Starting as dockworkers, they swept through Chongqing.

The days that followed passed quickly.

Or rather, for practitioners, once they truly immerse themselves in a certain method, time will slip away like water through their fingers, passing by unnoticed.

Xilun practically nailed himself to the back of the mountain.

During the day, he practices the Xuan Yin Breathing Method, using waterfalls, water vapor, and the Xuanming Spring to constantly refine the cold and yin energy within his body; occasionally, he also combines it with the Bone Forging Iron Armor Ascetic Method, using methods such as submerging in water, carrying heavy loads, crashing into rocks, and resisting waterfalls to repeatedly drain his physical body and then restore it again and again.

Back in his study at night, he would practice the Moon Memory Meditation Technique to calm his mind, which had been stretched taut by intense training.

These days are tough, but also stable.

The people in the mansion gradually got used to it.

When Rena comes to deliver documents, she subconsciously walks softly.

When Kusuo reported, he didn't dare to speak loudly near the back mountain.

Even the newly recruited servants would instinctively feel awe when they saw that figure under the waterfall from afar.

half a month later.

The light of dusk slanted in through the woods, casting a pale gold hue over the mist.

Xilun slowly opened his eyes and exhaled a long breath of white air.

The white vapor shot out like an arrow, flying several feet before dissipating in mid-air.

He wiped the water from his face, lowered his head to feel the changes within his body, and his eyes flickered slightly.

The Xuan Yin Breathing Technique is still some distance from being mastered.

But that distance is no longer far.

As for the ascetic practice of forging bones and iron armor, it continues to approach higher levels.

Xilun stood up, put on his clothes, and slowly walked back along the stone steps, his mind still preoccupied with calculations.

Ordinary techniques, such as police combat techniques and Iron Wall Breathing, mostly stop at the master level.

However, the first, second, and third stages of the Dharma Gate that truly correspond to extraordinary paths are different.

This entire level is known as the extraordinary class.

Therefore, the upper limit of skill is no longer just master, but a higher level... extraordinary level.

Further up, the fourth, fifth, and sixth tiers possess destructive power akin to natural disasters, hence they are also known as the Disaster Tier, and their skills continue to be pushed up to the Disaster Tier.

The Bone Forging Iron Armor Cultivation Method and the Profound Yin Breathing Method that he currently possesses are both techniques that can help one ascend to the extraordinary level.

That is why every step of growth is incredibly slow.

But once you overcome that hurdle, the resulting improvement is far beyond what ordinary methods can achieve.

After returning to the mansion, Xilun took a bath first.

The hot water gradually washed away the accumulated medicinal residue, fine blood clots, and sweat on my body, and I finally felt a bit more relaxed from the continuous bombardment of the waterfall.

After changing his clothes, he went into the study.

Rena was already waiting inside.

Upon seeing Xilun enter, she immediately stood up, her expression more serious than usual.

"Governor."

"What's up?"

Xilen sat down behind the table and gestured for her to speak.

Reina handed over the neatly organized documents.

"There are further results regarding the matter we've been investigating."

Xilun took it and opened it.

The paper records were very detailed, including several towns, resource points, the personnel involved, the Knights' headquarters, the flow of grain, and even which landlords and parishioners had dealings with each other.

The more Xilun looked at him, the colder his gaze became.

Things were more complicated than he had anticipated.

Although the Shattered Bone Gang was uprooted, the rotten roots and soil it left behind did not dissipate as quickly as the surface.

Many former members, outsiders, and dependents in remote towns do not recognize the Brotherhood at all, nor do they care who is now in charge of the North.

They only recognize who has a gun and who has men under their feet.

Now that the Shattered Bone Gang has disbanded, these people are like wild dogs that have broken free of their reins, each occupying their own territory, bribing local knightly orders, and even eyeing extraordinary resources such as the Nightingale Flower Field.

What's more troublesome is that the document also mentions a clue—someone is secretly contacting the Secret Language Choir.

That's another considerable force.

If these remnants were to collude with the other side, the trouble would only be greater than it is now.

Xilun raised his head.

