e-booksonline Chapter 147 The play is for those who are blind at heart.
Chapter 147 The play is for those who are blind at heart.
Chapter 148 The play is for those who are blind at heart.
This meal of Goubuli steamed buns left Qingyun's entire class and several veteran boxers feeling completely refreshed and radiant.
It wasn't the aroma of the steamed buns that made the food taste better; it was the release of pent-up anger that made the meal more enjoyable.
By the time everyone emerged from the no-man's-land alley in Nanshi, their bellies bulging, the night in Tianjin was already so deep it seemed like you could wring water out of it.
The sound of the night watchman's clapper echoed through the empty streets, and the mist from the Haihe River rose up along the streets, making the dim gas lamps on the roadside look like fuzzy yellow moons.
Lu Cheng walked at the front, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his moon-white robe, his steps unhurried.
"Brother Liu, Old Yang."
Lu Cheng turned his head and looked at the old masters supporting each other behind him.
"For the next few days, please do not return to Beiping, esteemed seniors."
"The Japanese and the French Concession suffered such a huge loss that they couldn't save face, so the train stations and waterway checkpoints along the way will definitely be extremely strict."
Liu Wenhua sighed, his white beard trembling slightly in the night wind: "Brother Lu is right. We old bones are like rats crossing the street now. But—staying in Tianjin might jeopardize the important affairs of your Qingyun Troupe."
"Brother Liu, you're being too polite."
Lu Cheng chuckled softly.
"The martial arts world is one family. Now that I have accepted the position of head instructor of Xingyi School, we are a family behind closed doors."
"I have already arranged for Master Yuan to make arrangements in a secluded villa on the edge of the French Concession, near the British Concession. It is a property owned by British merchants, and the Japanese cannot reach there for the time being. You seniors can rest and recuperate there. After the grand performance, I will personally escort you back to Beijing."
The veteran boxers exchanged glances, their eyes filled with gratitude, and bowed in unison.
"Thank you for your trouble, Master Lu."
After settling the senior members in, Lu Cheng led his apprentices back to the National Hotel. The sky was already beginning to lighten.
The next day, the sky over Tianjin was gray and hazy, as if it had been wiped with a dirty rag.
But the lively atmosphere on the streets was not diminished in the slightest by the unseen bloodshed and violence of last night.
Ordinary people still have to live their lives. As long as the sky doesn't fall, the stoves selling jianbing guozi (Chinese crepes) will have to be burning brightly.
Lu Cheng gets up early.
After achieving mastery of the Marrow Cleansing Technique, he only needed to sleep for two hours each day, and his spirit would be as vibrant as a withered tree blossoming in spring.
He changed into a very plain blue cloth gown, and without Shunzi and Lu Feng, he strolled out of the National Hotel alone.
In the early morning, Tianjin exudes a "foreign" and "dockside" atmosphere that is absent in Beiping.
The tram rattled by, its carriages packed with men and women heading to work at the yarn factory.
There was already a long queue outside the old-established "Dafulai" restaurant on the street corner.
"Shopkeeper, a bowl of crispy rice with vegetables, a set of jianbing guozi, two eggs, and extra sweet bean sauce."
Lu Cheng handed over three copper coins and sat down at a low table by the roadside.
These days, prices in the market are chaotic, but food for the poor is relatively stable.
Three copper coins can't buy much flour, but they can get you a hot and filling breakfast.
"Alright, sir, please wait a moment."
The shopkeeper deftly spread out the pancakes, cracked an egg on top, and sprinkled on chopped green onions. The aroma of mung bean flour and sesame paste wafted straight into people's nostrils.
Lu Cheng ate quietly, his eyes watching the crowds coming and going on the street.
There were compradors in suits, briefcases in hand, hurrying about. There were country farmers carrying cabbages on shoulder poles. And there were Indian police officers wearing red headscarves and brandishing batons.
"This vast mortal world is the greatest training ground."
Lu Cheng took a sip of the slightly salty and fragrant rice crust soup, his heart as calm as an autumn pool.
He didn't think about how many people he had killed the night before, nor did he think about how the Japanese would retaliate.
The exquisite mind sees that the five aggregates are all empty.
He knew that the calm before the storm was often the most agonizing. What he needed to do now was cultivate that composure.
Just as Lu Cheng was leisurely eating his jianbing guozi...
Inside the Japanese concession, inside the Consulate General of the Japanese Empire in Tianjin, the atmosphere was so oppressive it felt like it was about to freeze.
On the second floor of the consulate, in a secret room covered with tatami mats.
Major Takeda's corpse, Igor's drooling, dazed appearance, and the miserable state of the twenty Blackwater mercenaries whose eyes and wrists were ruined, had been turned into a thick stack of reports, placed on a low table.
Behind the low table, a gaunt old man dressed in a black kimono was kneeling.
The old man had his eyes closed, his hand holding a string of black Buddhist prayer beads. His face was covered with age spots, making him look like a...
An ordinary old man who is nearing the end of his life.
But in his presence, whether it was the diplomats from the consulate or Nakamura, the head of the Special Higher Police, they all bowed their heads deeply, not daring to even breathe loudly.
