(For Chapter 1-163, go to (https://chrysanthemumgarden.com/novel-tl/awbtv/))
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Regardless of the season, every night in Haicheng was lit up along the concessions by the Xinpu River and Suzhou River. Streams of crowds surged ceaselessly, and rows upon rows of lights glittered like the Milky Way — showcasing the debauchery and splendor of this sleepless city to the fullest.
It was as though one had stepped into an entirely new world.
In stark contrast, just a street away near Zhabei's Manchuria Road, the eaves of tightly packed houses still soaked in darkness beyond the reach of those neon lights — as if time itself had stopped there, leaving only the rot and decay of the old world plastered across the walls.
A rickshaw rolled in from the docks of Xinpu River, passing through the dazzling prosperity of Suzhou River before arriving at the edge of the concession.
The rickshaw puller was lean and wiry, dressed in a short jacket that revealed his sun-darkened skin. A straw hat sat on his head — the edges still dripping wet from a light rain that had just fallen at dusk, mixing with sweat into a damp, grimy sheen.
The elegant lady in the rickshaw found the filth intolerable. Forgetting all semblance of propriety, she stepped down and quickly distanced herself from the rickshaw puller, as though terrified that even the air around him might soil her.
Raising a carefully maintained hand, she adjusted the jade bracelet on her wrist before tossing a few coins into the rickshaw.
"Take care, madam," the rickshaw puller said politely in a low voice. Beneath the brim of his hat, his eyes shifted slightly, watching the high heels picking their way around the puddles, glinting under the streetlight as they disappeared into the distance.
It was already late. The streets nearby were empty — no more fares to be found.
He grasped the handles of his rickshaw again, pulled it out of the concession, and circled twice around Zhabei before finally arriving at the intersection of Manchuria Road.
There were a few shops at the corner, long since closed, but from behind one of them came a faint glow — a red lantern wedged into the cracks of the alley.
The area was full of old houses, the kind common in Haicheng's narrow lanes. A few side doors were still ajar, and the night sky overhead was blocked by rows of overlapping eaves and awnings jutting out from window after window. Not a trace of starlight or moonlight could be seen — only a suffocating, oppressive gloom hung in the air.
The alley was narrow — just wide enough for the rickshaw to squeeze through. Piles of miscellaneous junk crowded both sides, and if not for the damp air pressing down the dust after the rain, the mere passing of a person would have stirred up a choking, grimy haze.
Because it was late at night, the place was silent. During the day, though, the women washing clothes or cooking under the eaves and in the cramped kitchen sheds could turn this narrow space into a lively stage play — full of quarrels, laughter, tears, and gossip.
The men were usually side characters in this play, serving only to recite lines or sigh dramatically, unable to bear the grind of daily life. They preferred instead to lean out of the window and gaze at the world beyond, talking idly to their penny-pinching wives about the bitterness of unemployment or boasting of some rare praise received from a foreign firm.
Arguments were even more common. That was how life in these alleys went — once one window opened, the affairs of one household became everyone's business. Even a simple conversation could turn into a shouting match.
The rickshaw wheels rattled smoothly through this rare moment of calm and quiet.
The dripping of water from the eaves and the driver's hurried footsteps were magnified by the silence; even the faint sounds of his breathing seemed like muffled thuds — heavy, insistent, echoing with a tension that made one's heart tremble.
After passing through the pitch-black lane, the rickshaw finally stopped in front of the house where the red lantern hung.
The side door of the house was half open, and in the doorway stood a slender woman dressed in a cheongsam.
She seemed to be waiting aimlessly for something. When she saw the rickshaw approaching, she didn't even lift her head. Her voice came out of the darkness:
"Here for a drink?"
"If you're not a regular with a guide, it's ten yuan at least — and no staying the night. If you can't pay, go to the hall by Nanyang Bridge. Don't loiter around here."
Her tone was slightly hoarse, colored by an accent from somewhere indeterminate. She rattled off the words quickly, one after another, her manner cool and distant.
The rickshaw puller didn't seem to mind. He set the rickshaw down, walked up to the door, and said with a smile, "Not a regular, perhaps, but a familiar face. You're a 'lady of the academy,' aren't you? Why aren't you inside playing the qin and writing verses for your patrons — what brings you to stand guard at the door tonight?"
The woman in the cheongsam — the one called a lady scholar — froze for a moment. Then, suddenly lifting her head, she exclaimed in surprise,
(TN: cheongsam - traditional Chinese one-piece dress for women, known in Mandarin as qípáo (旗袍).)
