Chapter 251 - 245: Vermilion Bird

Chapter 251: Chapter 245: Vermilion Bird

On the rain-lashed streets of the Public Concession, a sea of umbrellas rose. Beneath them, young spines formed an unbreakable human wall, escorting a black sedan that crept forward at the center of the crowd.

A chorus of roars converged, threatening to drown out the thunder overhead.

Drenched to the bone, the Patrol Police tried to block this unstoppable torrent. They clutched their rifles, sweat beading on their brows, but were forced back step by agonizing step.

"Fall back!"

"Fall back!"

"Fall back!!"

This fervor, which even the downpour couldn’t extinguish, stirred the entire street.

Pedestrians on both sides of the road stopped to watch. Figures began to appear behind the glass windows of the tall foreign firms lining the street—elites in suits, dignitaries holding champagne, and blonde-haired, blue-eyed Westerners...

Some were silent, others watched with cold detachment. Still others looked on with a morbid curiosity, gazing down at the seething, incomprehensible scene below.

Nan Xiangcheng stood at a street corner, watching the scene coldly. Behind his fogged glasses, a glint of light flickered.

The confidant by his side had a vicious look on his face and made a slicing motion across his own neck.

Nan Xiangcheng remained silent as rain dripped from the hem of his overcoat. In the end, he simply gave a slow shake of his head.

...

Mashan Road, lined with Western-style villas and French plane trees. Red bricks, blue tiles, and ornate cast-iron windowsills...

But now, the air on this long street, once steeped in Western charm and filled with the floating scents of coffee and old books, was violently torn asunder and replaced by the thick stench of gunpowder and blood.

Like a meticulously cultivated orchid smashed to the ground in a storm, all its elegance and fragrance were mercilessly ground into the muddy water.

Two groups were engaged in a fierce firefight on the street, using the tall plane trees for cover.

Men fell constantly, only for others to take their place. Blood was washed away by the rain, forming pale red streams that snaked across the street before flowing swiftly into the pitch-black sewers.

A horse-drawn carriage, whinnying in panic, bolted through the gunfire, tearing through the heavy curtain of rain. It finally swerved sharply onto Zhen Nan University Road, leaving behind an empty street and a scene of utter chaos...

...

The rickshaw puller, Ah Si, ran with his head down, sprinting through the narrow, maze-like paths of a junk market.

His sturdy feet slammed into the sewage-filled mud, sometimes kicking up clumps of black pulp from soaked old books and newspapers. The heavy stench of decay, churned up by the rain, was nauseating, but it didn’t slow him down in the slightest.

The wide, heavy rickshaw bucked on the path like a small boat in a raging sea. The man inside, his face pale, held a briefcase in one hand and clung tightly to the vehicle’s frame with the other.

A sharp rattling echoed constantly from the canvas cover overhead. He couldn’t tell which sounds were raindrops and which were bullets striking the fabric.

The storm had washed the simple stalls—hastily assembled from bamboo poles, rotten planks, and dirty oilcloths—into shapeless heaps. And from behind these dilapidated stalls, men kept emerging.

Some had their faces covered with black cloth, while others wore white bands on their arms. The two groups clashed violently on sight. The downpour couldn’t wash away the acrid stench of spattering blood, which seeped relentlessly into the rickshaw.

Chaos, slaughter, and the storm... Heaven and Earth seemed to have been churned into a cold, filthy stew. But Ah Si always managed to cleverly find a path through the narrowest cracks of desperation, weaving through or around one bloody melee after another without ever breaking stride.

The sporadic gunfire seemed to have receded into the distance, and the rickshaw’s ride smoothed out. The man inside couldn’t resist grabbing the thick curtain to see what was happening outside.

As he pulled the curtain aside, the sound of rain and thunder, along with a rush of mist, flooded in. Cold raindrops struck his face. The first thing he saw was the rickshaw puller Ah Si’s broad, sturdy back, soaked through with rain. Then he noticed they had turned into a relatively secluded alley.

TWANG!

A sharp hum, like a snapping bowstring, shot past his ear!

The rickshaw jolted violently. The man fell back, and the curtain dropped. He heard a deeply suppressed grunt from outside, and the rickshaw’s pace clearly slowed.