This old man was a "pillar of stability" specially brought in from the Japanese mainland by high-ranking military officials.
One of the three great masters of Japanese martial arts, a grandmaster who practiced both karate and aikido.
Shotokan, Funakoshi Gichin's junior apprentice, Funakoshi Kazuo!
This is an old monster who has truly entered the realm of Transformation for many years, and has one foot already touching that divine realm.
"Nakamura."
The old man spoke slowly.
"Hai!" Nakamura, the head of the Special Higher Police, suddenly jolted and lowered his head even further.
"The military is furious about the telegram you sent back home last night. Yagyu-kun's death and the complete annihilation of the Black Dragon Society have tarnished the Empire's reputation on this Chinese land."
When Funakoshi Kazuo opened his eyes, there were no pupils in them, only whites.
He's blind!
But Nakamura knew that this blind master's "insight" was more ruthless than anyone else's in the world.
"Teacher, that Chinese actor named Lu Cheng is truly an anomaly. Not only was he not poisoned, but he also displayed terrifying strength."
Nakamura gritted his teeth, cold sweat pouring down his forehead.
"Igor, the bear of Siberia, was turned into an idiot with a single finger. He shattered the Blackwater mercenaries' assault rifles with mud and water. This—this has surpassed human limits, this is simply magic!"
"madness."
Funakoshi Kazuo's prayer beads suddenly stopped, making a crisp sound.
"In this world, there is no magic, only martial arts that develop the body to its fullest potential."
"Transformation into a state of mastery, using qi to control objects. That's just the application of external qi. Although Yagyu-kun also reached the level of mastery, he was too obsessed with swordsmanship and neglected the perfection of his physical body. This kid took advantage of his weakness, and he died a worthy death."
Funakoshi Kazuo slowly stood up. Although his back was hunched, his imposing aura made the officers in the room feel suffocated.
"but."
"Chinese martial arts must be trampled underfoot. This is the spiritual premise for the empire's conquest of this land."
Funakoshi Kazuo walked to the window, his pale eyes "looking" in the direction of the French Concession.
"Go and find out. Find out when he's going on stage."
"Openly deploying the military would invite international intervention, which would be detrimental to the Empire's major plans."
"Since he's an opera singer, he values the stage and the rules the most."
"Then I'll be there at that grand performance, in front of all of Tianjin, in front of reporters from all over the world—"
Funakoshi Kazuo stretched out his withered, bony hand and gently pinched the window frame.
Silently.
The sturdy solid wood window frame turned into dust, which fell through his fingers.
"Crush his rules, along with his bones, bit by bit."
Nakamura raised his head, a glint of malice flashing in his eyes.
"Teacher, do you mean you want to go on stage yourself and fight him?"
"No."
A cruel smile curled at the corner of Funakoshi Kazuo's lips.
"To kill someone is to destroy their spirit. If I, an old man, were to kill him directly, the Chinese would only say that the empire is bullying the weak."
"Contact the Municipal Council of the French Concession, and those money-grubbing compradors."
"Grab him by the neck, break his costume, and throw him into a daze. I will make him utterly disgraced on this grand show and despised by his own people whom he is so proud of."
"I'll strike when he's like a stray dog and take his head off."
The tree wants to be calm and the wind does not stop.
The undercurrents in Tianjin have quietly coalesced into a vast net, descending upon the Qingyun Troupe.
When Lu Cheng returned to the hotel after finishing breakfast, he immediately sensed that something was wrong.
In the corridor on the third floor, Zhou Daikui was arguing heatedly with Manager Zhao of the China Grand Theater, his face flushed red with embarrassment, and he was so anxious that he kept slapping his thigh.
"Manager Zhao, we signed a contract in black and white! The grand finale of this performance, the martial arts play, is Boss Lu's 'Changbanpo.' Your theater was supposed to provide the costumes and supplies. And now you're telling me everything's gone?!"
Zhou Daikui's old face turned bright red, and he was trembling with anger as he clutched a contract in his hand.
Manager Zhao also looked bitter, and kept bowing and apologizing.
"Master Zhou, please have some understanding of me. I'm just an employee too."
"This really isn't my fault. It was Inspector Browne of the French Concession Public Works Bureau who personally gave the order, saying that the security situation had deteriorated recently and that they were checking for dangerous and contraband items."
"All the real swords, helmets, and even the finely crafted armor in our theater's storeroom were taken away by the police under some pretext, who said they needed to inspect them."
"What am I supposed to offer Boss Lu for a performance?"
"fart."
Beside him, Shunzi roared and grabbed Manager Zhao by the collar.
"A theatrical prop can be considered contraband? Can a wooden spearhead kill someone? This is clearly deliberate obstruction!"
"Shunzi, let go."
Lu Cheng walked up the stairs at a leisurely pace.
Shunzi angrily released his grip and stepped aside: "Master, these bastards are too cunning!"
Lu Cheng walked up to Manager Zhao and looked at his shifty eyes.
With a slight movement of his exquisite heart, he saw through the trick behind it all.
What kind of inspection is this for contraband?
