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

Chapter 184 Thank you

A cold rain drizzled down for three days and three nights in the city of Beijing.

The gray sky was reflected in the puddles on the bluestone road.

The wind on the street made the old man selling roasted sweet potatoes on the street corner shrink his neck.

"Two and a half silver dollars and a bag of flour—how can anyone live like this?"

The old man, his hands trembling, stuffed a few warm copper coins into his pocket, looked at the rain-soaked copy of the *Yanjing Morning Post* pasted on the wall across the street, and spat out a curse.

The newspaper headline was prominently displayed in bold black font.

The accusation is that Master Lu of the Qingyun Martial Arts School is a Japanese spy and a traitor who uses the guise of running a martial arts school to make money.

In the past few days, newspapers like these have been scattered all over Beiping (Beijing).

Commander Xing and his underworld associates in Nanjing secretly stirred things up, hiring a group of thugs to fan the flames in teahouses and taverns.

The common people have suffered hardship and are short-sighted. When they are cut by this overwhelming soft knife, the blood that was originally warmed by the preaching at the Temple of Heaven gradually cools down.

Some people even secretly spit at the entrance of the "Tianxia Guoshu" (National Martial Arts) hall on the overpass when they pass by.

The backyard of the Lu residence.

Rainwater dripped from the branches of the old locust tree onto the blue bricks, creating shallow puddles.

Shunzi and Lu Feng stood under the eaves, their eyes red with anger.

"Master, please let me lead my brothers to smash those newspapers that are spreading rumors."

""

"These stinking intellectuals who eat people without spitting out the bones, they took the traitor's dirty money and don't even recognize their ancestors."

"You risk your life for the people on the front lines, and they hide behind your back and criticize you!"

The carved wooden window in the inner room was half open.

Lu Cheng was wearing a slightly worn gray cloth long gown.

He sat at his rosewood desk, his left sleeve slightly rolled up, and his right hand holding a wolf-hair brush soaked in Huizhou ink, slowly and methodically copying calligraphy on Xuan paper.

He wrote in the Yan style, his characters were robust and powerful, penetrating the paper.

"They smashed up the newspaper office, and then what?"

Lu Cheng didn't even raise his head. His pen suddenly stopped on the paper, finishing with a beautiful vertical stroke.

"So it confirms that we were guilty, that we were just angry thugs?"

Lu Cheng put down his brush, picked up the slightly cooled tea beside him, and took a small sip.

In his eyes, all the demons and monsters in the city were nothing more than a farcical spectacle of clowns jumping around.

"Master, are we just going to let them throw dirty water on you?" Lu Feng said through gritted teeth.

"Preventing the people from speaking is more difficult than preventing a river from overflowing. You can't stop it by blocking it."

Lu Cheng stood up, walked to the window, and looked at the continuous drizzle in the courtyard.

"There's too much filth in this world. Some writers' pens are more poisonous than Japanese bayonets."

"But you must remember, in this city of Beijing, since there are dogs who take money to write smear articles, there must also be people with unyielding bones."

"This rain is quite nice."

"Once the rain stops, the mud and sand will all be washed away, revealing the true gold and the worthless mud.

At the same time, in a dilapidated alley outside Xuanwu Gate in the south of Beiping (Beijing).

The office of the People's Daily was crammed into a cramped side room of a courtyard house.

The room reeked of ink, and several old lead-type printing presses sat there.

"Don't send it, Chen Yan, are you crazy?"

The newspaper's editor-in-chief, Lao Zhao, a man nearing fifty, was currently guarding a set of typefaces that had already been laid out.

"If this article is printed, our newspaper office will be shut down by Marshal Xing's military police tomorrow."

"We'll both have to go to the water dungeon."

Standing in front of him was a young man in his early twenties.

His name was Chen Yan. He was wearing a faded blue cotton school uniform with indigo dye, and a pair of round-framed glasses with white tape wrapped around the bridge of his nose.

Chen Yan was clutching a stack of handwritten manuscripts tightly in his hand.

"Uncle Zhao, all those newspapers outside are talking nonsense. They're all being instigated by the people of Nanjing and Japan to smear Master Lu."

"That day in Tianjin, a classmate of mine from Nankai University saw it with his own eyes at the flour factory."

"Master Lu, all by himself, faced the foreigners' charging guns and protected hundreds of Chinese workers."

"He spent all his wealth buying foreign goods to save the poor people on Qianmen Street, so how did he become a traitor in the mouths of those collaborators?!"

Chen Yan slammed the manuscript paper onto the table.

"We run a newspaper."

"The pen is meant to pierce through the darkness, not to be used as a chamber pot for the powerful."

"If even we don't dare to speak the truth, then the people of Beijing are truly blind!"

Old Zhao looked at the young man with his neck stiff in front of him, a bitter look flashing in his old eyes.

He dejectedly released his grip on the type tray and slumped down into the tattered rattan chair.

He pulled a crumpled cigarette from his pocket and lit it with three matches.

"The truth? Cough cough—"

Old Zhao took a deep drag on his cheap tobacco and began to cough violently.

