Starting as dockworkers, they swept through Chongqing.

five minutes.

Three second-order.

Kill them all.

Austin turned around and walked back to his desk.

He didn't sit down, but stood there, his fingers tracing the edge of the letter on the table.

"Six months," he murmured.

"What?"

"Only half a year has passed." Austin's gaze fell on the steady and powerful signature on the letter. "Six months ago in the Snow Mountain Wonderland, he was just a young man who had just touched the peak of the first level."

"Now he can take on three opponents at once."

Lucas remained silent.

This rate of growth can no longer be described by the word "genius".

This is... a monster.

"Chieftain," Lucas asked softly, "should we give Oin a warning?"

"No."

Austin's answer was crisp and decisive.

"Clan chief?"

"Never mind." Austin sat back on the futon, placed his hands on his knees, and regained his immovable calm.

"I know what Oin did. But now is not the time to deal with him."

Lucas frowned: "But if we just ignore it, what if it makes Xilen unhappy..."

"Dissatisfied?" Austin smiled slightly, but there was little warmth in his smile. "Let him be dissatisfied."

He looked up at the butler.

"Lucas, think about it. What kind of cultivation technique does Xilun practice?"

"...The Profound Yin Breathing Technique, our family's cultivation method."

"Yes. So, if he wants to continue cultivating and reach a higher realm, what does he need?"

"Yin Spirit Source Water, Cold Marrow Essence, and... our advanced cultivation technique rubbings."

"Can he get these things from somewhere else?"

Lucas thought for a moment, then shook his head: "Yinling Source Water is extremely scarce, and there's no market for it outside. Cold Marrow Essence is exclusively produced by the Tusor Mine. As for high-grade rubbings—"

"It's only in our hands," Austin continued.

His voice was as calm as if he were stating the weather.

"No matter how talented or powerful Xilun is, he cannot escape the fact that his path of cultivation is tied to my Tusor family."

"He came to me demanding an explanation. I can give it to him, or I can refuse."

"But whether he gets it or not, he'll eventually come back."

"Because he needs resources. And the resources... are in my hands."

After listening, Lucas slowly nodded.

"What if he chooses another path?" the butler asked again.

"Where to invest?" Austin countered. "The Crimson Academy? The Whisper Choir? Those are his arch-enemies. Other factions? Nobody has the resources to support the Mysterious Yin Breathing Technique."

"He had nowhere else to go but back to us."

Austin picked up a pen and wrote a few words on the letter paper.

"So—" He put down his pen, "I don't need to punish Oin to appease Xilen. I just need to let Xilen know that I received his letter."

"As for an explanation..."

Austin folded the letter and handed it to Lucas.

"Let him ask Oin for it himself, if he has the ability to do so."

Lucas took the letter and glanced at its contents—a few words that neither expressed support for Xiren nor favored Oin.

Stable and watertight.

"What does the patriarch mean?" Lucas hesitated.

“What I mean is,” Austin closed his eyes, returning to his silent posture, “let them fight it out.”

"Siren wants to kill Oin—fine, let him come, but he must follow the rules of my Tusol family. If he wants to walk the right path, he must remain on this chessboard."

"Oin wants to get rid of Xilun—that's fine, but he should consider whether losing a holder of a life-purifying spell is worth it."

"Ideally," Austin's lips curled into a slight smile, "it's a fight to the death between the two of them."

"No matter who wins—I won't lose out."

Lucas opened his mouth, but ultimately said nothing more.

He bowed and left the study.

Morning light streamed through the gaps in the curtains, falling on Austin's quiet profile.

The old man who had controlled the Tusol family for decades sat firmly in his position, like a sculpture.

His heart was completely unmoved.

No matter how chaotic things are outside—war, smuggling, power struggles—it doesn't matter.

As long as the chessboard remains and the pieces are still in motion, he will always be the one playing the game.

As for Xilun and Aoyin...

They're just two chess pieces.

The news spread completely by the morning of the third day.

Not through official channels, but through the fastest information network in the North District—pubs, docks, and barbershops.

"Have you heard? Three people died in Klein Lane."

"What's three people? People die every day in the North District."

