Starting as dockworkers, they swept through Chongqing.

The rainy season is approaching.

The gray clouds hung low, like an old, water-soaked quilt, heavily covering the city.

East of the North District, the Hawke family mansion sits at the edge of an old oak grove.

The three-story gray stone building, covered with ivy, looked rustic and dignified, a stark contrast to the ostentatious white estates of the surrounding nouveau riche.

This mansion has stood here for sixty-seven years.

Over sixty-seven years, the Hawke family rose from an ordinary military supply merchant to become a prominent middle-class family in the South District.

Not top-tier, but certainly not unknown—at least three years ago, no one dared to underestimate this surname.

three years ago.

That was the last time the Hawke family was taken seriously.

In the study, the flames in the fireplace flickered, casting a warm yellow light onto the dark oak wainscoting.

Three men sat around a round table covered with a dark green velvet cloth, on which sat a half-empty bottle of whiskey and three empty glasses.

No one poured the wine.

The man sitting in the main seat was named Herbert Hawke, 47 years old, and the current head of the Hawke family.

His face was thin and angular, with gray eyes sunken below his brow bone, like two dry wells.

At this moment, he was slowly tapping the table with his index finger, the rhythm dull and regular, like some kind of countdown.

"So," he began, his voice low and dry, "we're going to do it again."

This is not a question.

The man sitting to his left was named Greg, one of the second-tier extraordinary beings kept by the Hawke family.

He was burly, with a neck as thick as a tree stump, and an old scar running from behind his ear to the back of his head on his shaved scalp.

That was left three years ago—when he tried to intercept a smuggler who had escaped from the North District, and the man shot him in the head before dying.

The bullet didn't penetrate the bone, but it left a mark that can never be erased.

Greg didn't speak, but simply rubbed the rim of the glass with his thumb, the rough pad of his finger making a soft scraping sound on the glass.

The third person sat to Herbert's right, leaning against the back of the chair with his arms crossed over his chest.

His name was Maurice, ten years younger than Greg, and his handsome features made him seem unlike a killer—if you ignored his perpetually half-closed, snake-like, cold eyes.

"Wasn't the lesson learned last time enough?" Morris's voice was soft, with a nonchalant languor. "The commotion from the third tier was too great; it almost attracted the Brotherhood. Do you really think replacing them with three second-tier members will guarantee everything's safe?"

Herbert's fingers paused for a moment.

"The third-tier can't move anymore," he said, "but three second-tiers are enough."

"Why should I?" Morris raised an eyebrow.

"He's only been in the second tier for less than half a year." Herbert's gaze shifted from the family crest above the fireplace to Morris's face. "Even if a young man who has just entered the second tier has high talent, it's impossible for him to be able to fight three people at once within half a year."

Greg finally spoke, his voice sounding as if squeezed from the depths of his throat:

"That third-tier guy said last time that there's something strange about this kid. His growth rate is abnormal after the Snow Mountain Wonderland."

"That's why we have to take action." Herbert stood up, walked to the window, and looked at the gloomy sky outside.

"If we wait any longer, until he has fully established himself, until his relationship with the Tusol family becomes closer, until his roots in the North District are deeper—then we will be unable to touch him anymore."

He turned around, his gray eyes reflecting the firelight from the fireplace.

"The Hawke family can no longer back down."

"Besides, this is the Tusol family's intention."

"We need to kill him, and Oin needs to kill him too; it's a mutual choice!"

The words were spoken softly, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees.

Maurice and Greg both fell silent.

They all understood what Herbert meant.

If six months ago, Xiren was just a new face to be wary of, now he has become a sword hanging over the Hawke family's head.

After news of what happened in Scamay spread, the landscape of the North District changed.

Those small families that were initially observing began to gravitate towards the young governor one after another.

The Hawke family—because of their previous failed attempt—has been implicitly placed on the opposite side of Xiren.

There is no way out.

We either crush this young man on his path to rise, or we wait to be slowly strangled by him.

"I've already planned the route." Herbert took a folded map from the drawer, unfolded it, and laid it on the table. "It's going to rain the day after tomorrow; the weather forecast has confirmed it. Heavy rain will obstruct visibility and drown out sound—it's the perfect time."

His finger pointed to a street on the map.

There are three main routes between Wellington Street and the North End House.

We'll create traffic jams on the first and second roads—no need to be too deliberate, just a few carriages with broken axles will be enough for on-the-spot repairs.