"Xiao Yan, you're still a student, you're not married, you don't understand how difficult this world is."

Old Zhao pointed to the rain-soaked alley outside the window.

"Do you know how expensive ocean coins are these days? Two and a half dollars!"

"My wife has tuberculosis and is waiting for me to use this month's salary to buy some life-saving herbal medicine."

"Third children below are so hungry they eat scraps of vegetables every day. I don't care if I, an old man, go to jail, but how will they survive?"

Old Zhao's eyes were red.

"When I was young, I was just like you. To avoid getting tired, I cut off my queue and handed out leaflets on the street. I was whipped by the Qing soldiers."

"But what about now? The Qing Dynasty is gone, and the warlords came. The warlords left, and the foreigners came. It's just a change in name only!"

"This world is a giant pot that devours people. We ordinary folks are just the firewood in that pot."

"No matter how skilled Lu Cheng is in martial arts, can he defeat an army? Can he defeat artillery?"

"He alone cannot save this world."

Old Zhao's words were filled with anguish.

The room fell silent, with only the sound of raindrops pattering on the eaves outside.

Looking at Old Zhao's gray hair and hunched back, Chen Yan's anger gradually turned into bitterness.

He knew Uncle Zhao wasn't a bad person; he was just an ordinary father whose back had been bent by the weight of life.

"Uncle Zhao————"

Chen Yan slowly walked forward, carefully gathered the stack of manuscript paper on the table entitled "The Spirit of the Nation Never Dies: A True Study of Lu Cheng, the Preacher of the Temple of Heaven," and held it in his arms.

"I won't pressure you anymore."

Chen Yan took a deep breath.

"I understand your difficulties. But as the Master taught us, 'Those who carry firewood for the masses should not be left to freeze to death in the wind and snow.'"

"Master Lu shed blood for us in Tianjin and preached the Way for us at the Temple of Heaven."

"If he is nailed to the pillar of shame by rumors and gossip today, and we literate people all cower in fear, then the soul of China will truly be broken."

Chen Yan turned around, pushed open the rickety wooden door, and cold rain instantly swept in.

"We're not using the newspaper's printing press anymore, I'll just go to the streets and copy them myself! Ten copies, a hundred copies, a thousand copies!"

"As long as I have a breath left, I will tell the truth to the people of Beijing!"

"stop."

Just as Chen Yan was about to step into the rain, Old Zhao suddenly shouted.

Chen Yan stopped walking without turning around.

Old Zhao stood up and walked to the type tray.

He pushed the page of romantic gossip he had just arranged to the ground.

"Splash!"

The lead type was scattered all over the ground.

He gritted his teeth, turned around, dragged a large bundle of rough, uncut paper from the corner, and slammed it next to the printing press.

"Uncle Zhao, you—" Chen Yan was stunned.

Old Zhao lowered his head and skillfully opened the typesetting frame.

"I was just now—I felt dizzy and my vision was blurry."

2

"It's too dark in this room, I can't see anything."

As he spoke, Old Zhao quickly took Chen Yan's manuscript, picked out the lead type from the type tray, and embedded it into the template one by one.

"You'll remember this, kid."

"This manuscript was printed by a masked thief who broke in in the middle of the night and forced this old man to print it at knifepoint."

"I have no connection whatsoever with this newspaper, not even a single penny."

"What are you standing there for?!"

"Hurry up and turn on the machine, or those warlord lackeys will come knocking on our door and we won't be able to print anything!" Uncle Zhao—

Tears welled up in Chen Yan's eyes instantly. He rushed back into the house and grabbed the crank handle of the old-fashioned printing press.

"Crunch—bang, crunch—bang."

The ink, imbued with the passion of two generations of intellectuals, was printed on rough-edged paper.

This is not just a newspaper; it is a glimmer of light piercing the darkness.

Moreover, on this rainy night.

There are more than one person like Chen Yan and Lao Zhao.

In the basement of Yenching University.

In the hidden reading room in Liulichang.

Even in the dilapidated temples of a few down-on-their-luck scholars, printing presses and handwritten copies were running overnight.

The backbone of China has never been supported by one person alone.

Rather, it is these sparks that, even amidst the mud, still gaze at the stars, that gradually ignite a prairie fire.

Late at night.

The rain not only did not subside, but instead intensified, pounding on the bluestone slabs of Beiping City and splashing up layers of white mist.

Chen Yan wrapped the more than one thousand newly printed newspapers, still smelling of ink, in an oilcloth and put them in his arms.

Braving the torrential rain, they trudged through the deep water towards the entrances of various teahouses and theaters.

"Breaking news! Breaking news! The national spirit lives on! The truth about Grandmaster Lu!"

He ran and shouted.

He handed the newspaper in his hand to the passersby who were taking shelter from the rain under the eaves.

"The traitor's fig leaf has been torn off. Master Lu gave away his entire fortune to save Beiping, and the conspiracy of the Japanese Special Higher Police was exposed."

