Starting as dockworkers, they swept through Chongqing.

A knock came at the door.

"Come in."

Rod pushed open the door and walked in, carrying a plate of hot breakfast—fried eggs, bacon, toast, and a pot of strong tea.

"Young Master, there was another letter in the mail this morning, forwarded from the South District."

Rod placed a plain leather envelope on the table.

When Xilun opened it, he found it was a letter from Lund.

The handwriting on the letter was messy and forceful, clearly written in a hurry.

"Xilun:

The dark line on my left arm hasn't spread. I practice shooting every day, so you don't need to worry.

I've already mentioned the Ironblood Society to Wolff, and he replied saying he's interested in meeting you, but he's an eccentric person who doesn't like theoretical discussions and wants to see your real skills.

I'll tell you the specific arrangements when I get back.

Also, if your penetration rate with heavy armor guns isn't above 95%, keep practicing. Don't slack off.

Lund.

Xilun's lips twitched slightly.

The teacher's letters always have this style—three parts concern, seven parts command.

He folded the letter and put it away, then picked up his teacup and took a sip.

Several things were running through my mind at the same time.

Moon Lake Trade Fair – the day after tomorrow.

Intelligence on Balk is still being gathered.

The smuggling rings—Black Sail, Anchor, and Deepwater—are like three nails driven into the heart of the North. Every day they remain, the Brotherhood suffers a greater loss.

Oin—that old dog is now licking his wounds in the shadows. He's become much more restrained on the surface, but he must still have a backup plan.

And that black mark on his right wrist...

Xilun put down his teacup and glanced down at his right wrist.

The mark remained quietly dormant beneath the skin, like a sleeping snake, neither spreading nor fading.

He had gotten used to its presence.

But "habit" does not mean "reassurance".

That eight-armed deity statue—the terrifying being in the dream whose palms had eyes—is by no means a hidden danger that can be ignored.

However, he doesn't have enough power to deal with it right now.

Therefore, deal with what can be dealt with first.

"Rhodes".

"exist."

"I'm going out of town the day after tomorrow to the northern suburbs."

Rhodes was slightly taken aback. "The northern suburbs? It's not peaceful there right now. After the war broke out, refugees filled the roads in the suburbs, and the security is terrible."

"I know." Xiren stood up and tidied the documents on the table. "You don't need to come with me, I'll go alone."

"But young master—"

"Prepare a simple outfit, nothing too flashy," Xilen interrupted him. "Also, find my old gray trench coat."

Rhodes opened his mouth, but ultimately swallowed his words of dissuasion.

He hadn't been with Xilun for very long, but he already knew his young master's character well enough—once he made a decision, nothing could change his mind.

"I'll go prepare right away." Rod nodded and left the study.

Xilun walked to the window and opened it.

The morning air was slightly cool, mixed with the salty smell of the distant dock and the smell of coal ash wafting from the factory chimneys.

The sky in the North District is always gray and hazy, like an old cloth that can never be washed clean.

But above that gray expanse, occasionally a few rays of sunlight could be seen piercing through the clouds and falling on a rooftop, shimmering like broken gold.

Xilun took a deep breath and turned away from the window.

For the next two days, he devoted all his time to cultivation.

They practiced shooting in the back hills during the day.

Natan's mental penetration rate in heavy gun technique has stabilized at over 95%, and he can achieve unity of gun, body, and energy in almost every shot.

The iron spear in his hands increasingly felt like an extension of his body, rather than an external object.

The gathering of energy in the Crimson Star Spear was also progressing slowly. He was already able to compress nearly 40% of his aura to the tip of the spear, and each release was accompanied by a heart-palpitating shockwave.

But Lund said that the true Crimson Star Spear requires compressing more than 70% of one's aura into a single point and then releasing it in an instant—that penetrating power is enough to pierce through the protective aura of a third-tier extraordinary being.

He still has a long way to go before reaching that level.

In the evening, he lit a mind-cleansing incense in his study and practiced the Moon Recollection Meditation Method.

In the silvery-white spiritual world, the sacred bud of prayer floats quietly, radiating a soft white halo.

Xilun gently touched it with his mental power, and the white bud trembled slightly, releasing a wisp of warm and pure energy.

This wisp of purity flowed along his spiritual meridians, washing away the impurities and fatigue accumulated from cultivation and battles wherever it passed.

But when Jingyi approached the black mark on her right wrist, it was as if it had encountered an invisible wall, gently sliding away.