"Oh! Master Zhang!"
"What wind has blown you back here?"
The coldness on her face melted instantly, replaced by a charming smile.
As she led the rickshaw puller through the doorway, she spoke in a tone of easy familiarity:
"Just yesterday I heard Master Rong say you'd taken on a big deal — left Haicheng, and wouldn't be back for quite some time. Didn't expect to see you again so soon."
"Have you stopped running your antique shop and taken to pulling rickshaws now?"
Nine-Eyed Zhang took off his straw hat, revealing the honest, ordinary face of a middle-aged man — the kind that would vanish without a trace in any crowd.
"The antique business can't be run anymore," he said. "They've got their eyes on it."
The lady scholar's expression shifted subtly. She glanced around but didn't reply right away.
The two of them continued into the courtyard, stopping in front of a door.
She lifted the embroidered curtain hanging over it, and at once a strong scent of powder and perfume rushed out, along with a flood of bright light.
Inside, the room was nothing like the cramped, dirty space outside — it was lavish, almost opulent. Against the wall stood a beauty couch, and beside it, a basin of ice.
On the couch sat a woman somewhat advanced in years, yet still graceful and alluring. She had been dozing lightly, but at the sound of movement, she opened her eyes. Seeing Nine-Eyed Zhang, she showed no surprise at all.
"Xue Hongniang took one of Mr. Yu's bullets, Her lodgings went up in flames — nothing left but ash. More than a third of the Jiuliu Society vanished overnight. I figured even a stone like you would have to stir after that."
As she spoke, the woman gave a subtle glance.
The lady scholar understood immediately — she slipped out, closed the door behind her, and stood under the veranda outside, lighting a cigarette.
Nine-Eyed Zhang paid no attention to any of this. He sat down across from the woman and placed something on the tea table — one of the silver coins the wealthy lady had tossed to him earlier.
But this coin was different from an ordinary one. On one side, a tiny scrap of paper had been stuck. He peeled it off and unfolded it — a few minuscule words were written on it in fountain pen ink.
The woman, pipe between her lips, leaned down to take a look. Her elegant brows knit slightly. "What are you doing getting involved with those foreign spies and warlord agents? That's no small matter. The Jiuliu Society meddling with such people — are you all that eager to die?"
Nine-Eyed Zhang shook his head.
"That's not for me to decide. The Society's already in trouble — you think Mr. Yu shooting Xue Hongniang and her pack of traitors settles it? That was the Jiuliu Society's sin. You and I are part of it; neither of us can escape. This is Mr. Yu's way of letting us earn our atonement."
A puff of smoke drifted from between the woman's lips, painted a vivid red.
"Shame Xue Hongniang died so quickly, Otherwise I'd have torn that pretty face of hers to shreds and tossed it to the dogs."
She paused, then went on, "You came to me because you know the men connected to those spies are all regular patrons here. But I'll tell you straight — I don't want any part of it. Ever since the concession lines were drawn, my academy's known nothing but trouble. It took me a long time to move here and finally enjoy a few days of peace — I've no wish to stir up more mess."
"If something goes wrong with those men while they're under my roof, I'll lose more than just a layer of skin."
"If I'm gone too, the book parlor will fall apart. Those girls will have to go out — they won't win anyone's pity. Their fate will be to work the lane as streetwalkers or be treated like salted meat for others to carve up. In two years, when they age and lose their looks, they'll be nothing but lowly servants. If they're lucky they won't live that long — like in other houses, they'll go mad or stupid and stab their own necks with hairpins. At least then they'd die a 'pretty' death…"
(TN: In that historical context, a 书寓 wasn't a bookstore or a library — it was often a high-class brothel disguised as a literary salon, where courtesans (called "female scholars" or 女校书) entertained guests with poetry, calligraphy, music, and conversation, not just physical pleasure.)
"But I, Qiao Rong, can't stand to see that. Do you understand, Master Zhang?"
Nine-Eyed Zhang glanced at the woman who called herself Qiao Rong — whether that name was true or not he didn't know — and said coolly, "You who run a brothel, you're a madam. Do you really think of yourself as some sort of saint?"
Qiao Rong smiled but said nothing.
Nine-Eyed Zhang fell silent for a moment as well, then spoke: "You only opened this book parlor five years ago. The first money for it came from Mr. Yu five years ago. The first batch of girls came from Mr. Yu's 'flower-and-tobacco' rooms at the East Gate. The first trouble was solved by Mr. Yu."
"Mr. Yu isn't any kind of saint either."
The smoke in the pipe trailed off.