-

He shouted until his voice was hoarse and he was soaked in sweat.

The indigo school uniform clung tightly to his thin body, but the light in his eyes was frighteningly bright.

"Damn it, you little brat, what are you yelling about?"

Just as Chen Yan ran to the entrance of a dead-end alley near the overpass.

Suddenly, several blinding beams of flashlight light shone from the darkness ahead.

Seven or eight plainclothes agents, dressed in black raincoats and carrying batons and pistols, emerged from the rain to surround them.

The leader, a scarred-faced man, was a minor officer in Marshal Xing's military police force.

He spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva, stepped forward, and grabbed Chen Yan by the collar.

"Great! The higher-ups were just worried about not being able to find who was so reckless as to print this reactionary newspaper, and you've delivered yourself right to their doorstep."

Scarface glanced at the newspaper wrapped in oilcloth in Chen Yan's arms, grinned maliciously, and raised the police baton in his hand to smash it down on Chen Yan's head.

"Smash it! Break this reactionary brat's legs and drag him back to the water dungeon!"

"I'm not afraid of you."

Although Chen Yan was a frail scholar, he suddenly found strength in no time, tightly protecting the newspaper in his arms and glaring at the secret agents.

"The truth cannot be killed, you bunch of lackeys."

"Still dare to be stubborn!"

Scarface flew into a rage, and the police baton whistled down.

Chen Yan closed his eyes.

However, the expected pain did not come.

"Smack."

That wasn't the sound of a police baton hitting a head.

It was the sound of an oil-paper umbrella being calmly opened in the rainy night.

Chen Yan opened his eyes, looking through the rain.

He witnessed the most unforgettable moment of his life.

A tall, slender figure had appeared before him without him noticing.

The man was dressed in a long, dark gray robe, which was tinged with the darkness of night, and held a yellow paper umbrella with bamboo ribs in his hand.

The torrential rain pounded on the oil-paper umbrella, flowing down its ribs and forming a curtain of rain at its edge.

What Chen Yan found even more unbelievable was...

The raindrops, blown askew by the wind, seemed to encounter a wall and automatically slid off to either side when they came within three feet of the person's body.

The man's long robe remained completely dry even in the midst of the raging storm.

"Not a feather can be added, not even a fly can land—a Grandmaster of Internal Energy?!"

Scarface was also someone who had practiced martial arts for several years.

Upon seeing this illogical scene, the police baton held high in the air froze instantly, and his face turned deathly pale.

"Who—who are you?!"

Scarface's voice trembled as he instinctively reached for the pistol at his waist.

The person holding the umbrella did not turn around.

He slightly raised the edge of the umbrella, revealing a handsome profile.

"It's the middle of the night, and the rain is pouring down in Beijing."

"Instead of staying home and sleeping with your wives, you all come here to bully an unarmed scholar."

"Is this the rule of your warlord's mansion?"

"Lu—Lu Cheng?!"

When Scarface saw the face clearly, he felt his scalp tingle instantly, and a chill ran from his tailbone straight to the top of his head.

A person's name, a tree's shadow.

This is a half-step Dan-level killing god who could even kill a Japanese grandmaster on stage.

Let alone those few plainclothes officers with guns, even if an entire armored company came, they wouldn't be enough to feed them in this narrow alley.

"Fire! Fire now!"

Scarface was terrified and desperately backed away.

"Click-clack".

Several agents frantically pulled the bolts of their guns.

However, Lu Cheng simply sighed softly.

"Ugh."

He held up his umbrella and gently stomped on the rain-soaked flagstone.

"Buzz".

However, under Lu Chenggang's influence, the water on the bluestone slab defied gravity and instantly swelled up.

"Whoosh whoosh whoosh—!"

A few drops of muddy water, enveloped by the transforming force, directly tore through the rain curtain.

"Clang, clang, clang."

Those spies didn't even see what happened; they only felt a jolt in their hands, and their tendons snapped.

Those Mauser pistols that had just had their bolts pulled back were knocked out of their hands by a few drops of water, their parts scattered all over the ground.

"A ghost—a ghost!"

These incredibly skillful methods completely shattered the psychological defenses of these spies.

Scarface scrambled around, then, with his men, disappeared into the dark, rainy alley.

Only the sound of raindrops dripping onto oil-paper umbrellas remained in the alley.

Chen Yan sat blankly on the ground, clutching the oilcloth bag in his arms, staring at the back of the figure standing under the umbrella.

"Master Lu—"

Chen Yan's voice choked with emotion.

He didn't know what to say, but he felt that the passion in his chest had found its home at this moment.

Lu Cheng slowly turned around.

Extend your right hand, which is holding the oil-paper umbrella, slightly forward.

The edge of the umbrella shielded Chen Yan's head, protecting him from the icy wind and rain.

Then, Lu Cheng's left hand emerged from his sleeve.

In his hand, he held a steaming white steamed bun wrapped in oil paper.

"The rain is going to continue for half the night. No matter how well you write, you need to fill your stomach before you have the strength to shout."

"besides----"

Thank you.