"Have you found out everything?"

"Yes." Rena nodded. "It's basically clear now. The source is in the town of Scamay. The larkspur fields there have been occupied by several remnants of the Broken Bones Gang. The local knights not only don't care, but they're also helping them force the townspeople to pay taxes and grain."

Xiren leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping lightly on the table.

Before expanding outwards, internal stability must be achieved first.

Otherwise, if the backyard catches fire, no matter how much territory you seize outside, it will all be castles in the air.

The Shattered Bone Gang has been destroyed, but the name's demise doesn't mean that order has automatically returned to normal.

At times like these, swift and decisive action must be taken to crush the first group of people to emerge.

After a moment of silence, Xilun closed the file, his tone calm but leaving no room for negotiation.

"Take stock of the musketeers in the manor."

"Come with me."

Rena's eyes sharpened, and she immediately lowered her head.

"clear."

……

As night fell, two cars slowly drove out of the mansion gate.

A black sedan was in front.

A truck with metal plates added is behind.

The headlights pierced the darkness, and the deep rumble of the steam engine echoed along the mountain road as the car drove toward the town of Scamay.

Inside the car, Xilun sat with his eyes closed, his fingertips resting lightly on his knees.

He didn't bring many people with him.

The key to suppressing such places is not the quantity, but the speed, ruthlessness, and precision.

Once the toughest few heads are crushed, the rest will naturally understand who's in charge in the North District now.

Meanwhile.

In the town of Scamay, however, the scene was quite different.

The autumn sky was clear and cloudless, and the afterglow of the evening sun shone on the vast wheat fields, making the wheat awns gleam golden. When the wind blew, the wheat rippled like waves.

Judging by the scenery alone, this place could even be described as peaceful and prosperous.

But beneath the tranquility lies a suffocating oppression.

Beside the paddy field ridge, a knightly order dressed in old-fashioned leather armor and carrying standard-issue longswords was patrolling back and forth.

The man in the lead had a broad nose and an old scar on his face. He rode on horseback, but his eyes were like a wolf's, always watching who was slow or who was foul-mouthed in the crowd.

"Hurry up and cut it!"

"We haven't paid our share for this year yet. If we keep dragging our feet, the town's granary won't be open!"

He shouted and cursed as he pointed with his riding whip at the vast wheat fields ahead.

Several farmers, sweating profusely and bent over harvesting, looked extremely grim upon hearing this.

Finally, a man in his forties couldn't help but mutter a curse under his breath.

"We've already paid twice this year, how come it's still not enough?"

A thinner man nearby heard this and quickly tugged at his sleeve, lowering his voice to say, "Keep your voice down... are you out of your mind?"

The man gritted his teeth, his eyes turning red.

"Why should we? If we keep paying, what will we eat in winter!"

The thin man glanced around, and seeing that the patrol wasn't paying attention to them for the time being, he whispered even lower:

"Since that gang of thugs came, when have we ever had a good life? We're lucky if we can even keep our lives by handing over some wheat."

"I heard that there was a girl in the next village who was captured and killed within two days."

The man's face twitched violently, and he almost bent the sickle in his hand.

"Where are the Knights? Where is the mayor? Are they all blind?"

The thin man smiled bitterly, as if he had heard some absurd joke.

"Whose money do you think the Knights are paid?"

"Who does the town mayor rely on for his livelihood?"

"It's all thanks to that field of larks behind us. I heard that it's a treasure that the Extraordinary Lord wanted, but now it's all taken by those people. Even the Knights Lord has to be mindful of their attitude just to get a slice."

Another old farmer nearby chimed in, his voice hoarse.

"Originally, there was the Shattered Bone Gang above them, so at least they knew the rules. Even if it was illegal, there was still some kind of illegal law."

Now that the Shattered Bone Gang has disbanded, these outlying groups in various places have gone mad. With the emperor far away, who cares about your life or death?

"They're looking for powerful backers everywhere these days, and I heard they're even thinking of getting involved with some choir..."

"If I really vote, I'm afraid I'll have even less of a way to survive in the future."

