Starting as dockworkers, they swept through Chongqing.

Chapter 172 Recap, Return, Mori's Trick

On the other side, Xiren came out of the hotel and exhaled a breath of air that carried a faint coolness.

Everything was ready, leaving no loose ends.

As evening fell, the sky was dyed a brilliant crimson by the sunset, and the gas lamps along the streets began to light up one by one, hissing as they did so.

Following Lund, Xilun joined the bustling crowd and walked through the huge arched gate of the train station.

The station was filled with the roar of steam locomotives and the pungent smell of coal.

Xilun walked to the ticket window and said to the ticket seller, "Two hard-seat tickets back to Saint Laurent City."

Upon hearing this, Lund, who was standing behind him, smirked and pulled Xilen aside, saying with disdain, "Why are you being so stingy? You've won the championship for a whopping sixty pounds now, it's just a matter of paying a few more shillings."

He turned to the ticket seller, waved his hand grandly, and declared with boundless enthusiasm, "Two soft sleeper berths, please!"

The ticket seller quickly printed out two tickets and handed them out the window: "A total of 4 shillings, sir."

Lund nodded, then with a very elegant and practiced gesture, reached into the pocket of his expensive trench coat.

One second, two seconds, three seconds.

Time seemed to stand still at that moment.

A moment later, Lund pulled his hand out empty.

He turned his head without changing his expression, glanced at the puzzled Xilen, and said matter-of-factly, "You pay."

Xilun thought for a moment, looking at his mentor's composed demeanor, and tentatively asked, "Sir, did you... lose your wallet?"

Lund's face darkened: "You guessed right."

Xilun twitched the corner of his mouth, speechless.

But he didn't say anything. He just silently took out a few coins, made up the difference, and held the two sleeper tickets in his hand.

With a long whistle, the steam train slowly pulled out of the station and headed towards Saint Laurent.

The train carriages made a regular "clanging" sound on the tracks.

The soft sleeper car was dimly lit, with only a gas lamp in the aisle emitting a faint yellow glow.

The air was filled with a faint smell of leather and tobacco.

Xilun lay on the lower bunk, the soft mattress offering some comfort to his battered back.

Lund, on the upper bunk, was breathing evenly and seemed to be asleep.

But Siren was wide awake.

He opened his eyes in the darkness, and deep in his pupils, it seemed as if the firelight from the arena was still flickering.

Xiren mentally replayed the final match from this afternoon, frame by frame.

"It's really the limit—" he murmured silently.

In the dozen or so breaths of their exchange, he encountered at least five crises that could have shattered him to pieces.

The deathly shadow cast by Marshall's punch as it grazed his cheek still sends chills down his spine.

If, when he uses the Dorothy Dark Claw technique, the angle of his finger bends is off by even an inch; if, when he uses the Bellero kick, the twist of his waist is even a fraction of a second slower—

He had many failures, but he avoided them all.

Why is that?

Xilun closed his eyes, feeling the weakened but now more refined blood and energy within his body.

Perhaps it was the aura that old Rick mentioned, that ruthlessness that disregards life and death and seeks only to kill with one blow; perhaps it was his determination to never return to the bottom and to climb up; or perhaps it was simply luck favored by fate.

In short, he achieved victory.

But he knew all too well that such a victory built on the edge of a precipice was not replicable.

What should he do next time if he encounters a stronger opponent, and if the opponent doesn't give him a chance to fight back?

"We must quickly digest what we've learned from this competition and thoroughly solidify our mastery of the 'Coiled Dragon' defensive and guiding techniques."

Xilun secretly made a plan in his mind.

The train sped through the night, the scenery outside the window turning into blurry black shadows that swept past.

Meanwhile, in the city where Xilun had just left.

The night wind whipped up fallen leaves from the street, which then struck the hotel's somewhat peeling sign.

A man wearing a long black overcoat and with his hat pulled low, pushed open the hotel door like a ghost.

-

The lobby was dimly lit, and the boss was dozing off at the counter.

The man walked to the counter, bent his fingers, and tapped the wooden board twice heavily.

"Knock knock".