Xilun did not forcefully urge it.

He remembered the warning in the literature—the "purity" of the spiritual world is the most important foundation for a practitioner. If one damages purity due to impatience, the loss outweighs the gain.

The next night.

After finishing her practice, Xilun took out the clothes that Rhodes had prepared from the wardrobe.

He wore a dark gray coarse cloth shirt and trousers, with an old gray trench coat over them.

There was no family crest, no conspicuous decorations.

Once he put it on, he looked like any young worker you'd see on the streets of the North District, or a deliveryman for some small business.

Xiren looked at herself in the mirror.

The collar of his trench coat was turned up, obscuring most of his face. Only a pair of calm yet sharp eyes were visible.

He took the gold-embossed invitation from the drawer and stuffed it into his inner pocket.

Then he pulled out a long, narrow cloth bag from under the bed.

Opening the cloth bag, inside was the forty-pound iron spear—not the conspicuous golden spear, but the ordinary iron spear that Lund had him use for daily training.

Unremarkable, yet deadly enough.

Xilun wrapped the iron spear up and carried it on his back, covering it with the hem of his trench coat.

He then tucked the short gun into his waistband and hid the Soul-Suppressing Nail inside his boot.

Finally, he picked up a small leather bag from the table, which contained three hundred gold pounds.

This was drawn from the profits of the fraternity branch, specifically for purchasing supplies at the trade fair.

Everything is ready.

Xilun pushed open the door and walked into the hallway.

Downstairs, Kusso was already waiting at the door.

"Young master, the carriage is ready."

"Just drop me off at the fork in the road in the north suburbs." Xilun came downstairs. "I'll walk the rest of the way myself."

Kusso nodded without asking any further questions.

The carriage emerged from the mansion's iron gates in the morning mist and headed north along the main street of the northern district.

The shops on both sides of the street had just opened, and the shop assistants were splashing water and sweeping the ground in front of the doors, while several breakfast carts were steaming.

The further north you go, the narrower the streets become, and the more dilapidated the houses become.

As we passed through the old industrial area, the air was filled with a pungent smell of rust and machine oil.

On both sides of the road are abandoned factories and rusty storage tanks. Occasionally, you can see a few homeless people huddled in a corner, covering their bodies with newspapers.

The war made the region even more desolate.

The carriage stopped at a fork in the road.

"Young master, the road ahead is difficult to travel, the carriage can't go any further." Kusuo jumped off the carriage shaft and pointed to the dirt road to the north, which was covered with weeds and gravel.

Xilun got out of the car and straightened his trench coat.

"Go back." He glanced at Kusso. "Tell Rhodes I'll be back tonight. If I'm not back by dark, have Rena check the direction of Moon Lake in the northern suburbs."

Kusso nodded. "Take care, young master."

The carriage turned around and left.

Xilun turned and stepped onto the dirt road.

The morning mist had not completely dissipated, and the moist air clung to my face, carrying the scent of earth and grass.

He walked for about half an hour.

The dirt road gradually turned into a gravel path, and the weeds on both sides grew taller and taller, almost reaching above the knees.

The distant hills undulate like waves, and the mist gathers in the low-lying areas, like pieces of grayish-white cotton wool spread on the ground.

Another fifteen minutes passed.

Xilun climbed over a gentle slope and stopped.

The scene before him startled him slightly.

Beneath a thin mist, a vast lake lies quietly nestled in the embrace of the hills.

The lake water is clear and green, and it shimmers with a soft silver glow under the morning light, like a mirror held in the palm of the earth.

A ring of tall, old willow trees surrounds the lake, their branches drooping low, their leaf tips touching the water's surface, creating tiny ripples in the gentle breeze.

On the eastern shore of the lake, a semi-abandoned manor is being transformed into a bustling market.

The ruins were covered with colorful tents and sheds. Rows of stalls made of planks stretched out, adorned with flags and lanterns of various colors.

Although it was still early morning, the market was already bustling with activity.

Xilun can hear—

Shouts, arguments, the clanging of metal, the clattering of medicine bottles, and even a low chanting sound came from one of the tents.

This is the Moon Lake Extraordinary Traders Gathering.

Xilun pulled his trench coat collar up even higher and strode toward the manor entrance.

The entrance is a simple gate made of iron railings.

Two burly men stood in the doorway, one with his arms crossed against the wall, and the other sitting on a stool sharpening a knife.

