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墨書 Inktalez
As the blood droplets seeping from the mirror congealed into the emblem of the Black Dragon Society in the morning light, Boss Lu wiped away the traces with the cuff of his Mongoose Robe.
The Copper Playbill he handed me pressed painfully into my palm, and the twenty-seven Balloon Models in the hidden compartment were slightly warm—each frame embossed with the raised patterns of Military Intelligence and Cipher Code.
"Before the performance of Liang Hongyu begins," Boss Lu said, his nails stained with impatiens juice grazing over my calloused palm, "there's a back scrubber at the Hongkou Bathhouse who loves to hear Si Lang Tan Mu."
As he turned, the hem of his Mongoose Robe swept across the vanity, and three Ninja Stars clattered to the ground, their blades tinged with the jasmine scent of Mei Lan's hair oil.
I found a package wrapped in leather under the seventh blue brick of the backstage secret door. The edges of the letter paper were scorched and curled, as if snatched from a fire—Mei Lan's delicate script wrote "Cherry Blossoms Fall," smudged ink resembling tears that hung on her lashes while she sang Dai Yu Burying Flowers.
"A Qiang:
As if meeting face to face.
In the third Load-Bearing Column of the Mitsubishi Warehouse cellar in Hongkou District, I embedded my Black Dragon Society emblem painted with rouge.
On the sixteenth of last month, three ronin escorted a man in a white coat inside; he had a Count's Watch on his left wrist—matching the gear found at last week's explosion site in the French Concession, bearing the same serial number.
At Wusong Wharf, eastward to the seventh rocky cave, when the tide recedes, you can see an oilcloth-wrapped radio antenna.
Every Wednesday at midnight, a woman in Xiangyun Silk Qipao goes to exchange Password Books; she always wears a specially made tortoiseshell hairpin from the Black Dragon Society—its head inlaid with sulfur stones from Osaka Arsenal.
Be cautious of the new musician from Ballymen; when he plays Ye Lai Xiang, his index finger tends to tremble twice more than usual.
Last time I found a delivery note in his violin case that read 'Twenty water-cooled machine guns,' signed by the Society Emblem of the Japanese Consulate..."
Suddenly, a gust of wind swept through, carrying Mei Lan's favorite Jialo Xiang mixed with the scent of Nitroglycerin into my nostrils. I turned sharply; Boss Lu's reflection in the copper mirror was split by morning light—his Mongoose Robe adorned with a five-clawed golden python suddenly opened its blood-red vertical pupils.
"Miss Mei's performance of Anti-Jin Soldiers," said a fortune teller who had appeared out of nowhere, tapping on his tortoise shell, "needs to be set ablaze in a bank vault in the French Concession."
The scattered coins on his divination table formed a Suzhou Code, indicating when the Japanese Military Train would pass North Station tonight. The bottom of his divination tube was stuck with half a Sakura Plaster patch, its edges charred as if scorched by grenades.
While I was carrying burlap sacks at Sixteen Piers Dock, a coworker in an Indanthrene cloth shirt suddenly hummed Su San's Release. The asphalt on his straw sandals left dark patterns resembling secret messages from the Black Dragon Society; patches on his shoulder stitched together a blueprint of the French Concession Police Station.
As a Cargo Ship's horn echoed and shook off snow from eaves above, he slipped a German Grenade into my pocket: "Boss Mei says explosives need to be paired with renowned actors' Costumes and Gold Thread to sound truly resonant."
Suddenly, the gramophone in a café in the French Concession jammed, transforming Ye Shanghai into March of the Volunteers.
The waiter in a striped suit set down the mocha cup next to my ear, the coffee stains at the bottom outlining the Hongkou Dojo's Defense Map.
The second hand of the Count's Watch peered out from his cuff, spinning counterclockwise, while the faint steel stamp of Mitsubishi Warehouse was barely visible on the back of the watch face.
At Midnight, as instructed in the letter, I made my way to Wusong Wharf. The briny sea breeze mingled with a hint of sulfur, and suddenly, the oilcloth bag deep within the seventh rock cave began to wriggle—twenty unassembled machine gun parts glimmered with an eerie blue under the moonlight.
As a figure clad in Xiangyun Silk emerged from the waves, a sulfur stone pin in her hair oozed a pale yellow liquid.
"Mei Lanfang's 'Universe Edge' reaches its peak when it sings about 'madness,'" her voice was like water soaked in Huangpu River. "Imagine if a madman were to smear special lipstick on a machine gun's firing pin..."
She suddenly raised her hand, and the sulfur stone at the tip of her pin sparked against the rocks, igniting a fuse that screamed as it raced toward the oilcloth bag—
The blast's shockwave overturned the fishing boat where I was hiding.
Amidst the falling mechanical parts, I caught sight of a number engraved on the inner side of a gear: No. 493827—identical to fragments found at the scene of the French Concession explosion.
The salty sea breeze suddenly carried a whiff of cherry blossoms; thirty meters away on the rocks, three rogue blades with Kiku Pattern reflected the blood-red moonlight...
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