The shopkeeper woke up with a start, rubbing his sleepy eyes. Looking at the stranger in front of him who exuded a cold aura, he instinctively shrank back. "Sir, are you looking for a room?"

The man didn't answer; his voice was hoarse and dry, like two pieces of sandpaper rubbing together: "Excuse me, is Mr. Siren here?"

As he spoke, he reached inside his trench coat, as if he had grasped something.

"There is a package for him that I need to deliver to him in person."

The man added, his gaze fixed intently on the boss's face.

The hotel owner paused for a moment, then suddenly realized and slapped his forehead, saying, "Oh! You mean that young man who participated in the competition!"

He's lived here for a long time, and he makes a lot of noise in his room every day.

A glint of shrewdness flashed in the man's eyes as he leaned forward slightly: "So where is he now? In which room?"

The owner spread his hands regretfully and said, "Unfortunately, he checked out and left at noon."

The man paused, his facial muscles twitching slightly, then his voice suddenly rose: "Gone?! So fast?!"

He seemed unable to accept this fact, his brows furrowed tightly: "He left right after the match ended at noon? Doesn't he need to attend some kind of celebration banquet?"

The boss was startled by the man's tone and stammered, "This—how would I know?"

He handed over the keys, took the deposit, and left. It looks like he went to the train station.

The man's face immediately darkened, as if it could drip water.

He gritted his teeth and cursed inwardly. He had set off as soon as the curator finished giving instructions, but he was still a step too late.

"Could we be going to Saint Laurent City?" the man thought to himself with annoyance.

The man glanced coldly at the boss, turned and walked out of the hotel without a word, disappearing back into the vast night.

late at night.

The train station platform was deserted, with only a few yawning police officers wandering around.

A red-eye train bound for Saint Laurent is puffing out white steam, ready to depart.

An angry man strode into the cheapest hard-seat carriage.

The night was like a huge piece of black velvet, heavily covering the sky above Saint Laurent.

In the lobby on the first floor of the Golden Rooster Hotel, the dim gaslights emitted a soft hissing sound, and the halo of light diffused into the air, creating a warm and languid hue.

The old wooden floor exudes a faint scent of pine and mildew, a unique aroma that comes with the passage of time.

Morrie was yawning, his obese body squeezed into the slightly cramped rattan chair behind the counter, the rattan creaking in protest as it could no longer bear the weight.

He listlessly stretched out his short, stubby fingers and counted the neatly arranged sake bottles on the counter.

"one two three----"

As his fingers glided across the cool glass bottle, Morrie's eyes seemed somewhat unfocused.

In the past, whenever he was on night duty, no matter if it was a raging storm or a heavy snowfall outside, he would definitely sneak out the cork and take a few hearty sips.

The spicy liquid rolled down the throat and into the stomach, instantly dispelling the chill and loneliness of the night, making one break out in a fine sweat, so comfortable that even the soul seemed to float away.

But now it won't work.

Morrie looked down at her belly, which was swollen as if she were ten months pregnant, and sighed helplessly.

As we get older, our bodily functions become like rusty gears, struggling to operate more and more.

A while ago, he went to see an old doctor in the city. The doctor, with a stern face and an extremely harsh tone, warned him that if he didn't quit drinking, his liver would be completely ruined, like a piece of rotten wood.

"What a boring life—" Morrie sighed, his voice echoing in the empty lobby, carrying a hint of indescribable loneliness.

He stared at the sake, pondered for a moment, and then his thick lips pursed slightly.

Since I can't drink, I have to find something else to pass the long and tedious night watch.

He suddenly became interested and carefully took out a chipped ceramic cup from under the counter, then uncorked a bottle of the cheapest sake.

The clear, cool liquor flowed slowly from the bottle neck, pouring into the small glass with a crisp sound.

He held the glass up to the gaslight, letting the dim light shine directly onto the slightly rippling surface of the wine.

Morrie lowered his head, staring intently at the liquor, and began to mutter to himself, reciting obscure syllables that even he couldn't understand.

A moment later, the surrounding air seemed to become somewhat viscous.

Morrie felt a faint flash of inspiration suddenly appear in his mind, like a firefly suddenly lighting up in a dark wilderness.

That spark of inspiration followed his gaze and pierced straight into the wine glass.

