Republic of China era: Actor? Please call me Martial Arts Master!

Chapter 169 The Son is Back

In March, the chill of late spring had not yet dissipated in Beiping.

The wind blowing from Xizhimen carried the smell of shards of ice that hadn't completely melted, sweeping along the empty bluestone pavement of Qianmen Street, swirling up a few withered yellow leaves.

The shops on both sides of the road, which had long been boarded up, huddled together under the streetlights.

This world is in chaos.

Outside, chaos reigns. Today, the flags of war change hands, and tomorrow, those "big-headed soldiers" in yellow woolen uniforms and carrying Mauser pistols could block off the streets.

Not to mention those "Japanese dwarfs" who swaggered around in the concessions, wearing wooden clogs and barging in recklessly.

The lives of ordinary people are like dough on a cutting board, subject to being kneaded and shaped by anyone.

A bag of flour was being sold for two and a half silver dollars on the black market. Ordinary people would work themselves to the bone pulling a rickshaw for a month and only earn three or five silver dollars.

After paying the gift money, the rest was exchanged for copper coins, and even eating a hearty cornmeal porridge every meal became a luxury.

But tonight, in this three-courtyard mansion deep inside Qianmen Street, the lights are on full display.

The vermilion gate of the house was tightly shut.

The pair of majestic white marble lions at the entrance looked somewhat lonely in the night.

This is the Lu residence of the Qingyun Troupe, now renowned in the Peking Opera and martial arts circles of Beiping, bearing the title of "Peking Opera Master".

Inside the main hall of the house, the underfloor heating was scorching hot, keeping the chilly, lingering cold of late spring outside the paper windows.

Two elderly people sat around a rosewood octagonal table.

Today, Lu Laogen was wearing a dark purple silk cotton-padded jacket with a front opening.

The fabric of this garment is of the finest quality; it is top-grade Hangzhou silk from Ruifuxiang, with freshly fluffed white cotton wadding inside. It is both light and warm to wear.

But the old man had no time to appreciate the comfort of his luxurious clothes.

His withered back was hunched over, and he gripped a brass pipe tightly in his hand.

The pipe bowl is filled with the finest Northeast tobacco leaves, which sell for more than a dozen large pieces per ounce on the market. They are strong and satisfying to smoke.

Lu Laogen struck match after match, but just couldn't aim at the pipe; his hand trembled like a leaf.

"Old man, stop drawing. It's giving me the creeps."

Wang, sitting opposite, sighed.

She was wearing a dark blue cotton jacket and skirt, her hair was neatly combed and tied in a bun at the back of her head.

His face, which used to be sallow from years of hard work and coughing up blood, has now regained some color thanks to the nourishment of precious medicinal herbs, but it is now completely covered by anxiety and fear.

"How can I not be in a hurry?"

Lu Laogen finally gave up on lighting a cigarette and slammed the pipe down on the table.

"What kind of place is Tianjin? It's the lower reaches of the nine rivers, a den of dragons and tigers where those blue-eyed, blond-haired foreigners and those Japanese ronin who don't care about human life congregate!"

Lu Laogen lowered his voice.

"I heard from Blind Wang at the alley entrance that Tianjin is in complete chaos these past few days. The train station is blocked, and the Haihe River is completely blocked by those ironclad warships billowing black smoke."

"They say—they say there's a very powerful figure over there who's causing a bloodbath."

Wang's prayer beads suddenly stopped, her eyes instantly reddened, and her voice trembled.

"You, you mean our Chengzi—"

"Who else could it be but him!"

Lu Laogen was so anxious that he kept slapping his thigh.

"Ever since this kid mastered those unpredictable kung fu skills, he's become increasingly audacious."

"In Beiping, he could kill Hua Che with a single shot and beat those tyrannical soldiers to a pulp, but that was, after all, our own little territory."

"When he arrived in Tianjin, with their foreign guns and cannons at his disposal, even if he were made of iron, how many bullets could he withstand?"

The elderly couple felt as if their hearts were being fried in a pot of boiling oil.

They didn't care about the gold signboard hanging outside the gate, nor about the tens of thousands of silver dollars and gold bars hidden inside the house.

They came from humble beginnings, had experienced hunger and scorn, and knew that human life was as cheap as grass in this world.

They were proud that their son had achieved great things, becoming a master and a star.