The room felt stuffy. Qiao Rong leaned over, used a silver tong to stir the ice in the basin, and said, "Mr. Yu isn't a saint, but believe me — if I refuse this job, at worst I'll just be driven out of Haicheng. Life would go on as before."
Nine-Eyed Zhang gave no answer, and Qiao Rong didn't need one.
She struck a match to the scrap of paper taken from the coin, burned it, then lifted her pipe and rose to her feet. She walked out the door.
The courtyard wrapped around a small atrium, and the building had two stories.
Qiao Rong led the lady scholar up the side staircase to the second floor and knocked on a door where the light was still on.
Inside, a young master was drinking and laughing with a girl draped in a loose robe. When he saw Qiao Rong and the lady scholar enter, the half-drunk young man immediately tried to pull the lady scholar over to join their fun.
Qiao Rong subtly reached out to stop him, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder instead. With a playful smile, she exhaled softly against him and raised her cup to toast. "Young Master He, I heard you've started your own newspaper — and that there are foreigners backing it?"
Young Master He squinted his bleary eyes open a little wider. "And where did Auntie Qiao hear that from?"
"One of your newspaper men came here for drinks last night," Qiao Rong replied. "Why — was it not true?"
Hearing that, He recalled that several of his staff did indeed frequent this place. He laughed carelessly. "True, true! No lies there! They're friends of mine — Ouhua people…"
At that, the lady scholar beside him spoke in a soft, coaxing voice: "If Young Master He knows such people, you must know quite a bit about the foreigners' affairs too. Their stories are always so fascinating — we hear all kinds of rumors outside, but hardly ever the truth. Could you tell us a few?"
"You want to hear, Wan'er? Come here!"
He stared at the lady scholar's delicate face, his gaze turning lustful. Pulling her into his arms and meeting no resistance, he grew even more pleased with himself and began boasting in detail about his foreign acquaintance.
After a few more cups of wine, under gentle prompting, he began to talk even more — naming people from the editorial office, both foreigners and Chinese alike.
Three days later, a graceful new concubine quietly appeared in Young Master He's household.
Not long after that, the concubine was passed along to someone else. And one night, Young Master He was found dead in a dark alley, robbed of all his valuables — apparently the victim of a mugging.
Beneath the calm surface, unseen ripples were already spreading.
In Haicheng, the Jiuliu Society were the dregs of society — cheap, despised, and utterly disposable. If one of them were to end up dead in a stinking gutter, their skull gnawed hollow by rats, no one would spare so much as a glance.
Yet at the same time, they formed the largest and most intricate web hidden beneath Haicheng's bright surface. Hawkers and porters, prostitutes and thieves — wherever there were people, they found a way to exist. And within that space, finding someone — or having something done — was never too difficult.
Brothels, rickshaw pullers' guilds, street barbers, opera houses…
One message passed to another, one observation made from an unnoticed corner, one act carried out quietly behind the scenes.
That filthy, dust-colored web was now, for the first time, tightening.
Two weeks later.
Inside a foreign-style villa in the concession, a Western official with brown hair stared down at the intelligence report in his hands, his expression dark and grim.
"Louis, if I'm not mistaken, all these men were lost within the past half month. Every one of our operatives in Haicheng was trained and placed there at tremendous cost. The information they held, the networks they built, the influence they could wield — all of it was invaluable. And now you're telling me that two-thirds of them are dead? That everything we've worked for has gone to waste?"
"This is unacceptable, Louis."
The curly-haired foreigner standing beside him bowed his head deeply, offering no defense. "I'm sorry, Mr. Adams."
Adams asked, "Do we have any suspects?"
"Du Tianming and Pitt … Boris," Louis replied.
Adams's brows drew together slowly. After a moment of silence, he said, "Add Yu Jingzhi to the list."
Louis looked up. "Mr. Adams, Gao Lan still hasn't replied. Wouldn't moving against Yu Jingzhi be a bit too hasty?"
"No. We won't make a move unless we have something concrete to pin on him. Ouhua's war just ended — this is not a good time."
Adams said, "For this matter we're merely following normal procedure to investigate the damage to our intelligence network. Yu Jingzhi is our partner, a good old friend. I need his cooperation, some conveniences — that isn't too much to ask… if he's still our friend."
Louis nodded, then added, "What about Tianming's side…"
"No need to act further. Using someone else's knife to kill once is enough." Adams said. "Pitt will come to see me. I know him well — we're both wolves who will use any means for this juicy piece called Haicheng."
