Starting as dockworkers, they swept through Chongqing.

Xilun was silent for a moment, then said calmly, "What price is the clan leader offering?"

Black Star was taken aback, then chuckled, "You really never seem to suffer a loss."

"The consequences of working for free are usually not good," Xilun said.

Black Star nodded, surprisingly without arguing, and simply took out a small note from his pocket and placed it on the table.

"This is beyond what is said. If you need to replenish Yin Spirit Water, calming potions, or seal contamination equipment in the near future, you can write it down in Tusor's account."

The clan chief said that until everything is completely settled, you won't suffer any losses.

Xilun glanced at the note but didn't touch it immediately.

Black Star added, "Also, Oin has been very quiet lately. Don't assume he's given up."

He's just too busy. Once this Scarlet Training Society mess is over, he'll still be keeping an eye on you.

Siren remained noncommittal: "He's been watching me the whole time."

"Good to know."

After Black Star finished speaking, he seemed to intend to leave, but he paused at the door and said with his back to Xilun, "There's one more thing."

"explain."

"One of the two missing people... used to be on good terms with me."

Xilun looked up.

Black Star didn't turn around; his voice remained flat, but it was deeper than when he first entered.

"So this time, if they really find out who's behind it, I don't care if it's a choir or the Scarlet Retreat Society. Whoever swallowed people will have to spit out the bones."

After saying that, he didn't linger and left.

The study door closed, and the room fell silent again.

Xilun leaned back in his chair, raised his hand to press his temples, and couldn't help but yawn.

These past few days, he's been getting sleepy earlier and earlier, but his sleepiness is getting lighter and lighter. It's as if his body is urging him to rest, but his mind is always half-open.

Moon Lake was postponed for two months.

Tusol told him to stand by.

Lund still didn't believe it.

Everything seemed to slow down, yet it was also as if tension was building up in the shadows.

Xilun got up and walked to the window. It was already dark outside. A layer of gray clouds floated over the northern district, and black smoke from the chimneys of the distant workshops drifted slowly further north.

He stood there for a moment, then turned back to his desk, intending to finish reading today's account books first.

But just as he lowered his head to turn the first page, he suddenly heard a very soft sound.

It's very light.

It was as soft as if someone were speaking through a crack in the door.

Xilun's hand stopped abruptly.

The voice didn't come from outside, nor did it seem to drift from any corner of the room; rather, it seemed to resonate directly deep within his mind—gentle, slow, and imbued with an almost compassionate majesty.

return……

Open it...

The church wasn't finished opening yet...

Xilun's eyes suddenly turned cold, and he sat up straight in his chair in an instant.

The room was eerily quiet.

The candlelight didn't flicker, the curtains didn't move, and the servants guarding the door walked normally.

But that voice definitely existed.

Without alerting anyone, he pressed his hand to his chest, closed his eyes, and pushed the echo deep into himself.

Upon hearing this, Xilun's expression immediately darkened.

He "saw" it.

Just below my old injury on my left shoulder, near my chest and ribs, a very thin, black substance had appeared.

The substance didn't resemble blood or bruises; it was more like a layer of living ink, clinging quietly to the gaps in the flesh.

If it weren't for the sudden appearance of the babbling at this moment, it would have been very difficult to find it based on routine checks alone.

It is breathing.

Very slow, very gentle.

With each breath, the faint whisper in Xiren's ear grew clearer, as if it were slowly testing the boundaries of his mind.

Xilun's eyes were icy, and he immediately activated the Great Thunder Breathing Technique.

Thunderous sounds exploded muffledly within his body, his muscles and bones trembled slightly, and his blood and qi surged forth, attempting to shake that black, ink-like thing out of his flesh and blood.

There were results, but not many.

The black matter was only slightly dispersed by the shock, like ink being wiped in water, before it quickly gathered back into place.

Xilun then changed his luck to the Xuan Yin Breathing Method.

The chill seeped in bit by bit, trying to freeze that thing to death, crack, and turn it into dust.

But the black substance, forced by the cold air, actually shrank deeper, like a slippery, thin snake, almost burrowing under the sternum.

Xilun's brows furrowed immediately, and a layer of cold sweat appeared on his forehead.

We can't let it get any further in.

He took a deep breath and used the Moon Memory Meditation Technique to stabilize his soul. At the same time, he took out a silver needle and inserted it repeatedly above the flesh where the black substance was stagnant, sealing several blood vessels. Then, he used the Echoing Cavity to keep a close eye on its trajectory.

After this whole process, the black substance was finally forced to stop crawling around recklessly.

But that's about it.

It seemed to be alive, curled up inside, motionless and not dispersing, occasionally wriggling slightly, bringing the whisper in Xilun's ear an inch closer.

return……

Open the door...

Let me...