"These three people are all second-tier extraordinary individuals."

"...What?"

"Herbert of the Hawke family, along with two of his top fighters. Three second-tier fighters, ganging up on one person."

"And the result?"

All three are dead.

Who was killed?

"you guess."

"...Could it be?"

"That's him, the new governor of the North District. Sir Lun."

The news spread like wildfire throughout the northern district.

The teahouse owner wiped the cups and chatted with regular customers in a low voice; the dockworkers squatted behind the cargo boxes, puffing on cigarettes and exchanging the versions they had heard; even the fishmongers at the market were talking about it.

By the afternoon of the third day, the entire North District knew one thing—

Their governor, in an alley, single-handedly killed three Tier 2 Extraordinary Ones.

One against three, annihilated them all.

The shockwaves from this news far exceeded those from what Siron had done in Scamander.

The matter of Scamay was too far away, too remote, and for most Northside residents it was just a vague rumor.

But Klein Lane is located in the North End of the city.

Right beside them.

That alley is still cordoned off.

Some busybodies secretly went to take a look and saw the gun holes on the alley wall, the dark red stains left on the ground, and the foot-deep dent in the brick wall.

These traces silently testify to the terrifying battle that took place here three rainy nights ago.

The winner, alone, faced three second-tier opponents and won.

This is incredible.

But after Siren's name and those specific details were repeatedly examined, people began to give him a new name.

Golden Knight!

Because he possessed a golden spear, which was already famous in Scamay Town. It was said to be radiant with golden light, incredibly heavy, and when he wielded it, it was like a whirlwind.

It is also because he has a heart of gold—hard, pure, precious, and unshakable.

He didn't run away even when surrounded and attacked by three second-tier attackers!

Despite being outnumbered three to one, he did not back down!

He stood there in the alley, like a golden mountain, as the three men crashed into him and crushed them all.

Golden Knight!

The name spread from the tavern, was polished and printed by newspaper editors, and appeared in the corner of every tabloid in the North District on the morning of the fourth day.

Secret choir, North District Dark Hall.

This is a room located underground, with sound-absorbing black felt covering the walls, a very low ceiling, and the air filled with the bitter smell of tranquilizing potions.

The three people sat around a round table.

A newspaper lay open on the table—the headline on the front page, printed in bold letters, read "The Golden Knight Fights Three Against One."

Sitting in the main seat was an old man with a gray beard, wearing a dark gray robe, with his hands folded on the table.

His fingers were extremely thin and long, with calluses on the joints from years of needle pricks.

His name is Halvis.

The Whisper Choir, the actual person in charge of the North District branch.

"One against three." His voice was dry and hoarse, like two pieces of sandpaper rubbing together. "Three Tier 2 fighters, all wiped out. No one was injured."

Sitting to his left was a young woman, around twenty-five or twenty-six years old, with a pretty face but a cold expression and a slightly downturned mouth, as if she were born with a disdain.

Her name is Isabella, and she is the branch's "tuner," responsible for remote mental interference and the spread of contamination.

Her fingers tapped nervously on the table.

"We had a conflict with his people before," Isabella said in a low, quick voice. "At the docks—our people seized a batch of his auxiliary materials, and his housekeeper came with people to demand them back. The two sides almost came to blows."

"How did you handle it back then?" Halvis asked.

"I had it returned. The items were returned," Isabella frowned. "But the housekeeper said something as she left: 'My governor has a very good memory.'"

The third person at the table was a taciturn middle-aged man dressed in ordinary worker's clothes. If he weren't sitting here, he would look no different from any other dockworker on the street.

But his eyes were as calm as still water, with a glint of silver light occasionally flashing deep within his pupils.

His name is Marcus.

The branch's only combat-type Tier 2 Extraordinary.

"Three Tier 2s can't beat him," Marcus said, his voice flat and emotionless. "I can't beat him even if I go alone."

Isabella glared at him: "You're quite honest, aren't you?"

"It's not about being honest, it's about the truth," Marcus said calmly.

"Gregor's close-combat ability is on par with mine. Even if he, Morris, and Herbert were to join forces, the three of them wouldn't be able to defeat him. If I went alone, it would be suicide."