Both were first-tier extraordinary individuals, emanating a faint sense of oppression.

"An invitation." The one with his arms crossed extended his hand.

Xilun took out a gold-embossed envelope from his pocket and handed it over.

The man took it, glanced at the emblem on the wax seal, and then looked at Xilun's face.

His gaze lingered on Xilen for two or three seconds, as if trying to discern something.

However, Xilun's trench coat collar covered most of her face, and coupled with her ordinary attire, there was nothing special about her.

"Go in." The man with his arms crossed handed the invitation back to him, gestured with his chin towards the inside, and said, "Remember the rules—no physical violence, no forced sales, and no judging by appearance."

Xilun nodded, put away the invitation, and stepped inside.

The moment I stepped through the iron gate, a complex smell hit me.

The bitterness of herbs, the coldness of metal, the roughness of leather, and a unique aura of extraordinary power that is hard to describe—like the subtle sense of oppression that permeates the air before a storm.

Xilun stood at the entrance for a moment, looking around.

The market was much larger than he had imagined.

The entire ruins of the manor were transformed into a huge open-air trading market.

The old garden has been transformed into a stall area, with thick tarpaulins laid on the gravel path to prevent the goods from getting dirty.

The broken fountain pool has been turned into a bulletin board, covered with various buy and sell notices, the paper stacked layer upon layer, like a body covered in scales.

The half-collapsed corridor was reinforced and transformed into a rain shelter, under which sat rows of shrewd merchants and extraordinary individuals whose faces were difficult to discern.

Xilun walked slowly forward along the main road.

His echo chamber was half-open, subtly sensing everything around him.

The first stall sold medicine.

Dozens of glass bottles of various sizes were neatly arranged on a wooden board covered with black velvet, containing liquids of different colors—amber, dark blue, milky white, and even a bottle of an unidentified liquid that was completely black and constantly bubbling.

The stall owner was a tall, thin middle-aged man wearing round-framed glasses, his fingers covered in stains of various colors.

"Don't miss it if you're passing by!" he shouted in a tone with a southern accent.

"Genuine alchemical potions! Healing, supportive, and enhancing types—we have them all! Sir, take a look at this bottle; it's top-grade body-tempering essence. One sip and your muscles will be as hard as steel. Satisfaction guaranteed!"

Xilun did not stop.

He wasn't interested in these kinds of roadside goods. Truly good medicine wouldn't be displayed and sold in the most conspicuous place.

He continued walking and passed several weapon stalls.

A short, stout blacksmith squatted beside the furnace, clanging and hammering a curved knife, sparks flying everywhere.

On the stall in front of him were more than a dozen weapons—longswords, short daggers, hammers, chains, each one polished to a gleaming shine, gleaming with a cold metallic luster.

The stall next door was even more interesting—a woman wearing a headscarf was hawking "blessed silver bullets" in a deep voice.

A red cloth was laid out in front of her, on which dozens of bullets were neatly stacked, the cartridge cases engraved with dense, tiny runes.

"It's for protecting against demons. If it hits an alien creature's body, the runes will explode, burning through its internal organs—it's even more effective than the church's exorcism bullets, and costs only half the price!"

Xilun glanced at it a couple more times.

Rune Bullet?

These items are almost impossible to buy through legitimate channels because rune engraving requires extremely high technology and involves the church's patent rights, making them contraband.

But here, all prohibitions are rendered meaningless.

The purpose of the Moon Lake Trade Fair is to provide a gray area for extraordinary individuals who cannot obtain resources through formal channels.

Xilun continued deeper into the area.

The further you go in, the higher the quality of the stalls and the fewer people there are.

He noticed that the people in the market could be roughly divided into three categories.

The first type is individual travelers like him, who come alone, wearing hats or veils to cover their faces, wandering between stalls, looking more and buying less.

The second type is buyers who come with entourages, usually in groups of three to five, with the person in charge in the middle and guards on both sides.

These kinds of people are generous spenders; if they see something they like, they'll pay for it without hesitation and never haggle.

The third type is the seasoned vendors who sit motionless behind their stalls. They often have only a few items in front of them, but each one exudes an unusual aura.

These people don't shout or solicit; they just quietly wait for discerning customers to come to them.

Xilun stopped in front of a stall in a corner.

The stall owner was an old woman with a wrinkled face and white hair, wrapped in a faded dark red shawl.

There were only three things in front of her.

A small bottle of amber liquid, a withered black twig, and a tattered booklet.