Chapter Seventy-Two: The Beastly Hat

The man who had been thrown down by Yang Xiaolin struggled to his feet, hurried over to someone, and mumbled something. That person was wearing a French military uniform, though the color and style were distinct from the others—clearly an officer. Yang Xiaolin noticed the man's glare growing fiercer, and immediately began searching for a new escape route. However, the Indians had already started to encircle him. Yang Xiaolin spat to the side and cursed under his breath, "Damn, I let my guard down!"

He steadied his breathing, then retreated once more to the restroom doorway, preparing for a desperate fight. It wasn't that he thought he could take on thirty men, but at least in this position, he could take down as many as possible with him! Yang Xiaolin was good in a fight, but taking on thirty at once was a feat for a true hero.

The Indian officer led the way, eyes locked on Yang Xiaolin, the gap between them shrinking with every step. Just as the officer was about to reach the restroom door and Yang Xiaolin braced himself for a last stand, a dark silhouette suddenly swept into view, positioning itself between the officer and Yang Xiaolin—a figure as imposing as a massive gorilla.

"Move, I need to take a leak," the newcomer said quietly.

It was Nirel. Yang Xiaolin stepped aside, allowing him in. Nirel's sudden appearance took both Yang Xiaolin and the Indian officer by surprise. A group of black soldiers followed Nirel, nearly filling the already cramped restroom.

The Indian officer said something, but Nirel ignored him. Glancing at the Indian still squatting inside, Nirel suddenly grinned and said to Yang Xiaolin, "Friend, that's not very nice. Let him up."

Yang Xiaolin offered no objection. With a nod from Nirel, the man climbed out, trailing a stench as he slunk back to his group, who recoiled from him in disgust.

Nirel nonchalantly pulled out the darkest part of his body, relieved himself, and whistled softly. When he finished, he didn’t wash his hands. As he reached the door, he threw an arm around Yang Xiaolin's shoulders. "Come on," he said.

The Indian officer hesitated, still blocking Nirel's path, but at a fierce look from Nirel—and seeing the dozen black soldiers at his back, some vaulting over the restroom walls—the Indians quickly stepped aside, not daring to fight these human gorillas.

And so, on his first day at the French Embassy, Yang Xiaolin not only made a group of friends but also a number of enemies.

That evening, instead of checking in on Biaozi and the others, Yang Xiaolin stayed at the embassy. The lunch he had cooked had apparently left such an impression on Minister Shirley that she insisted on having Chinese food again for dinner. As a result, Wu Daoliang arranged a room for Yang Xiaolin to stay the night.

Fortunately, Biaozi and Ergazi were professionals at this sort of thing; as seasoned bandits, they needed no guidance from Yang Xiaolin. After dinner, Yang Xiaolin accepted Nirel's invitation to join him for drinks at a bar in Dongjiaomin Lane.

To be honest, Yang Xiaolin didn't much care for the atmosphere in bars—too noisy. Even in the twenty-first century, he seldom visited such places, not because he was a policeman, but simply because he wasn't fond of them.

Back then, when there was nothing to do, he could play on the computer, banter with nationalistic netizens on military forums, or tinker with model guns. In this era, aside from daydreaming, there was little to occupy his time, so exploring Dongjiaomin Lane seemed as good an option as any.

The bar was run by an Englishman. Dongjiaomin Lane was only just being developed, and entertainment venues were scarce, making this one of the few lively spots where young people from different countries could unwind.

As Yang Xiaolin entered, Domlikshawa was approaching with a young Russian man on her arm. Yang Xiaolin had long forgotten the Russian girl he'd glimpsed just once; Domlikshawa, for her part, had no recollection of Yang Xiaolin either. She was working hard to erase the memories of her ordeal in western Liaoning, as if trying to forget a terrifying nightmare.

The source of her nightmares was Ergazi, who had taken her innocence, and Biaozi, who had surrounded her with his men. As for Yang Xiaolin—who had only crossed her path at the mine entrance—he didn't even feature in her nightmares.

