Chapter 114: Return

There were no checkpoints between the Central Concession and the French Concession, allowing free passage. Li Wensheng, having removed his raincoat and mask, strode confidently into the French Concession.

By the time he entered, it was already past two in the morning. After several turns, he arrived at Masnan Road about half an hour later.

The explosion’s roar hadn’t reached this side; the residents were still fast asleep, and all around was silent.

Li Wensheng slipped into a dim alley and walked straight for over a hundred meters until he came before a three-room bungalow.

Bang bang!

This bungalow had no courtyard; opening the door led directly into the house. After Li Wensheng knocked forcefully, the person inside was instantly awakened.

Lights flicked on inside, and a voice called out, “Who’s there? What are you doing at this hour?”

“It’s me, Uncle Gong. Open the door, please,” Li Wensheng replied, leaning against the door.

Soon, there was a creak as the door was opened.

Li Wensheng’s face was pale as death. His previously bandaged wounds had reopened, and with a new injury on his right shoulder, half of his upper body was stained red with fresh blood.

Zheng Gong, wearing pajamas, was immediately alarmed at the sight and hurriedly helped Li Wensheng inside.

After seating him by the table, Zheng Gong quickly turned to close the door, then anxiously asked, “Wensheng, where have you been? What did you do?”

“Handled some business, Uncle Gong. I’m sorry to trouble you,” Li Wensheng smiled faintly.

“You! Your wounds weren’t even healed yet, and you went out again? You mustn’t be so reckless next time.”

Zheng Gong scolded without pause, but his hands were busy. Reaching into a nearby cabinet, he pulled out a medical kit.

Placing it on the table, he opened it and said, “Take off your clothes.”

As Li Wensheng undressed, Zheng Gong began cleaning his wounds.

Half an hour later, Zheng Gong set down the gauze and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Wensheng, the bullet can only be removed at a clinic; I don’t have the tools here.”

“Thank you for your trouble, Uncle Gong.”

Supporting himself on the table, Li Wensheng began to dress.

“I don’t mind the trouble, but Wensheng, you really must rest well from now on. Don’t go rushing off again before you heal.”

“Uncle Gong, don’t worry. I’m not eager to die yet. This time, the opportunity was just too good—I got impulsive.”

Once dressed, Zheng Gong tidied the bloody cloths on the table, changed his clothes, and helped Li Wensheng out the door.

The clinic was on Masnan Road, just a few minutes from Zheng Gong’s home.

By now, it was nearly four in the morning. Dance halls and bars were closing, and the streets were deserted, so no one noticed Li Wensheng and Zheng Gong.

Entering the clinic, they went to a tidy room where Li Wensheng lay down on the bed and took off his clothes. Zheng Gong stepped out to another room to put on a white coat, mask, and gloves.

When ready, he wheeled a medical cart into the room.

“There’s no anesthetic. We’ll have to use a towel. Hold on tight,” Zheng Gong said, handing Li Wensheng a towel from the top of the cart.

Li Wensheng rolled the towel into a ball and bit down hard.

Zheng Gong first stitched the wound on Li Wensheng’s left arm. Though painful, Li Wensheng endured it by biting the towel.

Next, Zheng Gong began treating the right shoulder wound.

The bullet hadn’t lodged in the bone, but the pain twisted Li Wensheng’s face. Still, he held on.

When it came time to remove the bullet from his right arm, Li Wensheng couldn’t bear it any longer. His veins bulged, and then he fainted from the pain.

No one knew how long he was unconscious. He later felt a shaking and slowly opened his eyes.

Seeing him awake, Zheng Gong withdrew his hands.

“Wensheng, we have to go. It’s five-thirty now. The streets will fill with people soon.”

Li Wensheng glanced toward the windowsill; dawn was already breaking outside.

With Zheng Gong’s support, Li Wensheng rose from the bed, wincing with pain.

At the clinic’s entrance, Zheng Gong handed him several boxes of medicine he had prepared earlier.

“Wensheng, rest as much as you can. If you don’t develop a fever, come back in a week for a check-up.”

“Thank you, Uncle Gong.” Taking the medicine, Li Wensheng expressed his gratitude and staggered left down the street.

Having lost much blood, Li Wensheng felt intense pain from his wounds and dizziness.

Watching his faltering figure, Zheng Gong was deeply worried.

But he had no choice; he needed to clean up the clinic and hide the bloody cloths and bullets.

Thankfully, Li Wensheng’s constitution was strong. Leaning on the wall for support, he managed to remain conscious and returned to his villa on Xiangshan Road by six-thirty.

Fumbling with his keys, he opened the front door and stepped into the first-floor hall just as Aunt Fang emerged from her bedroom.

Seeing Li Wensheng’s face paler than the last time he returned, Aunt Fang’s heart tightened.

“Sir, you’re back,” she said, forcing calm.

“Hm, Aunt Fang, I’m not very hungry today. Please cook some porridge for lunch. I’m going upstairs to rest now. Call me when it’s time to eat,” Li Wensheng said weakly.

“Alright,” Aunt Fang replied, watching him clutch the handrail as he climbed the stairs step by step.

Once his silhouette disappeared at the second-floor staircase, Aunt Fang exhaled deeply, then turned to rouse her two daughters from their rooms.

Back in his room, Li Wensheng lay down and quickly fell asleep.

Meanwhile, in the French Concession, a newsboy loudly hawked newspapers.

“The Lone Ranger appears in Shanghai!”

“Last night, the Lone Ranger bombarded Waibaidu Bridge and stormed from the Northern Concession into the Public Concession!”

“Bombardment of Waibaidu Bridge sparks standoff between Island forces and Anglo-American troops!”

...

It had been nearly half a year without any news of the Lone Ranger, but the people of Shanghai had not forgotten him. At the newsboy’s cry, a crowd immediately gathered.

“Give me ten copies!”

“Five for me!”

“That won’t fill our stomachs; buy fewer so there’s some left for us.”

“It’s not for eating—I keep them as a shrine.”

“Why don’t you just buy them at the stand?”

Those on the outskirts glanced toward the newsstand in the distance, seeing a larger crowd there.

“There are more people over there; buy fewer here. One copy each, leave some for us.”

Those inside paid no heed, buying several, a dozen, even more. In the end, many outside failed to buy any, and the newsboy’s papers sold out.

Frustrated, those left shouted curses at people clutching multiple copies before running to the neighboring street to try their luck at another stand.

Many who bought the papers stood by the roadside, reading excitedly and discussing the news.

In the Public Concession, news of the incident near Waibaidu Bridge had already spread widely among the residents.

While half of Shanghai buzzed with talk, in a narrow alley of the French Concession, a man carrying fried dough sticks and pancakes slowed his pace upon overhearing two elderly men excitedly conversing.

Listening a moment longer, he then quickened his steps and hurried onward.