Xilun suddenly opened his eyes, a hint of ruthlessness flashing in them.

The next moment, he slowly closed his five fingers, and the white bud deep between his brows was directly awakened by him.

Prayer for the Sacred Bud.

As soon as the white light appeared, the entire study seemed to light up for a moment.

Xilun raised his right hand, joined two fingers together, and slowly but firmly pressed it against his chest.

The white light did not overflow, but instead pressed itself entirely into the flesh and blood, like an extremely thin root, piercing into that mass of black ink from the depths of the spirit.

laugh--

Xilun's shoulders tensed, and his breathing became erratic for a moment.

pain!

It wasn't the pain of a knife wound, nor the pain of bone-chilling cold, but rather like someone was using a fine saw to pull back and forth on his nerves.

After being pierced by Bai Yi, the black substance immediately began to writhe wildly, trying to escape through the flesh and blood.

But the purity of the white buds is like an invisible dam, tightly surrounding it and squeezing it out inch by inch.

Xilun gritted his teeth, and the veins on his forehead bulged.

Come back... come back...

The voice was gentle at first, but then it gradually turned angry, like something offended growling from the depths of its being.

Xilun's gaze remained unchanged, and Bai Yi pressed down again.

Finally, the black substance was forced into a corner and rushed down his right arm.

Shoulders, arms, wrists, palms—everywhere I went, a fine, tingling sensation spread through my skin, like countless ants crawling into the cracks in my bones.

The next moment, Xilun felt a sudden chill on the tip of his index finger.

A drop of black substance slowly seeped out.

It was only the size of a grain of rice, as thick as ink, yet it didn't drip down; instead, it eerily stayed on my fingertip, trembling slightly.

Upon closer inspection, one can even see what appears to be extremely fine threads hidden inside, coiled in circles, as if they could transform into an invisible net at any moment and slip back into one's mind.

As it left the body, the murmur in my ear abruptly stopped.

The study became quiet and peaceful.

Xilun let out a long breath; his back was already soaked with sweat.

He stared at the drop of black substance on his fingertip, his eyes slowly growing deep.

poison?

No, it's not just poison.

That thing is more like a concentrated form of polluted residue, possessing both strong mental intrusion and a certain degree of activity.

If it weren't for his stable mind and the suppression of spells like "Prayer for the Holy Sprout," an ordinary second-tier cultivator would probably have been worn down by it in their sleep several nights ago.

At best, one may hear soft singing every night, suffer from hallucinations, and become mentally confused.

In severe cases, it might lead them astray, causing them to return to the church and re-dig the well.

Xilun paused for a moment, then raised his left hand, took out a thin steel needle from the drawer, and gently touched the drop of black substance.

Almost instantly upon contact, the rice-grain-sized black poison seemed to come alive, slowly climbing up the needle tip and shrinking into an extremely fine ink line.

Nothing had changed inside, yet Xilun's echo could be heard clearly. There seemed to be a faint noise in the air, as if someone was laughing in the distance, or as if an invisible hand was gently scraping the door.

His eyes flickered slightly.

Just a little bit has this effect.

If it were actually implanted into the body of a second-tier extraordinary being...

Xilun didn't continue thinking about it, but slowly closed his five fingers and gripped the steel needle.

My palms are cold.

It's also dangerous.

A moment later, he took a small silver sleeve, first wrapped a layer of white bud purification material inside, then coiled the black thread inside, sealing it tightly.

Only after doing all this did he put it into the deepest, most hidden compartment.

These are things I brought back from the church.

It's both a problem and a bargaining chip.

Xilun stood quietly at the table for a long time, then raised his hand to turn off a lamp, leaving only a small candle to illuminate the account books and maps on the table.

He looked down at the line map of the old parish in the south of the city, his gaze slowly shifting to the small patch of shadow where the Black Dove Church was located.

He knew he hadn't truly won there.

The well was only blocked, and the door was only temporarily closed.

And now, something from inside has quietly followed him into the mansion.

Xilun reached up and rubbed his temples, his expression showing little panic, but rather growing increasingly calm.

After a long while, he muttered something to himself.

"interesting."

The night outside the window was deep and dark. The wind from the North District swept through the distant workshops, docks, streets, and church ruins, like an invisible hand slowly closing in.

In the study, the young governor stood alone under the lamp, his palm pressing down on the black poison, while a storm was already brewing behind him.

……

As dawn broke, fog began to rise from between the river channels and workshops in the northern district.

Xiren slept for less than two hours.

The light filtering through the curtains was gray, as if it had been coated with soot.

The iron heater by the bed still retained some warmth, the wallpaper had absorbed some moisture and curled slightly at the edges, and a thin layer of condensation had formed on the window frame.

The soft sound of a spatula hitting the edge of a pot came from downstairs, followed by the hushed voices of servants, their heels clicking on the wooden floor, respectful and cautious, not daring to disturb their master.

