Chapter 80: Midnight Message

Ning Zhiheng returned home, pondering deeply, and ultimately decided not to make direct contact with the Farmer. He would simply deliver the news of death and the wooden box to the Farmer in secret; whether the Farmer believed it or how he reacted was no longer his concern. After all, his own safety mattered most.

With this in mind, he took a blank sheet of paper, tore off a strip, and grabbed his fountain pen. He deliberately altered his handwriting; his usual script leaned towards a flowing regular style, but now he adopted a rigid, almost mechanical font, one with strokes so stiff it was difficult to discern any personal flair. Even if someone saw the note, they could not trace the handwriting back to him.

“Zhang Pei has betrayed us. Lu Ming fell into a trap and died on the spot. Be vigilant and adapt accordingly.” As he wrote, Ning Zhiheng hesitated. How should he sign the note? How could he indicate his identity in a way that would make the Farmer believe the message? After much deliberation, he finally signed:

“Shadow.”

Ning Zhiheng used Lu Ming’s code name, “Shadow,” for the signature. Only the Farmer knew this code name, so signing it would signal he knew Lu Ming’s true identity.

He borrowed the style of a signature from his previous life for the word “Shadow,” crafting it with an elegant flourish, a distinctive cursive that, in this era, would be impossible for others to imitate—utterly unique.

He placed the note inside the wooden box, closed the lid, and waited quietly. It wasn’t until night had fallen that he took the box and slipped out into the darkness.

He arrived at the Bluestone Teahouse, which was already closed for the day. Dim street lamps flickered to life along the street.

From a distance, Ning Zhiheng observed the teahouse’s main entrance: though shut, there was light still shining in the front room. He had already studied this place during the day—the teahouse’s front served as the shop, while the rear was a residence.

As a clandestine contact point for the underground party, the Farmer was certainly stationed here day and night; otherwise, emergencies would find no one present.

He circled around the shop front to the back residence, which had its own rear door and two windows. The windows were dark, indicating those inside were still in the front room and had not retired to the back for rest.

He approached a window, pressed his ear to it—silence, no unusual sounds. He drew his knife, slid it into the window’s gap, felt the latch, and gently, bit by bit, nudged it. After a while, he sensed the knife loosen—the latch was undone.

Delighted, he quietly pushed open the window and slipped inside with agile precision. His skills had grown more nimble; he landed silently.

The room was pitch-black, but Ning Zhiheng’s vision surpassed ordinary men; he could see in the darkness with little discomfort, only slightly less clear than in daylight, but more than enough.

He glanced around, swiftly moved to the adjacent bedroom, crept to the bedside, and placed the wooden box beside the pillow. Retracing his route, he slipped back out the window, gently closed it, and vanished into the night.

Pick the lock, enter, place, withdraw—the entire operation was brisk and silent, so seamless that even Ning Zhiheng himself was surprised.

He felt his agility had improved, his control over his body more effortless than ever—all thanks to the miraculous Bodhi leaf.

He hurried home, the matter with the underground party finally settled for now. Ning Zhiheng quietly reviewed every step in his mind, confirming he had not revealed any flaw throughout, and breathed a sigh of relief.

As evening settled, Xia Deyan sent his staff home, locked the front door, and picked up the account ledger, intending to balance it. Yet his mind was restless, unable to concentrate. Frustrated, he tossed the ledger onto the table, pressed his hands to his temples, kneading them, trying to calm himself.

Another day had passed, and Lu Ming still hadn’t appeared or contacted him. Knowing Lu Ming, something must have gone wrong. Tomorrow, he would have to report to his superiors; the matter was far too serious.

Lu Ming was a seasoned underground veteran, and his concealed identity was crucial—a key piece the organization had placed inside the Nationalist Finance Ministry. This accident was a grave loss for the underground party.

The thought of Lu Ming’s uncertain fate weighed heavily on his heart, stifling him with anxiety. How could he rest easy when an old comrade, a brother of many years, was lost?

Fortunately, he had weathered countless storms and hardships, and his composure remained. After a long time, he finally calmed down, picked up the ledger again, finished the calculations, and went to his bedroom to rest.

Yet as soon as he entered the back hall, he sensed something amiss. He always left his bedroom door slightly ajar, enough for a shoe’s width—a habit and a subtle marker.

Now, although the door was still ajar, the angle was noticeably wider than when he left. It couldn’t have been blown by the wind—no draft reached the bedroom.

He never carried a gun on his person, but there was one hidden in the bedroom. He dared not enter recklessly; if someone lurked inside, an enemy in the shadows, he could easily be ambushed.

He quietly turned to the kitchen, grabbed a cleaver from the chopping board, and returned to the bedroom door, waiting silently outside. Now was a test of patience—if someone was truly inside, he would wait them out and catch them as they tried to ambush him.

He waited outside for twenty minutes, listening intently, but detected no movement from within. It seemed he’d noticed too late—the intruder had already left before his return.

Still wary, he rushed forward, flung open the bedroom door, and rolled sideways inside. Though the room was pitch-dark, he knew its layout well; a quick roll brought him to the head of the bed, where he drew his pistol from beneath the floorboards and scanned the room.

No one. The bedroom was small, sparsely furnished; he could tell it was empty.

Only then did he rise and switch on the light, illuminating the room. He hurried to the lower right corner to check the floor tiles where he’d made a secret mark; it was undisturbed, and he felt a weight lift from his heart.

There were indeed some important items hidden here—had they been stolen, the consequences would have been dire.

Other than that, there was nothing else of value; even if a thief entered, they would find nothing of worth.

How had the intruder entered? He had been in the front shop, so it must have been through the rear door or a window.

He checked the rear door, then finally discovered that the mark he’d left on the window shutter had been moved, and there were scratches on the latch from a sharp tool. The intruder had come in through this window.

He’d been in the bedroom before dinner; at that time, no one had entered. So, roughly an hour ago, someone had used a tool to unlock the latch, open the window, slip inside, and enter his bedroom—without making a sound.

What was their motive? Was it really just theft? Yet nothing was missing—no, he must have overlooked something!

He hurried back to the bedroom. The furnishings were sparse, little space to hide anything. On the bed, just the pillow and bedding—

Suddenly, he spotted a wooden box beside the pillow that hadn’t been there before. His heart leapt—a stranger had entered, and not only was nothing missing, but something had been added.

He stepped forward, picked up the box. It was heavy; what could be inside?

Cautiously, he opened the lid. At the top lay a white note. He picked it up and read the contents. Instantly, a stabbing pain seized his chest, his breath came in short gasps, nearly suffocating him. Overwhelming grief surged, impossible to contain.

“Zhang Pei has betrayed us. Lu Ming fell into a trap and died on the spot. Be vigilant and adapt accordingly. Shadow.”

The note’s meaning was clear: Zhang Pei, whom Lu Ming had insisted on meeting—the long-missing contact—was a traitor. He had set a trap at the rendezvous, and during the arrest, Lu Ming had died instantly.

He didn’t know who had delivered this terrible news, but instinct told him it was true.

He had suspected as much these past days, guessed that Lu Ming might already be gone—but he hadn’t dared to believe it, nor wanted to.