"Louis, Pitt is a fool; he isn't the one to fear. The one we must watch closely is Yu Jingzhi. Although his recent behavior has been as arrogant and wild as ever, my instinct tells me he has changed. He's been doing things behind our backs and no longer wants to be our puppet."
"Long ago my father warned me: when a dog cannot be kept on a leash, the best way is to slaughter it quickly before it bites back."
Morning light was mild.
In the car heading to the Fang residence, Yu Jingzhi casually recounted how he'd dealt with the Jiuliu Society. At the end he glanced at Chu Yunsheng with a teasing smile and asked, "Don't you find it frightening?"
When Chu Yunsheng's parents learned he had returned to Haicheng and was working at Yu Jingzhi's hospital, Chu Yunsheng had suggested to Yu that they alter their plan so he would have a public, outward identity.
Trust between the two men was sufficient; Yu Jingzhi did not refuse the proposal and even thought this approach might be better.
After all, since the Chu family already knew that Chu Yunsheng had returned, continuing to hide his existence and keep him confined would appear far too suspicious to outsiders.
An ordinary doctor — who had merely offended the Tianming Society and then sought protection under Yu Jingzhi, becoming one of his so-called friends — there was no reason to keep such a thing secret, was there?
That would clearly look like a cover-up.
Now that Yu Jingzhi had wiped out the Tianming Society's headquarters in blood, Du Tianming would surely lie low for a while. With that threat gone for the moment, Chu Yunsheng could naturally and reasonably regain his freedom — to live as an ordinary doctor, an ordinary friend — without arousing any suspicion.
That was exactly the outcome Chu Yunsheng and Yu Jingzhi wanted.
Besides, the matter of penicillin had reached a temporary conclusion. Only the secret mass production remained, which Chu Yunsheng could now step away from — conveniently distancing himself while continuing with other plans.
Once they had agreed on this arrangement for his public identity, Yu Jingzhi cleaned up a few remaining traces, then took Chu Yunsheng out for a stroll around Haicheng. Occasionally, Boss Meng or Young Master Li would join them; together they looked, to outsiders, like Yu Jingzhi's subordinates — nothing unusual at all.
And today, Yu Jingzhi was taking Chu Yunsheng to visit his former teacher from middle school, Fang Jiming.
When Yu Jingzhi smiled and asked his teasing question, Chu Yunsheng looked out the window and said quietly, "It's never easy to be a good man."
Leaning back and relaxing against the seat, Yu Jingzhi chuckled softly. "Fortunately, I'm not one."
Chu Yunsheng didn't respond to that.
The car soon arrived at the Fang residence in the foreign concession, but the two of them didn't see Mr. Fang. The butler informed them that Mr. Fang had left before dawn to go to the Eastern Daily's editorial office. So Yu Jingzhi instructed Lu Yun to turn the car around and head there.
Chu Yunsheng knew of the Eastern Daily. During his days spent in the laboratory or the hospital without stepping outside, Yu Jingzhi had subscribed to the paper for him.
Unlike the well-known Shenbao or Progress Daily, which often published progressive opinions or foreign writings, nor like Haicheng's Gazette of Current Affairs or New Citizen Daily, which took a more populist route with romantic serialized novels and dubious folk tales, the Eastern Daily was distinctive — it frequently printed bold truths that could get a person executed by the local warlords at any moment.
It had no fixed style and no limitation on subject matter; it seemed to publish whatever the editors felt like printing — freewheeling and spontaneous.
Even its masthead had character, featuring a saying from one gentleman: "A newspaper that serves not the opinions of the moment may yet be remembered for all time."
Because of this rebellious spirit, Mr. Fang Jiming had been thrown into jail more times than one could count on both hands. The Eastern Daily's office was constantly being shut down by authorities, its editorial team frequently forced to relocate. It was said that the editors had grown so used to moving that they could pack an entire office clean within ten minutes — people, papers, and type all bundled into rickshaws — a remarkable sight indeed.
It was only thanks to Fang Jiming's deep pockets and wide circle of influential friends that he could even bail himself out of prison each time, let alone continue running a newspaper.
When the car stopped at Bao'an Lane, Chu Yunsheng and Yu Jingzhi got out and walked the rest of the way.
"There are quite a few newspapers around here," Yu Jingzhi said as they walked, "but most are the kind that spring up overnight and die just as quickly, barely known to anyone."
"When the Eastern Daily first started, it was actually over on Wangping Street near Shenbao. That area was crowded with press offices — information flowed easily, and there was even a press association there. Mr. Fang once joined that association, but less than two weeks later, he published an article scolding it from top to bottom. The next day, the association ran a notice expelling him. After that, Mr. Fang moved out of Wangping Street entirely — and not long after, the press association itself folded."
