Starting as dockworkers, they swept through Chongqing.

Herbert instinctively raised his knife to block, but the chill was not a physical attack at all—it passed through the blade, through his defenses, and directly into his chest cavity.

"cough--!"

Herbert suddenly stepped back, exhaling a breath of air mixed with white mist.

He felt as if his heart was being gripped by an icy hand, and its beating rhythm became disordered and slow.

The three-man offensive was completely thwarted by Xilun alone in less than two minutes.

Gregor's right shoulder was stained with blood, and his sword broke, leaving him exhausted.

A chilling aura spread through Morris's body, slowing his movements.

Herbert's heart meridian was affected by cold, causing qi and blood imbalance.

Xilun stood between the three, his iron spear planted firmly on the ground, his breathing steady, and even his trench coat was not disheveled.

Rainwater slid down his hair and dripped onto the ground along his jawline.

He looked at the three of them, his eyes calm.

"Shall we continue?"

Greg was panting heavily, his left hand gripping the short blade, but he hesitated to charge forward again.

He wasn't afraid of death.

He really couldn't beat him.

This young man... is by no means a novice who has only been in the second tier for half a year.

His marksmanship is masterful, his strength far surpasses that of his peers, he possesses sensory abilities, he has hidden weapons capable of penetrating defenses, he employs two distinct breathing techniques, and his close-quarters combat is impeccable.

This is a fucking monster.

"No..." Greg's voice was hoarse, "Impossible... You've only been at Tier 2 for half a year..."

Xilun did not answer him.

His gaze turned to Herbert.

Herbert was clutching his chest, his face ashen, but there was still no sign of backing down in his gray eyes.

He pulled something out from inside his cloak.

A glass bottle.

There is an eyeball in the bottle.

The eyeball slowly rotated inside the bottle, its pupil aimed at Xilun.

The Hawk family's props.

Xiren recognized the object—a kind of extraordinary artifact of the pollution type, which released mental corruption through the eyeballs, plunging the target into brief confusion and fear.

Herbert unscrewed the bottle cap.

An invisible, nauseating mental pressure surged from the bottle, like an unseen hand trying to burrow into Xiren's mind.

Xilun closed his eyes.

Deep between his brows, a white bud quietly bloomed.

Pray for the sacred bud.

A pure white aura spread from between his brows, like the dawn dispelling darkness, completely isolating him from the polluting spiritual erosion.

Herbert's expression changed completely.

"He can even block out mental pollution—"

Before he finished speaking, Xilun had already moved.

The iron spear slipped from his hand.

It didn't fall, but was suddenly thrown by him—the seven-foot-long iron spear, like a giant javelin, pierced straight into Gregor's chest with a sharp whistling sound.

Greg dodged to the side with all his might, the iron spear grazing his ribs and embedding itself in the wall behind him, the shaft sinking a foot deep into the brickwork, the end humming and vibrating.

But this was just a feint.

Xiren's real killer move is his left hand.

As he threw the gun, he pulled a black iron nail from his waist with his left hand—a Soul-Suppressing Nail.

The nail traced an almost invisible arc in the air and silently sank into Greg's back.

Greg's body stiffened abruptly.

He felt as if his soul was nailed down by something—not pain, but a deeper, more spiritual imprisonment.

His limbs were unresponsive, his muscles were stiff as stone, and he couldn't even move his eyeballs.

"Gregor!" Herbert shouted.

But it was too late.

Siren appeared before Greg.

He pulled the iron spear from the wall, gripped it with both hands, and raised it high.

Gregor's eyes widened, his pupils reflecting the trajectory of the iron spear falling from above.

He wanted to move, but he couldn't.

smash!

The dull sound echoed through the alleyway.

Greg's body seemed to collapse under the weight of a mountain; his knees buckled, and he fell forward, face down, into the puddles.

A dent appeared at the back of his head, and the accumulated fluid quickly turned red.

Upon seeing this, Morris's pupils contracted sharply.

He turned and ran.

It wasn't cowardice—it was the instinct to survive.

His body was still being eroded by the cold air, and his movements were as slow as walking in water, but he still ran towards the alley entrance with all his might.

Herbert is also retiring.

His heart was still being tormented by the chilling energy of the Xuan Yin Condensed Meridian, each beat feeling like a struggle in icy water.

But his mind was still working—he knew he had lost this round.

We've lost completely.

"Run—" Herbert shouted to Morris.

But as soon as he spoke, he saw Xilun's figure sweep past him.

