Chapter Fifty-Two: The Big-Headed Man in Green (Please Continue Reading)

Hua Shier had killed Hou Sheng, yet he harbored no anxiety that his crime would ever come to light. In this era, fingerprinting technology was far from widespread, and he certainly did not believe anyone could trace any incriminating evidence back to him from the corpse.

Moreover, Hong Kong in 1906 had no population registration system in place. It would not be until forty-nine years later, in an effort to control the massive influx of immigrants, that the colonial government would begin registering residents and issuing identity cards.

In other words, Hou Sheng did not even possess a legal identity. Furthermore, members of the jianghu underworld with triad affiliations died by the dozens every day; the standard procedure for dealing with them was essentially... to do nothing at all.

Slap a label of "gangland feud, met an untimely end" on the case, bury the body out in the wasteland, and that was the end of it.

As long as Hua Shier did not commit the murder inside his own home, or have his actions witnessed and reported by an eyewitness, the case would inevitably fade away into obscurity, eventually transforming into an unsolved cold case gathering dust in the archives.

In the original plot of the story, Shen Chongyang had beaten Hou Sheng to death right in the middle of an alley in broad daylight in full view of passersby, and nothing whatsoever had come of it.

As for the incriminating evidence regarding Shen Chongyang's betrayal of police intelligence supposedly in Hou Sheng's possession, it was, in truth, merely a few scraps of paper with handwritten messages used for passing information.

Unless Hou Sheng had stood up and declared himself a spy for the Qing imperial court, produced those documents, detailed their contents, and had them verified against handwriting samples, it would have been impossible to drag Shen Chongyang down with him. Now that the man was dead and there were no witnesses left to contradict his story, Hua Shier had nothing to worry about.

Cloaked in the concealment of the night, he retraced his steps back to the building where Shen Chongyang lived. Fearing he might run into neighbors, he avoided the stairs altogether, walked directly beneath his window, bent his knees, and pushed off with both feet. His entire body launched effortlessly into the air.

As noted previously, the raw leg strength of prime-era Shaquille O'Neal, when translated into explosive jumping power for a man of his current physique, was hardly inferior to the gravity-defying lightness of foot found in martial arts legends.

The reason for this astonishing effect was quite simple: compared to O'Neal's formidable three-hundred-pound frame, both Hua Shier and Shen Chongyang carried over a hundred pounds less weight. The principle was identical to the ancient practice of strapping sandbags to one's legs to train in lightness kung fu, only the results were far more effective.

Hua Shier had already tested this capability during his previous mission world, discovering that a burst of muscular power allowed him to leap straight up onto the rooftop of Liu Beishan's single-story house.

Such jumping prowess could naturally not compare to the bamboo-forest acrobatics of *Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon* or the sublime wind-walking techniques of *Hero*, but it closely approximated the legendary feats of martial heroes passed down through oral tradition and traditional storytelling.

Now, augmented by the muscle memory and foundation of over twenty years of martial arts practice inherited from Shen Chongyang, Hua Shier's lower-body spring and leaping ability in this world were even more formidable. With a casual bounce, he reached up, caught the second-story windowsill with one hand, and used his arm strength to flip lightly inside like an agile civet cat.

Quietly latching the window behind him, Hua Shier collapsed heavily onto a wooden chair and let out a long, drawn-out breath. His entire body seemed to instantly drain of energy, slumping limply against the back of the chair.

Fumbling in the pocket of his short jacket, he withdrew a cigarette, struck a match, and took two deep, greedy puffs.

In the chaotic twilight of the late Qing dynasty, taking a life might not have been a novelty for a martial artist like Shen Chongyang, but for Hua Shier, it was an absolute first.

In his everyday life within modern society, he had always been a law-abiding citizen, rarely even engaging in fistfights. Although he had inherited Shen Chongyang's memories—which steeled his resolve to eliminate Hou Sheng—the aftermath of the deed inevitably provoked a psychological reaction.

Especially given the massive surge of adrenaline during the act itself, once he returned home and the tension ebbed away, even the hand holding the cigarette trembled slightly.

Taking several fierce drags, he allowed the nicotine to flood his bloodstream and the robust punch of the tobacco to clear his head, which gradually helped him regain his composure.

Hua Shier knew that with the system now at his disposal, if he wished to carve out a living and succeed within these mission worlds, such actions would inevitably become a regular occurrence. He told himself inwardly that he needed to overcome this sensation and adapt to it as quickly as possible.

He retrieved the Hong Kong banknotes acquired from Hou Sheng and counted them out. There were precisely one hundred and eight dollars, neither more nor less. Looking at the sum, it seemed Hou Sheng's demise was predestined by the stars of destiny, destined to meet this calamity, and had precious little to do with him personally.

Though a mere one hundred and eight dollars, in this era it amounted to nearly two years of Shen Chongyang's salary. He carefully tucked the money away.

The room contained a bed frame devoid of bedding, but Hua Shier was too lazy to sleep on the freezing wooden boards. He curled his body up in the chair and endured the rest of the night, catching barely a wink of sleep. His mind churned with thoughts on how to rapidly establish himself in this era. To bring his daughter back, he had to fulfill the first requirement of the mission: to make something of himself and gain status and respect.

