Chapter 362: The Mission

None of the operatives in Lingao knew the specifics of their mission. It was clear Shi Weng had no confidence in their ability to infiltrate the short-hair stronghold undetected. He had resolutely refused to reveal the details beforehand. According to the plan, they were to meet in three days to discuss the next steps.

But Sima Qiudao had received no further instructions. Zhuo Yifan’s group had arrived as immigrants, so there was no need to transfer funds; they could exchange large sums of currency without arousing suspicion.

Sima Qiudao left the train station and walked slowly to the Fourth Post Office in East Gate Market. The Native Products Company, his employer, maintained a dedicated business mailbox there. At Seventh Master’s suggestion, Sima Qiudao had volunteered to collect the mail each day, giving him a reliable and convenient contact point.

After a brief greeting to the clerks, he opened the company’s mailbox. It was already overflowing. He sorted through the letters, placing them in his satchel. Suddenly, an ordinary business letter caught his eye. The return address and company name were fake—the secret sign of a contact.

Back at the shop, he delivered the legitimate mail to the manager. After work, he went out alone and found a small tavern. He ordered a private room, a pot of fruit wine, a plate of sprouted beans, salted whelks, a few skewers of grilled squid, and a large bowl of Lingao noodles. He began to drink by himself, the very picture of a single man enjoying a simple pleasure.

The tavern was quiet. The food arrived quickly. Sima Qiudao, listening carefully to the sounds from outside, confirmed he was not being watched. Only then did he tear open the letter.

Inside were a few thin sheets of paper, the content innocuous business dealings. Of course, the letter could never fall into the hands of the Native Products Company; they had no such client. He held the paper over the flame of the gas lamp, and writing gradually appeared in the blank spaces.

After reading only a few lines, a cold dread washed over him. Damn it! This is impossible.

The letter contained their mission: to kidnap one or two true short-hairs and secretly transport them to the mainland.

Sima Qiudao had been in Lingao for some time and had a grasp of the local situation. Kidnap a true short-hair? Easier said than done. In this fortress of the enemy, finding one was like reaching for the sky.

It wasn’t that the Senators were reclusive. He often saw reports of “Chief So-and-so attending such-and-such event.” He heard whispers in the company about which Senator had visited which enterprise. The problem was the sheer number of naturalized citizens. The Senators blended in, unlike the red-haired foreigners who stood out. Their social and work circles were almost exclusively composed of naturalized citizens. The only outsiders who could get close were a small group of upper-class natives from the early days.

A native like Sima Qiudao, a new, un-“purified,” peripheral employee in a state-owned enterprise, had virtually no chance of even seeing a “chief,” let alone kidnapping one.

And even if they could, taking them away was unimaginable. Lingao was the short-hair “capital,” crawling with agents, police, and soldiers. Their side had no connections, no inside help. It was a suicide mission.

“Which bastard came up with this idea?!” he cursed inwardly, lighting the paper with the gas lamp.

He could only take it one step at a time. Kidnapping a true short-hair was nearly impossible. Capturing a high-ranking fake short-hair cadre might be easier. But how to identify one? They all wore the same four-pocketed jackets. There were no official robes, no mandarin squares. On the street, a high official was indistinguishable from a clerk. They needed an insider, someone to point them out. And Seventh Master, their only source of information, refused to show his face.

Perhaps we should just try to assassinate one or two, Sima Qiudao thought. A fierce battle, heavy casualties—it would be easy to concoct a story. They could claim the captive was killed during an escape attempt. A few personal effects would be enough to convince Shi Weng. And even if he didn’t believe them, what could he do? Sima Qiudao had already secured a promise from a high-ranking official: a safe return would earn him a recommendation to serve under Hong Chengchou.

Assassination, then. Huang Zhen would understand. He was a seasoned veteran of the Huashan Sect, pragmatic and worldly. A single hint would be enough. But Zhuo Yifan… he was from a family of officials, a disciple of the White Stone Daoist, a young man accustomed to success. If he insisted on “serving the country with utmost loyalty,” he might not be so easily swayed.

Sima Qiudao decided to contact Zhuo Yifan first. His group was the main force of the operation. They had to act quickly. Every day in this territory was a day too long.

Zhuo Yifan received the secret letter and, as instructed, went to Nanbao to meet with Huang Zhen.

Nanbao was far less prosperous than East Gate Market. The streets were quiet, a refreshing change for Zhuo Yifan, who had been forced to play the part of the “head of the family,” touring houses with the “viewing group.”

The area was close to the Li territory, with rolling hills. Though coal mining had scarred some of the landscape, much of it was still beautiful. The town’s greening efforts were impressive.

The weather was gloomy, threatening rain. Zhuo Yifan quickened his pace.

As he turned a corner, a commotion ahead caught his attention. A man who looked like a rich young master, flanked by a few thuggish servants, was harassing a “fake short-hair” woman.

The young master held a fine Xiangfei bamboo fan, wore a lake-blue silk robe, a square scarf, white socks, and bright red cloth shoes. He looked like a scholar, but his eyes held a lewd glint. Seeing his “prey” surrounded, he was triumphant, covering his face with his fan, revealing a smile that he thought was dashing but was merely lecherous.

Zhuo Yifan recognized him: the young master of the Bai family, who lived in the same inn—Bai Siwen, “Bai the Refined.”

The woman, he noted, did not look respectable either. She wore a light-colored, form-fitting top with elbow-length sleeves that accentuated her magnificent chest. Her blue skirt was scandalously short, revealing her calves and even her knees. As she retreated in panic, her skirt flew up, offering a glimpse of her thighs.

Zhuo Yifan’s initial disgust at the young master’s behavior was tempered by the woman’s “indecent” attire. She brought it on herself, he thought.

Still, a woman was being harassed. One should lend a hand. But he was in a precarious situation, in an unfamiliar place. Intervention could lead to trouble, expose his identity…

While he hesitated, a whistle blew. The crowd of onlookers scattered. Startled, Zhuo Yifan saw a policewoman running over, blowing her whistle and shouting, “What are you doing? Stop!”

Seeing that the officer was a woman, Zhuo Yifan worried. He didn’t know what strange brew the short-hairs drank, but they often used women as public servants. It was one thing if they were fierce she-devils, but many were just ordinary young girls like this one. Though she was far away, she looked quite pretty.

Women were naturally weaker than men. Female martial artists focused on lightness and agility, never confronting strength with strength. Bai Siwen’s three servants, though they didn’t look like trained fighters, were strong and had the advantage of numbers. She would be no match for them.

Of course, it was possible Bai Siwen’s servants would have the sense to back down.

But things did not unfold as he expected. At a wave of Bai Siwen’s fan, the three servants pounced on the policewoman, while their master turned and fled.

Zhuo Yifan stomped his feet in frustration. The fool! It was one thing to run away, but to send his servants to block her? The delicate policewoman would surely be hurt. It wasn’t pity for her beauty that moved him. The short-hairs prided themselves on their legal system. Unlike the Ming officials, they couldn’t cover up a major incident by sacrificing a servant. If the Bai family had no connections here, the short-hairs would investigate and punish them severely. Since he lived in the same inn, he would inevitably be implicated.

What happened next was beyond his expectations. The policewoman, baton in hand, met the servants’ charge. In a few swift moves, she had knocked them all to the ground. Zhuo Yifan couldn’t discern her martial arts style. Her movements were simple, practical, ruthless, aimed at vital points, without any flourish. It was like the fighting style of the army.