus, female martial artists tended toward agility and nimbleness, never relying on brute force. Bai Siwen's three burly servants might not know martial arts, but they were all powerfully built and had numbers on their side. If she charged in recklessly, she might not prevail.
Of course, if Bai Siwen's retainers had any sense, they might simply stop now.
But events unfolded differently. With a flick of his fan, Bai Siwen signaled, and his three servants lunged at the policewoman—while he himself turned and fled.
Zhuo Yifan stamped his foot in frustration, cursing Bai Siwen's stupidity. Fleeing was understandable—but why send the servants to obstruct her? This would only ensure the dainty policewoman would be hurt. And he did not care about her personally—the Shorthairs boasted of governance by law, unlike the easy-going Great Ming. Once things escalated, one could not simply toss out a servant as a scapegoat and smooth things over. If the Bai family lacked solid connections here, the Shorthairs would surely investigate and punish severely. And since he and the Bai family shared the same inn, he might well get dragged into it.
What happened next, however, defied his expectations. The policewoman had already produced a baton as she ran. In a few swift moves, she had brought down each servant in turn. Zhuo Yifan could not identify her martial style: the techniques were simple and practical, vicious in execution, targeting vital points with every strike—no flourish whatsoever. It resembled military combat arts more than anything.
(End of Chapter)