"Ah Si! Ah Si!"

Panic seized the man, and he called out urgently.

After a long moment, he heard Ah Si’s reply.

"Just stepped on a stone. Hope it didn’t jostle you, sir."

Hearing his voice, the man relaxed slightly. "No, I’m fine," he said quickly. "You be careful."

Ah Si grunted in acknowledgement, and the rickshaw began to move smoothly again, picking up speed.

The twang of bowstrings rang out again and again, and the sounds of fighting drew near once more.

The man sat inside the rickshaw, his expression calm, but his grip on his briefcase and the frame tightened.

An unknown amount of time passed. All the sounds vanished, but the rickshaw suddenly tilted without warning, as if about to lose its balance.

But a second later, a strong force righted it, and it came to a stop.

The man steadied himself and quickly threw back the curtain.

Outside, a strange puller—a man of medium build with tan skin—was gripping the rickshaw’s handles. Rain streamed down his gaunt cheeks.

The man was stunned. "Where’s Ah Si?"

The puller forced a smile and replied respectfully, "Ah Si can’t run anymore. We’re letting him rest. I’ll take over for him and get you the rest of the way, sir."

As the puller spoke, his hand kept wiping his face, as if uncontrollably.

The man sensed something was wrong. His eyes followed a pale red trail on the ground—diluted, but still stark. Not far away, a tall, sturdy young man was leaning against the base of a wall. His body was riddled with crossbow bolts. He stared up at the rainy sky with vacant eyes as blood pooled beneath him...

It was as if something had suddenly caught in the man’s throat.

He turned back, his lips pressed into a rigid line.

After several seconds, he asked in a hoarse voice, "Where... where are we now?"

The new puller was already running, his voice breaking in the wind and rain.

"We’ve passed Xiaopi Lane! We’re about to enter Vermilion Bird Street... Don’t worry, sir. We’re close. We’re almost there!.."

...

On the third floor of the Dingqing Tea House, Wen Zhiqiu and Madam Ding sat at a table by the window, silently gazing at the horizon where it was swallowed by the curtain of rain.

A fierce wind drove cold rain in through the window, soaking the tablecloth, but neither of them seemed to notice.

The entire second and third floors of the Dingqing Tea House had been reserved. The spaces between pillars, the landings of the stairways... they were all packed with men, each wearing a white band on his arm.

On the square tables inside the tea house were rows of large, white porcelain bowls, all filled with liquor.

Soaking wet men continually burst in, rapidly calling out a location or a number. Each time, a man with a white armband would silently step forward, pick up a bowl of liquor from a table, and drain it in one gulp. Then, either setting the bowl down or smashing it on the floor, he would walk out without a word.

The number of men in the tea house steadily dwindled, and the bowls of liquor on the tables emptied, one by one.

In the vast tea house, almost nothing could be heard but the sound of the rain and suppressed breathing.

Once the men on the second floor had all departed, and two more groups had left the third, a small, thin figure, cloaked in rain, suddenly darted in through a side window and shouted, "They’re about to enter Vermilion Bird Street!"

In an instant, all the remaining figures on the third floor stirred into motion.

Wen Zhiqiu and Madam Ding turned their heads, their gazes falling upon a square table in the center of the second floor.

At that table sat Elder Feng of the Qinglian Gang, the Instructor of the Thirteen Taibao, and a middle-aged man in coarse, indigo-colored robes whose presence was as sharp as a blade.

The moment the messenger had cried out the three words "Vermilion Bird Street," the man had opened his eyes from a feigned sleep. A sharp light exploded from them, seeming to make the entire third floor a touch brighter.

He was about to rise but was held back by the Instructor’s hand.

"Elder Feng, Elder Nie, please wait a little longer."

"I’ll take this first round."

After speaking, the Instructor picked up the bowl of liquor before him and drained it with a calm expression.

He then picked up the Fused Copper Long Staff at his side and led the remaining men, striding down the stairs.

Wen Zhiqiu, Elder Feng, and the others said nothing, merely raising their teacups in a silent toast. The middle-aged man, Nie, also settled back into his seat and slowly closed his eyes once more.