From Yu Jingzhi's stories, Chu Yunsheng had already heard quite a bit about Mr. Fang, and the image he'd formed in his mind was that of a stern, sharp-eyed man who faced the world with a furrowed brow and defiant words.
Yet when he actually stepped into the Eastern Daily's editorial office and saw Mr. Fang Jiming in person, the man was nothing like that imagined figure.
The second-floor newsroom was a scene of lively chaos — papers rustled, footsteps hurried, voices overlapped. Some were bent over desks copying at a furious pace, others rushed back and forth or debated animatedly with colleagues. In one corner, behind a simple desk, sat Fang Jiming himself, dressed in an unassuming long robe, quietly writing.
He looked to be around fifty, with a round face and a round-tipped nose, a short beard neatly trimmed. At first glance, he resembled not a formidable intellectual but the kindest, most soft-spoken neighbor from one's own street.
Yu Jingzhi was clearly a familiar visitor here; no one in the room paid his arrival much attention. Only Fang Jiming looked up from his writing, smiled, and said, "You actually managed to find this place."
"And this gentleman is…?"
Without ceremony, Yu Jingzhi pulled out two chairs, gesturing for himself and Chu Yunsheng to sit. "I went by your residence earlier, sir. This is my good friend, Chu Yunsheng — he's a doctor."
Fang Jiming nodded, giving Chu Yunsheng a brief, appraising glance before turning back to Yu Jingzhi. "After the commotion you caused, you're not afraid of being criticized from all sides? The Eastern Daily doesn't take sides — don't expect me to speak for you."
"There's no need for you to speak on my behalf, If something is true — if it is the truth — then naturally, sir, you would speak of it." Yu Jingzhi replied with a small smile, "You've already told that to Mr. Zheng, haven't you? That's why he moved out of your residence some time ago."
Fang Jiming nodded. "It's not that we had a falling-out, only that he wanted to meet certain people and take certain actions. As for me, I haven't decided whether I wish to join him. You see, no matter whether a position is good or bad, once you take a side, the truth ceases to be truth — and principle ceases to remain pure."
He sighed and shook his head. "But enough about him. Tell me, what brings you here today? Let's be clear upfront — I'm still not taking your silver dollars."
"You have no need of my help, sir, and I have no intention of insisting."
Yu Jingzhi drew a folded sheet of paper from the wide sleeve of his robe, unfolded it, and handed it to Fang Jiming.
Fang Jiming had no intention of accepting anything from Yu Jingzhi, and at first only cast it a casual glance.
But that single glance froze his expression completely.
His eyes narrowed, then widened in disbelief. His hand shot out to clutch the paper tightly, and after a startled pause, he darted a wary look around the room before fixing his gaze back on Yu Jingzhi.
"This kind of medicine you've described… it really exists?"
Then, as if something had suddenly occurred to him, his face changed again. "The medicine from Jihetang—that's yours as well, isn't it?"
Yu Jingzhi inclined his head slightly in confirmation.
Fang Jiming was stunned. He nearly sprang up from his chair but managed, with effort, to restrain himself. His fingers trembled as he gripped the edge of the paper, his voice tight and low with contained emotion. "What is it you're trying to do?"
"I only wish," Yu Jingzhi said calmly, "to borrow your strength, sir — so that we might save more lives."
Fang Jiming stared down at the sheet in his hands, his slightly stooped figure sinking deeper into the chair. For a long time, he said nothing. Yu Jingzhi and Chu Yunsheng also remained silent, waiting.
Just then, the telegraph machine in the editorial room began to clatter sharply.
One of the editors sitting nearby picked up the telegram to glance through it — an ordinary act, something that happened dozens of times a day. But this message was anything but ordinary.
"The Eastern people have gone too far this time!"
A furious shout erupted, followed by a loud bang as a fist slammed down on the desk.
Everyone in the office was startled and looked over in alarm.
"Zhaofu, what's wrong?"
"What happened? Why are you so worked up?"
"What does the telegram say?"
In the corner, Chu Yunsheng quietly calculated the date, and a thought began to form in his mind. When he turned to look, he saw that, sure enough, several curious people had already crowded around to read the telegram aloud—
"Yesterday, at the peace conference, the Dongyang government proposed that all Deyizhi rights and interests in the Jiaozhou Peninsula be transferred unconditionally to Dongyang.
"The Chinese delegation refused. "
"But the refusal will likely be in vain."