Before entering this mission world, Hua Shier had actually prepared quite a few useful items, such as sulfonamide and penicillin formulas. Yet, stranded in a turbulent era without a power base of his own, recklessly producing such items would be equivalent to an infant walking through a bustling market carrying gold—it would inevitably draw the greedy eyes of powerful predators and lead straight to an early grave.

Thus, despite the whirlwind of ideas racing through his mind, Hua Shier felt his thoughts tangled and chaotic, struggling to find a clear path on how to take that crucial first step.

Waiting until the early hours of morning, when he heard the voices of neighbors outside his window, he finally washed his face, tidied himself up briefly, and headed out for work.

"Morning, Brother Chongyang!"

Old Zhang, the lame man who ran the sundry shop downstairs, had already opened his shop early. Catching sight of Hua Shier descending the stairs, he took the initiative to greet him with a smile.

Lame Zhang was in his forties, considerably older than Shen Chongyang, yet he felt not the slightest awkwardness in addressing him as "Brother."

"Morning!"

Hua Shier smiled and nodded, turning to leave, but suddenly remembering something, he turned back, drew out a one-dollar bill, and handed it over:

"I'll be on duty at the police station during the day. Could you ask your good wife to help me tidy up my room? Consider this a token of appreciation for her trouble. Thanks!"

Lame Zhang hastily pushed the money back. "Brother Chongyang, what are you doing? You've helped me out so much, this little chore is the least I can do! How could I possibly take your money? I'll have my old woman go up and clean the place for you shortly."

"If you don't accept this, I won't dare ask your wife for help."

Hua Shier pressed the money back into his hand, having no habit of throwing his weight around or taking advantage of others.

Seeing him persistent, Lame Zhang found it difficult to refuse further, though he said with a troubled expression, "But you're giving me far too much!"

A Chinese constable earned only five dollars a month; if spent sparingly, this single dollar could cover an entire month's worth of food expenses—and that included meat and eggs.

"Then use the remainder to pick up a few necessities for me. My old bedding and things were pawned off long ago, and I don't plan on getting them back. Just have your missus help me replace them with a new set!"

Lame Zhang readily agreed to the request, assuring Hua Shier that his wife would definitely handle the task properly.

With a polite smile of thanks, Hua Shier followed the route imprinted in Shen Chongyang's memory and set off for the Central Police Station.

Arriving at the station, he signed in, changed into the standard green uniform worn by Hong Kong police officers of that era, and picked up a wooden truncheon—the sole piece of standard-issue equipment for Chinese constables.

The locker room featured a dull, mottled mirror. Hua Shier straightened his attire before it, observing that Shen Chongyang, who was not yet thirty years of age, had a dark, weathered complexion and looked as though he were already in his forties due to years of wind and sun while pounding the beat.

Hua Shier remained unconcerned; skin condition could always be improved with care. Given his young physical age, he believed that with a better standard of living and adequate nutrition, he could restore his appearance within a month or two. However, the getup of the green uniform with its large conical hat still struck him as utterly awkward no matter how he looked at it.

The police uniforms in Hong Kong during this era consisted of green garments resembling later-generation work overalls, topped with a bamboo sun hat designed to ward off both sun and rain. Because of this, local residents jokingly referred to the officers as "Big-Head Green Coats," a moniker specifically used to designate the Chinese police of that period.

There was even a popular rhyme mocking them: *"ABCD, Big-Head Green Coats. Catching no criminals, blowing their whistles hard (Bi-Bi)."*

The letters A, B, C, and D represented the classification codes for the Hong Kong police force. In an era when the ethnic makeup of the police recruits was highly complex, the British colonial authorities adopted an alphabetical sorting system, prefixing badge numbers with ABCD.

'A' referred to police officers recruited directly from the British mainland; 'B' denoted officers transferred from other British colonies, such as regions like India; and 'C' designated local Hong Kong residents and people from Guangdong.

Later, due to various practical staffing needs, Hong Kong recruited a large number of men from Shandong Province, who were assigned the letter 'D'.

Shen Chongyang's ancestral home was Penglai in Shandong, but his family had moved to Guangdong during his grandfather's generation, and his father had subsequently come to Hong Kong, making his official classification code 'C'.

Hua Shier looked at his reflection in the mirror with open disdain, feeling that aside from the unappealing green uniform, there was something else inherently wrong with his appearance.

Another "Big-Head Green Coat" walked over, casually flicked Shen Chongyang's queue with a grin, and said,
"Chongyang, time to patrol the beat! What are you standing there daydreaming for?"

This officer, named Liu Yi, was Shen Chongyang's regular patrol partner. The two generally enjoyed a decent working relationship, marked by banter and lighthearted scuffles so long as the topic of borrowing money was avoided.

Seeing the dangling braid of hair that Liu Yi had just tossed aside, Hua Shier experienced a sudden flash of realization: "I know what looks wrong!"

Turning back into the locker room, he rummaged through a drawer, found a pair of scissors, reached behind his head, and with a decisive *snip*, severed the unsightly queue hanging down his back.