This is clearly a collaboration between foreigners and Japanese, who are starting to trip him up within the "rules".
If you don't have a well-fitting flag or a suitable weapon when performing martial arts plays, then the play is half ruined.
No matter how skilled you are in martial arts, if you wear a long robe to play Zhao Yun, that's not Peking Opera, that's street performance.
They're trying to make him embarrass himself at the big performance.
"Manager Zhao."
Lu Cheng's expression was as calm as a deep pool of water.
"If the costumes are gone, we can make new ones. If the props are gone, we can buy new ones. Tianjin is such a big city, surely we can find a few pieces of opera equipment?"
Manager Zhao looked distressed, almost on the verge of tears.
"Boss Lu, you don't know this."
"This morning, all the helmet and costume shops and theatrical costume shops in Tianjin were targeted by the Green Gang. Anything that our China Grand Theater buys from, or anything using the Qingyun Troupe's name—"
"They won't even sell us a single red ribbon."
"They say—they say there are orders from above that anyone who dares to take on Qingyun Troupe's work will have their shop smashed the next day."
This is a plan to eliminate all descendants.
They cut off the Qingyun Squad's supplies at the root.
Upon hearing this, Zhou Daikui felt dizzy and almost fainted.
"It's over, it's over—the grand performance is starting the day after tomorrow. The costumes we brought from Beiping are all old male roles and short costumes because we're going to perform 'Dingjun Mountain' and 'Picking the Chariot,' but we didn't bring the full set of costumes for 'Changban Slope.'"
"Without proper costumes, how can we put on this grand finale? Are we really going to have Chengzi perform somersaults in plain clothes? Wouldn't that make us a laughingstock!"
In the corridor, the disciples of Qingyun Class were all indignant, yet helpless.
They're not afraid of fighting, but what do they know about making costumes?
Just as everyone was filled with gloom and despair, Lu Cheng suddenly smiled.
He shook the Xiangfei bamboo folding fan in his hand, making a crisp "snap" sound.
"Can a living person die from holding in their pee?"
Lu Cheng turned around and looked at his disciples, who were all in a courtyard looking like they had lost their parents. His gaze suddenly turned sharp.
"Not selling to us?"
"Then let's do it ourselves!"
"Master?"
Shunzi was taken aback. "We didn't bring a tailor with us. Besides, those kingfisher feather headdresses and gold-embroidered robes—how could we possibly finish them in less than ten days or half a month?"
"Who said I was going to wear something so flashy?"
Lu Cheng closed the folding fan and strode towards his room.
"Shunzi, go to the street and, under whatever pretext, buy ten bolts of the finest white cloth. The whiter the better."
"Lu Feng, go to the hardware store and buy the best cast iron bars and ash wood poles."
"Little Bean, go buy red paint, the purest vermilion red."
Everyone looked at each other, wondering what their master was up to.
White cloth? Pig iron? Red pigment?
This doesn't look like making costumes; it sounds like they're holding a funeral!
"Chengzi, what are you doing—" Zhou Daikui chased after him and asked.
Lu Cheng stopped and looked back at Zhou Daikui, a hint of madness flashing in his eyes.
"Tanker."
"At Changban Slope, Zhao Zilong faced Cao Cao's 830,000-strong army, fighting his way in and out seven times, his battle robe stained with blood."
"On the real battlefield, where are the gold and silver threads, where are the kingfisher-feathered dragons?"
"Yes, but the white robes are stained with blood, and the armor is tattered and the spears broken!"
"Since they want to see a show, then let's put on a performance for them—the most realistic and tragic 'Changban Slope'!"
The next two days.
The sounds emanating from this suite in the National Hotel were not from singing practice, but from the clanging of blacksmiths and the tearing of cloth.
Lu Cheng did not rest.
He personally instructed Lu Feng, using his terrifying internal force to bend and tighten the cast iron bars with his bare hands, creating several rough protective pieces—
Heart mirror.
He then had his apprentices tear the white cotton cloth they had bought into long strips and sew them together to create a "white robe" that resembled an ancient battle robe.
There was no embroidery, no banners.
It's the purest and most rugged white battle suit.
Then, Lu Cheng picked up the bowl of vermilion paint.
He did not use a pen.
Instead, he stretched out his finger, dipped it in paint, and haphazardly splashed it across the pure white battle robe.
"Slap! Slap! Slap!"
Red paint splattered on the white cloth, like blooming plum blossoms, or like blood splattered on a battlefield.
shocking.
"Master, is this...is this suitable for going on stage?"
Shunzi looked at the "ruined" white robe with some unease.
This completely violates the Peking Opera tradition of "better to wear tattered clothes than to wear the wrong ones," and it also goes against the "splendid" aesthetic that opera emphasizes.
If someone were to wear this, those discerning old opera enthusiasts would definitely curse them out.
Lu Cheng washed his fingers, which were covered in red paint, in a basin of water and dried them.
He looked at the "blood-stained battle robe" with eyes as deep as an ancient well.
"This isn't a theatrical costume."
"This is called—battle robe."
"You'll find out on the day of the grand performance. The play is for the blind in heart, but the soul is sung for those with blood in their veins."
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