"Let's see what the weather is like tomorrow—" Morrie asked in a low voice, a hint of anticipation in his tone.

The sake in the glass was originally crystal clear, but under the touch of that spark of light, a strange ripple suddenly appeared on the surface.

The spotlight that originally reflected the gas lamp began to distort and darken. Gradually, a deep gray-black color appeared in the glass, as if heavy dark clouds were rolling at the bottom of the glass, and you could even vaguely see fine rain strands intertwined in it.

Morrie stared thoughtfully at the rainy scene, a hint of surprise flashing in his cloudy eyes.

He touched his somewhat prickly beard and slowly said, "It's not advisable to go out."

As they were talking, the hotel's heavy oak door was pushed open from the outside.

The door hinges made a dull creaking sound, and a gust of night wind carrying the chill of the night rushed into the lobby, causing the gas lamp flame to flicker violently and casting a long, slender shadow in front of the counter that seemed to glow and fade.

A young man carrying a slightly worn travel bag stepped in.

Although his steps were steady, his shoulders slumped slightly, revealing an undeniable weariness.

"Uncle Morrie, still awake?"

Xilun looked up, forcing a smile on his pale face, and said, "Could I have a cup of hot milk, please?"

Xilun was exhausted and sleepy.

He had traveled all the way from the neighboring city back to Saint Laurent by steam train. The stuffy air in the carriage, the endless jolting of the tracks, and the lingering muscle soreness from using the "breathing" technique during the finals made every movement he made feel like he was carrying a heavy lead weight.

All he wanted now was something hot to drink, and then to collapse heavily onto that narrow but incredibly familiar single bed.

Morrie immediately put away the small ceramic cup used for divination and replied with a smile, "Little Xilun is back. I'll go heat it up for you right away."

He dragged his obese body toward the small kitchen at the back. A short while later, he emerged carrying a cup of steaming milk.

The white porcelain cup looked rather small in Mori's rough hands, and the rich aroma of milk instantly filled the lobby.

Xilun reached out and took the milk. The scalding heat from his palm made him squint his eyes in comfort.

"You don't look too good; it's like you've just fought a grown brown bear."

Mori looked at Xilen and casually joked.

But he keenly sensed that the young man's demeanor seemed to have undergone some subtle change.

The former Xiren, though aloof, was like a newly sharpened dagger, its edge fully revealed; but the current Xiren has become more profound and reserved, like a calm lake, where you never know what terrifying undercurrents are hidden beneath the surface.

"Pretty much, I'm really exhausted."

Xilun didn't explain much, but simply nodded slightly while holding the milk, then turned and walked towards the room deep in the first-floor corridor.

Pushing open the door to room 106, the familiar musty smell and faint dusty scent hit her, which gave Xilun a strange sense of peace.

He casually tossed his travel bag into the corner, walked to his desk, sat down, and began to sip the hot milk from his cup.

The warm liquid flowed down his throat into his stomach, transforming into a warm current that quickly spread throughout his body.

Siren felt his tense nerves finally begin to relax little by little. He looked down at his hands, which were covered with tiny scars, and the image of Marshall being kicked out of the ring by him flashed involuntarily through his mind.

After finishing the last sip of milk, Xilun collapsed onto the rather flimsy bed without even taking off his clothes.

Almost the instant his head touched the pillow, a heavy sense of exhaustion overwhelmed him like a tidal wave. He closed his eyes and fell into a deep rest.

The next morning, or more precisely, at noon the next day.

Dim light struggled to penetrate room 106 through the gaps in the curtains, casting a narrow, dim patch of light on the scratched wooden floor.

The room was so quiet that only Xilun's even and long breathing could be heard.

Xilun slept until noon before slowly waking up.

He groaned twice, feeling as if his body were a rusty machine, with every joint protesting.

He stretched out his limbs on the bed like a lazy cat, his spine making a series of soft "clicking" sounds.

He sat on the bed for a moment, his eyes still somewhat unfocused.

He raised his hand to wipe the drool that had inadvertently dripped from the corner of his mouth, took a deep breath of the slightly stuffy air in the room, and muttered to himself, "A new day has arrived."

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