Halvis did not speak.

He merely flipped through the newspaper, his gaze lingering on the end of the report.

"It is said that the Governor of the Northern District, Siron, has mastered the Xuan Yin Breathing Method of the Tussor family and also practiced an unknown breathing method. His marksmanship has reached the master level."

Furthermore, there are unconfirmed rumors that he may have mastered some kind of life-related magic...

Life-based spells!

These five words made Halvis's eye twitch.

One of the core methods of the Whisper Choir is spiritual pollution.

Through songs, silver threads, stitching techniques, and sacrificial rituals…

The pollution is implanted into the target's mental roots, causing them to go mad, fearful, or completely collapse.

This is their most powerful weapon, and also their most feared weakness.

If someone can purify the pollution.

Then their supposedly invincible psychological attacks will become useless tricks.

And Xilun—is precisely the one who can purify pollution.

He uprooted the flower fields in Scamay town overnight.

He sealed off the well at the Black Dove Church.

Samuel and Edwin, both second-tier, were captured alive by him.

He can not only withstand pollution—he can also dispel it.

This made the Whisper Choir very uncomfortable.

"There's one more thing," Halvis's dry voice broke the silence, "I sent someone to investigate his background."

Isabella and Marcus both looked at him.

"Warnings have been issued by both sides."

"Which two parties?"

"One side is the Brotherhood headquarters—Midasius," Halvis said calmly. "The other side is a member of the Ironblood Society."

Isabella's expression changed slightly.

The Ironblood Society is a loose alliance composed of retired officers and high-ranking extraordinary individuals. The weakest member is at the peak of the second rank, and most members are at the third rank.

"What did they say?"

"The exact words were: 'Only normal combat is allowed; no Tier 3 Extraordinary individuals are permitted.'"

The room was silent for a few seconds.

"That means," Marcus concluded, "we can only send a Tier 2 fighter to fight him at most."

"And you're the only Tier 2 near the North District branch," Isabella interjected.

"I can't beat him," Marcus repeated.

Isabella shut her mouth.

Halvis's thin fingers slowly traced circles on the table, making a soft rubbing sound.

he was thinking.

The Whisper Choir isn't incapable of fighting. They also have second- and even third-tier combat forces in other districts.

But those people each have their own territory and their own tasks, and it's impossible for them to travel thousands of miles just because of a dispute in a branch in the North District.

What's more—the other side has members of the Iron Blood Society watching them from behind.

Once they deploy their third-tier troops, it's tantamount to a complete breakdown in relations.

The consequences... they can't afford them.

"So the current situation is—" Isabella stated the situation clearly, "We have a conflict with him and want to resolve it by force, but we can't beat him. Sending stronger people would cross the line from above."

"Not bad." Halvis's voice was hoarse and slow. "I'm suddenly at a loss."

"But he has mastered the art of life," Marcus said calmly. "He is our greatest enemy."

"I know."

"He can dispel pollution; he can pull up a seed that we've spent ten years cultivating with just one hand."

"I know."

"If we let him continue to grow—"

That's enough.

Halvis raised his hand, stopping Marcus from continuing.

The old man narrowed his eyes slightly, a cold glint flashing deep within his cloudy pupils.

"No rush."

His voice was very soft and slow, like a snake flicking its tongue.

"The war has just begun. The North will become increasingly chaotic, and he will have more and more things to manage: smuggling, security, the Tusol family infighting—he can't be in two places at once."

"And all we... need to do is wait."

"Wait for what?" Isabella asked.

"Wait for him to make a mistake." Halvis's withered fingers stopped circling, and his five fingers slowly clenched into a fist. "Wait for him to show a weakness."

"Or, wait until he gets into a fight with someone else."

Isabella and Marcus exchanged a glance.

Halvis placed his hands back on the table, folding them together.

"Until then, don't provoke him. Don't go near his territory. Don't give him an excuse."

"Let our people retreat, retreat to a place where he can't see them."

"Remember," the old man concluded, "the Whisper Choir never wins through direct confrontation; we win through time, infiltration, and patience."

"He has a heart of gold? Very well."

"Gold—it can rust too."