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墨書 Inktalez
The iron door of the fire escape slammed shut behind me, and the Dew formed by Mei Lan's Secret Writing Spell trickled down the handrail. I tore off my sake-soaked tie, the gears of the miniature camera hidden in my suit lining buzzing softly—the film capturing the blueprints of Hongkou Power Plant now thumped against my ribs with each frantic step.
The neon sign of Ballymen flickered three blocks away, mingling with the stench of refuse wafting from the Back Alley. A woman dressed in Xiangyun Silk leaped down from the second-floor fire escape, her wooden clogs sparking against the blue bricks as she descended. The steel spikes in her hair sliced through the air, leaving a scent of sulfur in their wake.
"Mr. Zhou!"
She tossed her Password Book into the air, and it scattered like paper butterflies, each reflecting the glimmer in Mei Lan's eyes as she sang Youyuan Jingmeng. I rolled into the canvas shelter of a Wonton Stall, scalding alkaline water hissing as it splashed onto the pursuing soldier's leather boots.
Suddenly, a corner of the Shen Bao newspaper pressed beneath a bamboo tray curled up, revealing Boss Lu's escape route sketched in rouge—along the Suzhou River floated a Lotus Lantern, the seventh hiding a key to a skiff. In the shadow cast by a dockside crane, two cigarette butts flickered ominously.
Feigning to tie my shoelaces, I let magnesium powder spill from my cuffs under the moonlight, forming a white crane—Mei Lan's diversion worked; the pursuing soldier's Nambu Pistol shattered the reflection of the moon in a nearby water tank.
As I jumped onto the skiff, the Telegraph tied to a bridge pier suddenly vibrated, Morse Code tapping out a message mixed with tidal rhythms: "At Chou Hour three quarters, Guangci Hospital."
Boss Lu's teahouse lay hidden in the depths of sycamore shadows; from an upstairs bay window hung drapes used for singing Changsheng Hall. I touched the third Glazed Tile on the wall; a scent of smoky ointment mixed with saltpeter wafted from behind a secret door.
He was using an eyebrow pencil to write coded messages on his Qipao lining when he heard about the explosion at Hongkou Power Plant; his pen pierced through the silk fabric. "The 20th day at Chou Hour..." Boss Lu's Jade Ring carved deep lines on a sand table as he sliced apart Caohejing's waterway map. "They're not targeting the power plant."
He suddenly flung open a sandalwood box; inside, a map of the French Concession was seeping blood—red ink circled Guangci Hospital underground, marking coordinates for a U.S. Military secret arms depot.
A series of short taps echoed from behind the secret door. A female student in an Indanthrene Qipao entered carrying a medicine box, bandages wrapped around Microfilm. As she bent down to bandage my palm wound, her hair carried a jasmine scent that mingled with gunpowder—a smell identical to that of casino dealers’ fingernails.
Outside, the sound of vendors selling late-night snacks rang out as Boss Lu suddenly knocked over his teacup. The Bi Luo Chun tea spilled across the rosewood table, forming an outline of Huangpu River; his inked note reading "Three Dock" was being consumed by bloodstains.
As I reached for my Opera Role Placard at my waist, scales from a carved python suddenly lifted to reveal a crumpled Boat Ticket—set to depart for Hong Kong on the Yi He at noon tomorrow. Just then, a Newsboy in long robes burst through the door, morning headlines still dripping with ink.
The obituary for Tanaka Ryokichi occupied a quarter of the page, but the accompanying image was a photograph of Mei Lan at the Carden Theatre's curtain call. Boss Lu's snuff bottle shattered on the floor, revealing half of a cyanide needle hidden within the ivory-carved peony heart.
"The theater is performing the complete version of Madame White Snake tonight." As he crushed the snuff bottle, a dark signal from the Black Dragon Society, marked with the Kiku Pattern, seeped from the cracks in the blue bricks. I took the Mongoose Robe he handed me; instead of gold thread, it was sewn with miniature detonator fuses.
The costume lining was densely filled with numbers, each ink dot corresponding to the Japanese Army's hidden stakes at Sixteen Piers. At three quarters past Shen Hour, torrential rain pounded against the neon lights of Ballymen.
As I applied my mustache in front of the makeup mirror, Mei Lan's rouge box suddenly sprang open, revealing a Morse Code message embroidered with hair—"Azure Serpent Exchange Sword." The door hinge of the dressing room creaked as a Japanese man in a white suit entered, holding a playbill. The chain links of his Count's Watch peeked from his cuff, displaying a countdown in Suzhou Code: 23:59.
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