But in your parents' eyes, no matter how good your skills are or how famous you are, you are still their own flesh and blood.

The few words that came from Tianjin were like a death warrant.

What kind of disturbance at Dengying Tower was this, what kind of intrusion into a Japanese dojo at night? These are not things that a human being would do.

This is clearly dancing on the Book of Life and Death of the King of Hell!

"May the Bodhisattva protect us, and may Lord Guan show his power. As long as Chengzi returns safe and sound, I, Wang, am willing to be a vegetarian for the rest of my life and even donate this house—"

Wang clasped her hands together and kowtowed repeatedly to the Guanyin statue on the offering table, tears streaming down her face.

Just as the elderly couple were anxiously waiting and their hearts were burning with worry.

In the front yard, outside the heavy black lacquered gate, a very faint noise suddenly came.

"Tap, tap tap, tap."

Two short, one long, then another short.

This is the secret signal used by members of the Qingyun Troupe when they knock on the door.

Old Zhang, whose eyes were bloodshot from working so hard in the gatehouse, was jolted awake by the voice and nearly fell off his chair.

He scrambled to the gate, his hands trembling as he pulled out the thick bolt.

"Squeak"

The door was opened a crack.

A night breeze carrying the dampness of the Haihe River slipped in through the crack in the door.

Outside the door, there was no fanfare of gongs and drums, no imposing entourage.

Under the cover of night, only a few dozen silent shadows could be seen.

Leading the way was a young man dressed in a pale white robe.

The night was deep, and the dim yellow light of the streetlights shone on him.

The long robe appeared spotless, but if an expert were present, they would immediately notice that the fabric's texture seemed to retain an indelible, chilling aura.

Lu Cheng.

He is back.

His face remained as gentle and refined as ever, showing no signs of fatigue or ferocity from the repeated bloody battles and fighting his way out of the hail of bullets.

His aura was completely contained; the perfection of his [Turtle Breathing Technique] and his ability to neutralize internal energy made him seem to blend into the dark alley and the cold night wind.

This is a state of being.

There are some people in this world whose sharp edges, when revealed, are like thunderclaps from the heavens, capable of cleaving through this murky world.

But when he sheds his murderous aura, he is a wanderer returning home, a scholar without a trace of the violent and ruthless spirit he once possessed.

Just like the old chess master on the ancient chessboard, he was in the mortal world, yet he transcended it.

This subtle, understated elegance is far more captivating than any overt display of dominance.

"Grandpa, you're finally back!" Old Zhang said, his voice choked with emotion, and tears streamed down his face.

Lu Cheng raised a long, slender index finger and made a shushing gesture to his lips.

He turned his head slightly and waved gently to the group of disciples behind him, who were also dressed in black, carrying opera boxes and swords and spears.

"Don't disturb the neighbors, quietly enter the courtyard."

Shunzi carried the heaviest suitcase, walking with a cat-like gait, not daring to even breathe heavily.

Lu Feng, the wolf cub, gripped the single-edged sword wrapped in cloth tightly in his hand, his eyes scanning the surrounding shadows warily as he led his fellow disciples in single file.

It did not disturb the warlord spies who were still dreaming, nor did it disturb the tranquility of Beijing.

The Qingyun Troupe, in this almost ghostly manner, experienced life and death and quietly returned to Beiping.

Lu Cheng stepped over the high threshold, walked straight through the front yard and the hanging flower gate, and arrived at the courtyard of the main hall.

Inside the house, Lu Laogen and Wang heard the commotion in the yard. The old couple were stunned for a full three seconds, as if struck by lightning.

"Old man, that's—that's Chengzi's footsteps!"

Wang was the first to realize it; she was all too familiar with her son's walking style—that steady, unhurried gait.

She suddenly stood up, and because she stood up so quickly, her vision went black and she almost fell over.

Lu Laogen grabbed his wife and held her up, his old eyes fixed on the curtain, his Adam's apple bobbing.

The heavy cotton curtain was gently lifted by a hand.

A cool breeze swept into the warm hall.

Lu Cheng walked in.

His long gown looked soft under the lamplight, and he had taken off his top hat and was holding it in his hand.

He looked at his parents, who were standing stiffly by the table.

Those golden eyes that had struck fear into the hearts of Japanese ronin in Tianjin and chilled the hearts of warlords melted instantly, transforming into a pool of the softest spring water.

"Father, Mother, your son is back."