As the group spoke, at the other end of the paddy field, a one-eyed man in a long gray coat stood on a wooden platform, watching the scene from afar.

He was tall and thin, holding a string of wooden beads that looked like an abacus in his hand. His face was gloomy, but he did not immediately stop the discussion.

Because he himself knew very well that the criticisms from these peasants weren't entirely wrong.

The Shattered Bone Gang is gone.

The flag that used to hold down all directions collapsed overnight.

These former subordinates scattered in the border towns suddenly became rootless.

If you don't fight for it, someone else will.

If you're not ruthless, you'll be eaten by others.

He has dozens of people to support, the Knights Order to feed, and the parish to manage. The Nightingale Field only produces so much each year. If he doesn't squeeze every last drop out of these townspeople, where else can he find a way to make a living?

As for seeking refuge with the Whispering Choir...

The one-eyed man narrowed his eyes.

He didn't think about it.

But once you've actually thrown it in, there's no turning back.

However, if they don't vote, the new governor of the Brotherhood will eventually come knocking on their door if he really sets his sights on it.

Thinking of this, he suddenly felt a strange sense of irritation and slammed the wooden bead heavily against the railing.

With a snap.

The few farmers who had been gossiping below immediately shut up and didn't dare to raise their heads again.

"Stop talking nonsense and get to work!"

The one-eyed man spoke coldly, his voice carrying far.

"If anyone's share isn't enough, they can use land or people as collateral! Don't blame me for not giving you a chance!"

The wind blows across the wheat field, creating golden waves.

Even the brightest sunlight couldn't dispel the numbness on the faces of those people in the fields.

"Who told you to be so talkative?"

The riding boot slammed out, striking the complaining farmer squarely in the side.

The man groaned and collapsed into the stubble. Freshly harvested wheat stalks pierced his cheeks, leaving several thin streaks of blood.

He gritted his teeth, not daring to shout, but supporting himself on the ground with his hands, the veins on his forehead bulging.

The surrounding farmers immediately lowered their heads, and even the sound of their sickles being swung became subconsciously quieter.

The autumn wind blows across the fields, and the aroma of wheat, which should be clean and warm, is now stuffy with the smell of sweat, mud, and the greasy smell of whips.

The knight who had kicked the man withdrew his leg, raised his hand to adjust his dark blue short cloak, his musket swaying at his waist, his expression full of habitual ferocity.

"So what if I paid twice?" he sneered. "Does the town support a knightly order without spending money? Does the Nightingale Flower Field need manpower to expand? What can you peasants do all year round besides complain about being poor?"

The farmer on the ground struggled to lift his head, blood bubbling from the corner of his mouth:

"Mr. Baker... my two acres of land have already been incorporated into the flower field. This is all the wheat we have left this year. If we hand it over... we'll really starve to death this winter."

"People are starving to death?"

The knight seemed to have heard a joke, and turned to laugh heartily at his companions.

"Did you hear that? He told me people are starving to death."

"So what if a few starve to death? Does the town mayor lack people to farm?"

"Stop talking nonsense, just drag their sacks away, and you won't even need to use a scale."

Several patrolling knights approached with smiles and roughly snatched several bulging sacks from the ground.

A woman rushed forward and hugged the grain sack, crying and pleading, "Don't take it anymore, please, leave some for the children, just a little..."

"Get out of here!"

The butt of the gun slammed into her shoulder, and the woman screamed and fell to the ground.

The old farmer who had been quietly advising others earlier watched with twitching skin, but still dared to hold the young man beside him tightly, and said in a low voice:

"Don't be impulsive, don't be impulsive... Bear with it, just bear with it for now..."

The young man's eyes were bloodshot, his chest heaved, and his fingernails dug into his palms.

"Endure?" he gritted his teeth, his voice hoarse. "If we endure any longer, we'll lose everything."

The old farmer's face was ashen; he opened his mouth, but ultimately couldn't utter a single word.

At the other end of the field, another rider spurred his horse forward, shouting, "Hurry up! If you don't collect your quota before sunset, you know the consequences!"

After that sentence was spoken, the field fell completely silent.