Knowing his personality, he won't wait long in one place; he'll definitely choose to take a detour.

My finger slid along the map and stopped at a narrow alley.

"Klein Lane, this is the only reasonable detour. The lane is narrow, lined with the exterior walls of old warehouses, with no windows and no bystanders. There's a T-junction in the middle of the lane—"

He looked up at Greg and Morris.

"Gregor and Maurice charged at him from the front, while I blocked his retreat from behind, surrounding him on three sides and giving him no chance to escape."

Morris's eyes finally opened completely.

"Are you going too?"

"I am also at the second level," Herbert said calmly. "I will not delegate this matter to anyone else."

Greg glanced at him without saying a word, but a hint of surprise flashed in his eyes.

Herbert Hawke, the head of the Hawke family, a man more adept at strategizing at the negotiating table—he hadn't personally taken action for many years.

"There's one thing I need to confirm," Greg's voice was calm and cautious. "If he really did obtain something in the Snow Mountain Wonderland... are the three of us enough?"

Herbert remained silent for a moment.

"Whether it's enough or not, we have to try," he said. "I've already contacted O'In."

The name made Greg and Morris both twitch slightly.

"Oin of the Tusol family?" Morris's tone became more serious.

"He wants Celen gone even more than we do," Herbert said. "He won't act directly, but he will provide intelligence—Celen's whereabouts, habits, and his known abilities."

He picked up an envelope from the table and took out the papers inside.

According to information provided by Oin, the capabilities that Xiren has demonstrated so far include:

He possessed an extraordinary physique, a golden spear, and the Xuan Yin breathing technique, though he was probably only at the proficient level.

Furthermore, he also appears to have mastered a life-based technique, but its specific effects are unknown.

Herbert put the paper back on the table.

"No method of taking on three opponents was mentioned."

Morris leaned back in his chair, half-closing his eyes as he pondered for a moment.

"Why doesn't he do it himself?"

"Because he's a member of the Tusol family." Herbert's lips curled up slightly, revealing a cold smile. "If it's discovered that someone from the family attacked Siron, Austin will skin him alive."

But if it were our Hawke family, an external force with a long-standing feud with Xiren, then it would just be a regular vendetta.

"He's using someone else to do his dirty work," Greg said.

"Yes," Herbert nodded, "but we're willing to be the knife."

He walked back to the table, finally picked up the bottle, and poured a finger's width of whiskey into each of the three glasses.

The amber-colored liquid swirls gently in the glass.

"The day after tomorrow," Herbert said, raising his glass. "Rainy day, Klein Lane."

Greg and Morris each picked up their glasses.

The three cups touched lightly in mid-air, producing a crisp, short sound.

It's like some kind of irreversible contract.

Outside the window, the first drop of rain fell.

……

As night deepened, after Greg and Morris left, Herbert sat alone in his study.

The fire in the fireplace was almost out, with only a few dark red embers flickering in the ashes.

He did not add firewood.

Herbert's gaze fell on the portrait above the fireplace, a portrait of his father.

Old Hawke was dressed in a crisp military uniform, his chest adorned with medals, his face serious and dignified.

"Father," Herbert said softly, "did you make the same decision back then?"

No one answered him.

In the portrait, old Hawke simply gazes silently ahead, his gaze passing through his son, through this study, through sixty-seven years of time, toward some distant place that no longer exists.

Herbert closed his eyes.

He thought of his son—nineteen years old, studying at a military academy in the south.

The child didn't know what his father was doing, nor did he need to know.

All he needed to know was that the Hawke family would still be around when he graduated and returned.

Just being here, still standing, that's enough.

Herbert opened his eyes, stood up, and walked towards the door.

He needs a good night's sleep.

He's going to kill someone the day after tomorrow.

Two days later.

The rain arrived as expected.

It wasn't a downpour, but rather a dense and continuous autumn rain, like a gray veil shrouding the entire city.

The water on the street wasn't deep, but it was enough for the carriage wheels to splash up muddy water.

Pedestrians held umbrellas, hunched their shoulders, and hurried along.

In this kind of weather, no one would notice the extra carriage parked on the street corner, nor would anyone care about the extra figures seeking shelter from the rain in a certain alley.

10:00 AM.

Siren departed from Lund Manor and returned to his North District residence by carriage.