He sat leaning against the headboard for a while, then raised his hand to press his chest and ribs. The black poison that Bai Ya had forced out last night had been sealed in a silver sleeve and hidden in a dark compartment of the desk, but the faint tingling sensation was still there, like a mark left in his flesh and blood.

There was a gentle knock on the door twice.

"Sir, the hot water is here."

"Enter."

The maid pushed open the door and came in. She was young and wore a faded black dress with her apron tied tightly. She was carrying a copper basin and a kettle, with white steam rising from the basin.

She lowered her head and placed the items on the washstand, then arranged the razor, soap dish, and clean towel one by one before retreating to the door.

"Breakfast is downstairs. Mr. Rhodes and Miss Rena have already arrived."

Xilun hummed in agreement.

After the maid left, he got up to wash his face.

The hot water splashed on my face, briefly suppressing the chill after staying up all night.

The young man in the mirror had slightly bluish eyes, but his shoulders and back were still straight. The old wound on his left shoulder had not yet healed, and there was no abnormality in his chest and ribs, as if the silent battle last night had never happened.

He changed into a stiffly starched white shirt, buttoned up the collar, and then put on a dark gray vest and a long black coat.

The cuffs were fastened with silver chains, and the pocket watch was tucked into the left breast pocket, its chain dangling down and shimmering slightly in the morning light.

He picked up his gloves and, as he went downstairs, his heels tapped on the wooden steps with a deep, steady sound.

The coal fire was burning brightly in the restaurant.

The oak table was covered with a light-colored tablecloth, and four slices of golden-brown toast were stuck in the silver toaster. Next to it were fried eggs, smoked fish, cold-cut ham, and a pot of black tea.

There was only half a jar of orange peel marmalade left in the glass jam jar, and the butter was cut into very neat little pieces. It was obvious that Rod had instructed the kitchen in advance that sugar and dairy products were going up in price recently, so they couldn't just waste them as usual.

Rod stood by the table, still meticulous, his bow tie perfectly tied.

Rena had already sat down. Today she was wearing a dark blue fitted long dress with a short wool coat over it. Beside her was a stack of account books and the newspaper that had just been delivered that morning. Before even touching her coffee, she folded out the most important page.

"Your complexion—" She looked up at Xilun, raised an eyebrow, "is like you spent the whole night doing business with corpses."

"More or less." Xiren pulled out a chair, sat down, picked up his teacup, and took a sip. "What happened to the tent?"

"Eat first, then hear the bad news."

Rena pushed the newspaper over. "Since the Empire and the Federation started fighting, the prices of coal, sugar, cotton wool, and copper-cased ammunition have all gone up. And—there's still no movement at the Black Swan Pavilion; it's like a stagnant pool."

Rod picked up the thread: "The price of meat in the kitchen this week is sixpence higher than last week, and the stables say that oats are also more expensive. If we continue with the current supply, we'll need to increase the budget again before the end of the month."

Xilun cut the fried egg with a fork, and the yolk flowed out, releasing steam that carried the aroma of butter and pepper.

"add."

Rod was taken aback: "Sir, add them all?"

"People need to eat, and horses need to run," Xilun said calmly. "Saving on these things won't save you your life."

Rena chuckled: "Now you talk about coal prices, vegetable prices, and horse feed like you know more about murder than you do about it."

"Spending money is harder than killing someone." Xilun moved the smoked fish to the side of the plate. "The latter only requires one shot, but the former requires recording every single detail."

Rod's lips twitched, as if he wanted to laugh, but he held it back and simply lowered his head to open his notebook and continue reading:

"The tailor delivered your two newly altered coats last night, one black and one dark green. As you requested, the cuffs and linings were made thicker."

Also, the doorman said that three groups of people delivered invitations this morning: one from the pharmacy, one from the carriage shop, and the last group... was a messenger from the Tussor family.

Where are they?

"He only left his business card, saying that Mr. Black Star would be waiting for you on Wellington Street in the morning."

Rena turned her coffee cup halfway around and lowered her voice a little: "So rushed, it doesn't seem like a simple greeting."

Xilun didn't say anything, but simply broke the bread open and spread a very thin layer of butter on it.

The place he lives in now is no longer the kind of house that was considered good enough to keep out the wind and rain.

With its independent porch, small courtyard with wrought iron railings, two-story living room, separate study, gas lamps, stable and kitchen, upstairs a washroom and downstairs a living room, it could barely be considered a decent residence in the North District, above the middle class.

But this dignity seemed borrowed—the wallpaper would get damp, the coal supply would run out, the servants would be afraid, the carriages would break down, and even a dish of jam or a pat of butter would have to be recalculated in the winds of war.

He knew very well that the house could keep out the rain, but not the storm.