Passing each other, their eyes met briefly and moved on. Domlikshawa, not wishing to walk side by side with a Chinese man, tugged her companion to a halt, waiting for Yang Xiaolin to go inside before entering herself.

The bar was even livelier inside. In this era, there were no sound systems; a live band played energetically on stage while many danced gracefully in the center.

Nirel found a table and waved Yang Xiaolin over. A waiter quickly brought a bottle of foreign liquor. Nirel deftly uncorked it and poured a glass for Yang Xiaolin. "Lu, have a drink."

Yang Xiaolin raised his glass and took a careful sip. The taste of the foreign liquor didn't quite suit him. Nirel seemed to notice, his expression betraying a hint of disappointment. "Come on, drink like you fight—down it in one. Don't try to save me money; I never know how long I'll be around to spend it."

With that, Nirel drained his own glass. Yang Xiaolin grinned, lifted his glass again, and downed it in one go. "I haven't asked—why did you help me?"

Nirel shrugged. "No special reason. I saw you running well, so when those thirty men came at you, I wanted to see if you could escape them all. I just wanted to get you out of the restroom. I didn’t expect they’d be too cowardly to give chase. It was disappointing."

It was clearly a joke, and Nirel's Chinese wasn't quite up to the task of expressing it, but Yang Xiaolin smiled politely. "I should be the one thanking you—otherwise, I'd be in the hospital now."

Nirel gestured to the bottle, inviting Yang Xiaolin to help himself. "To be honest, there aren't many Chinese like you. Most of the others at the embassy just grin and bear it when they're bullied. You're the first to fight back. Aren't you afraid of causing trouble?"

Yang Xiaolin smacked his lips. "Of course, but sometimes, trouble can't be avoided. When someone pissed on my shoes, I couldn't let it go."

Nirel clearly approved. "Well said."

Yang Xiaolin poured himself another glass. "Nirel, your Chinese is impressive. How many years have you been here?"

Nirel considered. "About three. Not just Chinese—I can speak English, French, German, and Russian too."

Yang Xiaolin was genuinely impressed. "Now I really admire you."

Nirel swirled his glass, unconcerned. "It's nothing. I do it to survive—mercenaries like us, one day fighting for the French against the British, the next for the British against the French. You have to do what your employer says, so you learn their languages."

Yang Xiaolin nodded. "Makes sense. Being a mercenary can't be easy. Do you plan to keep it up forever?"

Nirel smiled. "I don't want this life forever. When I first started, I thought if I could, I’d go into business, like the white men do. I believe I could succeed. That thought grew stronger when I came to China, and now I've already started making plans!"

He seemed genuinely excited, nodding toward a man chatting up people all over the bar. "That fellow is Robert, an English scoundrel. He was so poor in England he couldn't even afford pants. But after coming to China, he stole a valuable antique from a local and used the money to start a trading business. Lu, business here is easy—Chinese merchants are desperate to work with foreigners. All you need is a decent-looking office and a signboard saying 'Trading Company,' and you can sit at home collecting money."

Listening to this, Yang Xiaolin finally understood why the Zhao family house had attracted foreign interest. Apparently, Robert was the very Englishman eyeing the property.

He raised his glass. "Sounds like a good business. When do you plan to start?"

Nirel thought a moment. "Not sure. My contract with the French isn’t up yet. When it is, I hope to get French citizenship. That would make things easier."

Just then, Yang Xiaolin heard Robert arguing with someone across the room. He couldn’t make out what was said, but Nirel grinned. "What’s going on?" Yang Xiaolin asked.

Nirel replied, "That Englishman just asked the Russian girl who came in to dance. Her companion is a military attaché at the Russian consulate. Knowing Robert is a scoundrel, he refused on her behalf. Now they're arguing."

Yang Xiaolin wasn't interested in the quarrel, but what Nirel said next shocked him. "Robert just called Russians a nation of drunkards, good for nothing but drinking—and that's why a Chinese bandit routed them in western Liaoning."

"A Chinese bandit?"