The young man was incredibly fast—he was just next to Greg's corpse a moment ago, and the next second he was in front of Morris.

Morris stopped abruptly.

He saw Siren standing in front of him, his iron spear held across his chest, Gregor's blood still dripping from the tip.

"You..." Morris's voice trembled, not from fear, but from the cold—the chill within him had turned his lips bluish-purple.

Xilun did not act immediately.

He looked at Maurice and asked, "Whose idea was this?"

Morris gritted his teeth and remained silent.

Siren then asked, "Is it only the Hawke family? Or are there others?"

Morris's eyes flickered.

This flash confirmed Xilun's suspicions.

"It's Oin from the Tusol family," Siren said.

This is not a question.

Morris's pupils contracted sharply—this reaction said it all.

Xilun narrowed his eyes.

"There's someone else involved."

His voice was soft, but the chill it contained was even more piercing than the cold breath of the Xuan Yin Breathing Technique.

Xiren raised his left hand, palm down, and placed it on Morris's chest.

Mysterious Yin Condenses the Meridians.

This time, he didn't hold back.

The pure, highly refined, and chilling energy flowed into Maurice's body through his palm, heading straight for his heart.

Morris's eyes widened instantly, and his mouth opened, but no sound came out.

He felt his heart freeze in an instant—not metaphorically, but literally.

The heart that had been beating for over thirty years became stiff, cold, and still under the erosion of the Xuan Yin Condensing Vein.

Morris's body slowly fell, like a withered branch broken by frost.

His face was frozen in the terror of that final moment, his skin covered with a thin layer of white frost.

Frozen to death.

Xilun withdrew his hand and turned around.

Herbert is still running.

He had already run more than ten steps and was almost at the alley entrance.

But he was too slow—his heart meridian was cold, and his qi and blood were disordered; his current speed was even slower than that of an ordinary person.

Xilun, carrying his iron spear, walked over unhurriedly.

His footsteps made a rhythmic sound in the puddles, one after another.

Like the footsteps of death.

Herbert heard the voice.

He stopped.

It wasn't because he gave up on escaping, but because he knew—he couldn't escape.

He turned around to face Xiren.

Rainwater slid down the edge of his hood and lashed his ashen face.

"You..." Herbert's voice was hoarse and broken, "What... kind of monster are you..."

Xilun stopped in front of him and looked down at him.

"I've said it before," Siren said calmly, "I didn't gain anything from the Snow Mountain Wonderland."

He paused.

"I just work harder than you guys."

Herbert gave a bitter smile.

"Effort..." he repeated the word, as if savoring some absurd joke, "Six months... from level one to level two... fighting three against one... and you call that effort?"

Xilun did not answer.

He raised his left hand again, palm down.

Herbert looked at the hand, at the faint blue chill emanating from its palm, and closed his eyes.

He remembered the portrait of his father above the fireplace.

I thought of my son who was studying at a military academy in the south.

I remembered what he had said to me in the study two days ago—

"The Hawke family can no longer back down."

pity.

Whether to withdraw or not is no longer important.

The condensed Yin energy descended.

Herbert's body stiffened for a moment, then he slowly knelt down in the puddles.

His eyes were still open, his gray pupils gradually losing their luster, like the last embers dying out in a fireplace.

It's still raining.

The alleyway returned to silence.

The only sounds were the rain falling on the three corpses and Xiren's steady, deep breathing.

He stood in the rain, his iron spear on the ground, looking down at Herbert's body.

Oin.

The name echoed repeatedly in his mind.

Oin of the Tusol family.

The man who had been hostile to him from their first meeting, the man who had been holding back outside the old testing room, the man who had been secretly watching and waiting for his chance—finally couldn't hold back any longer.

Xilun raised his head and looked at the gray sky beyond the alley entrance.

The rain hit his face, cool and refreshing.

He was not angry.

There was no murderous intent.

There was only one calm, cold confirmation—

Oin owes him an explanation.

He will personally retrieve this instruction.

He slung his iron spear over his shoulder and strode out of Klein Lane.

In the rain, his figure gradually disappeared into the distance, leaving behind only three cold corpses and a pool of water stained red with blood.

……

The rain was still falling outside Klein Lane.

Xilun carried his iron spear out of the alley, the rain washing away the bloodstains on his clothes.

His breathing remained steady, and his heartbeat was deep and powerful, as if the battle he had just fought against three opponents was just a routine sparring session in the training shed.

A black carriage was parked at the street corner. The driver was not the old driver who had come with him, but a young man wearing a gray raincoat.