He was wearing a dark gray long trench coat today, with the collar turned up, covering half of his face.

Underneath the trench coat was a well-tailored black vest and white shirt, with a short gun holster hanging from the belt at his waist.

He didn't bring the golden spear—it was too conspicuous to flaunt in the city.

But to his right, against the carriage wall, lay a long, narrow object wrapped in black cloth.

It was an ordinary iron spear.

It wasn't a special weapon like the Golden Spear, which embodies spiritual power; it was simply a solid, smoothly polished iron spear. The shaft was seven feet long, the spearhead was sharp, and it weighed about forty pounds.

This is what Lund asked him to bring.

"Your Natan heavy gun skills are almost at the master level," Lund said this morning. "Try to feel it with a regular gun. When you can achieve the same effect with an iron bar as with a golden gun, you'll have truly mastered it."

Xilun leaned against the carriage, his eyes closed, his fingers lightly resting on the iron gun.

The rain pattered against the car roof like countless tiny fingers tapping.

His resonant chamber operated naturally, peeling away the surrounding sounds layer by layer—the sound of raindrops falling on different materials, the rhythm of horses' hooves pounding through puddles, the vibration of wheels rolling over stone pavement, the hammering sound coming from a blacksmith's shop in the distance...

Everything is normal.

The carriage stopped at an intersection.

"What's wrong?" Xilun didn't open his eyes.

The driver was an experienced chauffeur arranged by Rod, a veteran who had been driving in the North District for twenty years.

"There's a traffic jam ahead, sir," the coachman's voice came from ahead, tinged with helplessness. "It looks like a carriage overturned and has blocked the road."

Xilun opened his eyes and lifted a corner of the carriage curtain.

Sure enough, a cart carrying goods had overturned and was lying across the street ahead, with scattered wooden crates and sacks blocking most of the road.

Several men in overalls were frantically cleaning up in the rain, muttering curses under their breath.

It looks normal.

An ordinary traffic accident.

"Let's take a detour," Xilun said, lowering the carriage curtain.

"Alright." The driver turned the horse around and onto a side road.

The carriage traveled along the side road for about five minutes before stopping again.

"Is it congested again?" Xilun's tone remained indifferent.

"Yes..." The coachman's voice held a hint of confusion. "Two carriages have broken down up ahead too. What's going on with this rainy weather? They all seem to be happening at the same time."

Xilun did not speak.

He tapped his fingers lightly on the iron spear.

The echo chamber expanded the range of perception by one circle in that instant.

There were indeed two carriages stopped in the middle of the road ahead, and the drivers were arguing about something.

Behind them, on the road they had come from, everything was normal—no following vehicles, no suspicious footsteps.

But Xilun's brow furrowed slightly.

wrong.

Both roads were congested.

If it's a coincidence, then it's far too coincidental.

"Let's go through Klein Lane," Siron said.

The coachman paused for a moment: "Klein Lane? That road is very narrow; it's difficult for a carriage to pass through—"

"I'm getting out of the car." Celen had already opened the car door. "You turn around here and take the south route back to the mansion. When you get there, tell Rena to send someone to pick me up in Klein Lane."

He picked up the iron gun wrapped in black cloth, stepped out of the carriage, and stepped into the rain.

The coachman opened his mouth, as if to say something, but when he saw Xilun's calm, almost indifferent eyes, he swallowed the words back.

"Yes, sir."

The carriage turned around and drove away, the sound of its wheels rolling over the puddles gradually fading into the distance.

Xiren stood in the rain, turned up the collar of his trench coat, slung the iron spear over his shoulder, and walked toward Klein Alley.

Rainwater slid down his hair and dripped down his jawline.

His pace was neither fast nor slow, as if he were taking a stroll.

But his resonant cavity was already fully open.

The sound of every raindrop falling to the ground, the whistling of every gust of wind passing through the alleyway, and every subtle, unusual sound that didn't belong to this street—all were captured, analyzed, and categorized by his perception.

The entrance to Klein Lane appears ahead.

The narrow alleyway is flanked by the exterior walls of old warehouses, their gray brick surfaces blackened by rainwater.

There were no windows, no shops, and no pedestrians.

It was quiet, so quiet.

Xilun continued walking into the alley without stopping, maintaining the same pace.

The iron spear slid off his shoulder and was held in his right hand, its butt dragging on the ground, leaving a shallow mark in the puddles.