Only the rustling sound of sickles cutting through wheat stalks remained, dull and muffled, like someone slowly sharpening a knife.

……

In a tavern on the east side of the street in the town of Scamay.

The window was half-open, and outside was the last vestiges of the sunset's golden hue before it faded. There weren't many people on the street, and occasionally a trailer would roll over the stone slabs, making a soft creaking sound.

The room reeked of alcohol, the walls were yellowed, the floor was sticky, and damp wood burned in the fireplace in the corner, with wisps of smoke rising up.

The proprietress standing behind the bar was wiping cups with her head down, her movements quick, but she never dared to glance up at the second floor.

The curtains in the private room on the second floor were half drawn.

A middle-aged man in a gray woolen coat sat by the window, holding a glass of rye wine mixed with honey, looking out at the long street through the crack.

His hair was somewhat thinning, his belly was slightly protruding, his ten fingers were neatly trimmed, and he wore a dark copper ring on his index finger.

Judging by his attire and demeanor alone, he resembles a shrewd and amiable country gentleman rather than a town mayor who has the final say in a township.

Hermann.

The mayor of Scamay.

The door was pushed open, and a gust of wind carrying dust and the smell of horse sweat rushed in.

The man who entered was wearing a short knight's cloak. He was in his forties, tall, with a straight nose and an old scar running from behind his ear to his chin, which gave his face an unusually cold and hard look.

He took off his gloves, revealing a pair of rough, white hands, as if they had been honed by years of holding knives.

"Captain Ferru." Herman turned around, smiled, and said, "Have a seat. This wine is freshly collected; it's better than last year's."

Ferru didn't sit down, but merely glanced at the ledgers on the table.

"We harvested another thirty bags of wheat today."

"Um."

"Is the Nightingale Flower Field going to be expanded?"

"Of course we should expand." Herman took a sip of his wine, speaking calmly and deliberately. "The profits from the flower fields are more valuable than what these peasants earn by planting wheat for ten years."

Besides, the higher-ups need the goods; we can't afford to cut off their supply.

Ferro was silent for a moment, his Adam's apple bobbing:

"Herman, you'd better remember, this town isn't a flower field. If you push people too far, things will get out of hand."

Hermann's smile remained unchanged upon hearing this, though he slightly raised his eyelids.

"trouble?"

"With the Knights here, and with Mr. Moen here, what trouble could possibly arise?"

Ferru's scarred face immediately darkened.

He didn't like that name.

What I disliked even more was the almost fawning ease in Hermann's tone when he said the name.

But in the end he said nothing, only picked up the account book on the table and flipped through a couple of pages, his brows furrowing more and more.

The ledger not only contained the wheat, cash, and land deeds collected that day, but also red crosses marked on the backs of several households.

Ferru paused for a moment, staring at the several glaring marks.

"These people..."

"Some are stubborn, some want to escape, and some want to incite others to cause trouble."

Herman said calmly, "Make a note of this. If they still don't sign by tomorrow, let Baker and the others take them away."

Ferro slammed the ledger shut.

"Do you know what taking it away means?"

"Of course I know," Herman said, looking at him calmly. "Ferru, you know too. For a town to stay stable, you need strong hands. If you hadn't been strong enough back then, would you have been the commander of the Knights?"

The scar on Felix's face tautened even more, like an old wound about to split open.

After a while, he threw the account book back on the table, turned around and left.

"I will arrange the night patrols."

"Don't let this interfere with Mr. Moen's business."

Ferru didn't turn around, but his steps clearly paused for a moment.

A moment later, the door slammed shut.

Hermann sat there, listening to the creaking of the stairs, his smile slowly fading. He picked up the ledger, his fingertips tracing the few pages of the land deeds, a dark glint in his eyes.

In this world, who doesn't want to live a better life?

Brotherhood, Tusol, Bonebreakers, Choir...

The higher-ups keep changing, but who really cares about places like theirs?

Since it's all the same, why not follow the person who can pay you?

He downed the wine in one gulp and whispered, "As long as I don't die, it doesn't matter who's in charge."