The young man saw Xilun's figure emerge from the alley and suddenly stood up from the carriage shaft.

"Governor...Governor!"

He was the manor's backup coachman, obviously sent out by Reina immediately after the old coachman returned to report the news.

Xilun raised his chin: "Drive back."

He didn't get into the carriage, but instead sat directly on the outer seat next to the carriage shaft, placing the iron spear across his lap.

Raindrops pattered on his shoulders, but he didn't care.

The carriage moved along the slippery stone road, its wheels making a continuous splashing sound as they rolled over the puddles.

Xilun closed his eyes slightly and opened the reverberation chamber.

The world of sound unfolded in his perception—the frequency of raindrops falling on the roof of the tin car, the rhythm of horses' hooves pounding the water, people arguing in a tavern in the distance, and the lingering sound of a ship's horn coming from the direction of the dock further away.

No one is following them.

There was no fourth killer.

He withdrew his senses, opened his eyes, and looked at the blurry halo of streetlights in the rain.

I feel very calm.

The matter of murder no longer stirred him after that stormy night at Pier 7.

What truly concerned him was the fleeting look in Maurice's eyes before he died.

Oin.

The third elder of the Tusol family is a key figure in the family council who controls both the mining and arms industries.

From the first time they met, the man made no attempt to hide his hostility towards him.

But Xilun always thought it was just political exclusion—after all, he was an outsider, a tool to be won over by the chieftain, and naturally stood on the opposite side of Oin.

He hadn't expected the other side to use such a deadly trap so quickly.

Three second-order extraordinary beings.

The entire wealth of the Hawke family.

Just to kill him alone.

What does this tell us?

This shows that Oin already sees him as a real threat—not a potential threat, but an imminent one that must be eliminated immediately.

Why?

Silen's fingers tapped unconsciously on the gun barrel, producing a faint metallic sound.

Because of the life formula.

Because he demonstrated his ability to purify pollution in Scamay, he was noticed by the clan chief and included in the secret archives, resulting in increasingly obvious resource allocation to him.

Oin saw a future—a future in which Xilun would grow into the sharpest blade in the chieftain's hand, and that blade would sooner or later cut down his old tree.

So he couldn't wait any longer.

Xilun understood this logic; he could even sense Oin's anxiety.

But while I understand, this debt must be settled.

As the carriage rounded a street corner, the outline of the North District mansion came into view in the distance—grayish-white brick walls, wrought iron railings, and two rainproof copper lamps hanging in the porch.

There were three people standing at the door.

Rhodes was holding an umbrella, with Kusso, who was fully armed, and two musketeers beside him.

As soon as the carriage came to a stop, Rod quickly came to greet him.

He turned pale when he saw Xilun's soaked clothes and the bloodstains on his iron spear, but quickly suppressed his emotions.

"grown ups--"

"Let's go inside and talk." Xilun jumped off the carriage shaft and handed the iron spear to Kusuo. "Wipe this clean and put it back on the shelf."

Kuso took the gun, his gaze sweeping over the newly added nicks and scratches on the barrel. He pursed his lips and asked no further questions.

Xilun walked into the porch, with Rhodes following behind, holding an umbrella and muttering something to himself.

Xilun didn't listen. He took off his soaking wet trench coat in the foyer and casually draped it over a hanger.

"Is the hot water ready?"

"It's ready. The butler started cooking it half an hour ago."

"Have Rena wait for me in the study in half an hour."

"Yes."

Xilun went upstairs and into the bathroom.

The copper faucet was turned on, and hot water poured out, creating a cloud of white steam.

He took off his clothes and stood under the flowing water, letting the scalding water wash over his shoulders and back.

The water flowed down his body, initially a pale red color—not his blood, but Gregor's, Morris's, and Herbert's.

Xilun looked down at the pale red water flowing into the drain hole, his face expressionless.

He raised his right hand and looked at the inside of his wrist.

The black mark remained dormant there, quiet and still, like a sleeping snake.

It made no unusual moves during tonight's battle.

I don't know whether to be happy or wary.

Xilun lowered his hand and turned down the water temperature, letting the cool water help him calm his mind.

He stood in the bathroom for ten minutes.

When I came out, the bed was already covered with clean clothes—a white shirt, a dark gray vest, and black trousers, Rod's handiwork, meticulous in every detail.

Xilun dried his hair, dressed neatly, and went into the study.

Rena is already inside.

She sat in the chair opposite the desk, holding a stack of letters in her hand, her face serious.