"You haven't heard? It’s been all over the papers these past days—every foreign paper. The bandit's name is Yang Xiaolin, nickname Yang the Ghost-Slayer. They say he killed over a thousand Russians in one night, including several hundred unarmed women and children. The whites all call him a monster!"

Yang Xiaolin was stunned. He had no idea his reputation had spread so quickly, all the way to Beijing! He'd always tried to be a good man, even as a bandit rarely robbing the innocent, but now he’d been branded a monster.

"What does he look like?" Yang Xiaolin was suddenly anxious: was his likeness in the papers? He was desperate to find a copy.

Nirel shook his head. "No idea. They say the papers don’t have a photo—everyone who’s seen him is dead."

Yang Xiaolin breathed a sigh of relief. No portrait meant he could keep being Lu San for now; Yang the Ghost-Slayer could wait until the time was right.

He had just relaxed when suddenly the room erupted in chaos. He turned to see Robert and the Russian in a brawl, the scene growing wilder by the moment.

Nirel was now thoroughly enjoying himself. He whistled sharply, hopped onto the table, and watched the fight. "Lu, I love watching white men brawl!"

Fighting, it seemed, was a staple of this bar. The drinkers around them egged the combatants on. It started as a duel between Robert and the Russian, but though the Russian was big, he lacked Robert’s street-fighting experience and was soon bleeding from the head. Other Russians joined in to help, and naturally, the Englishmen wouldn't stand by—they all leapt into the fray. A full-scale brawl broke out.

It wasn’t until the Dongjiaomin Lane patrol arrived that the crowd was finally pulled apart.

Yang Xiaolin found the spectacle thoroughly entertaining. When he and Nirel left the bar, they still felt satisfied, replaying the fight and discussing strategies—how they, in such a melee, would attack if they were involved.

At one point, Nirel said enthusiastically, "If I ever get the chance to give a white man a proper beating, I’ll make sure he never stands again!"

When they returned to the French Consulate, they found the main gate already locked. Nirel was surprised, checking his watch. "What’s going on? They always lock up at ten thirty. Why so early tonight?"

He looked through the gate and spotted a sentry inside. He called out in French. The guard shone a searchlight on them but didn’t come down to open the gate.

Growing frustrated, Nirel kicked the iron gate hard, making it clang loudly. Finally, the guard responded, but still didn’t come down. Yang Xiaolin heard him shout from above as a gun barrel pointed at Nirel.

Yang Xiaolin hurriedly pulled Nirel back. "Don't kick again. If you do, he really will shoot."

Nirel glared up at the guard, eyes full of anger and indignation. At that moment, a French nobleman appeared inside the gate, his head held high, looking down at Nirel with arrogant disdain. He began speaking rapidly in French, clearly chastising Nirel. Nirel tried to defend himself now and then, but the nobleman only grew more dismissive. The scolding went on for over half an hour, until the Frenchman, presumably parched from all his talking, finally opened the gate and let them in. Nirel said nothing, striding straight to his room.

Yang Xiaolin was about to return to his own quarters when the French nobleman stopped him.

"Stop. You’re the new Chinese cook, aren’t you?"

This time, he spoke in Chinese, which Yang Xiaolin understood.

The man was half a head taller than Yang Bazong. Yang Xiaolin had to look up to meet his gaze, a posture he found uncomfortable. After sizing him up, he looked away. "Yes."

"I heard you’re quite a fighter—took on seven guards in the back garden single-handedly. Is that true?"

Yang Xiaolin knew that acting on impulse often led to trouble, but since he’d already acted, he was prepared to face the consequences. "They bullied me first," he replied.

To his surprise, the French nobleman didn’t pursue the matter. He merely said, "This is the French Consulate, not a Qing Dynasty alley. No more fighting here. If they trouble you again, report it to me. Now, go to the kitchen and prepare me a midnight snack. Don’t forget a bottle of wine."

Yang Xiaolin immediately understood: in the eyes of these proud whites, the status of the Indian soldiers was no better than that of the Chinese—they were all equally looked down upon. To earn their respect, it wasn't enough to act like an Indian, wagging your tail behind them. You had to show them you were stronger.