Starting as dockworkers, they swept through Chongqing.

His finger landed on the middle section of Old Bridge Street on the map.

"Once we go in, the smuggling gang will definitely trigger the field. But what they're looking for is prey trapped in a cage—not a group of hunters with jamming devices."

"Once the field is disrupted, their deployment will be thrown into disarray. Then—"

He looked up, his gaze sweeping from Heinz to Daphne, and then to Karl.

"I'll deal with their second-tier soldiers; you guys handle the musketeers and the first-tier grunts."

Carl chuckled.

"You're going to take on their second-tier opponents all by yourself? How many are there?"

"Excluding the one that was eaten in the south warehouse—there are at most three."

"Three Tier 2s, and you alone?" Daphne's tone was clearly suspicious.

Xilun offered no explanation.

He simply looked at her and calmly said, "I've killed three in Klein Alley."

After those words were spoken, the room fell silent once more.

Daphne stared at him for several seconds.

Then she gave a soft snort.

It's not mockery.

It's more like a confirmation.

Confirm that what the young man in front of me is true, and not just boasting.

"Okay." Heinz finally slammed his hand on the table, not hard, but decisive.

"I agree to the plan. Let's go over the details one more time."

He paused, then added:

"But there is one condition."

"explain."

"The spoils captured after the war will be split 50/50. But if the smuggling gang has any intelligence or documents involving the Tusol family or the Secret Choir—we can share them."

Xilun thought for less than two seconds.

"Can."

Heinz nodded slightly and extended his hand.

Xilen grasped his hand; his palm was rough, but his grip was firm and steady.

This is a hand that has done manual labor, wielded a gun, and also a knife.

"It's a pleasure working with you," Heinz said.

"It was a pleasure working with you." Xilun released his grip.

For the next hour or so, the four of them went over every detail of the map repeatedly.

The troop deployment for the ambush at Nancang, the route of advance along Laoqiao Street, the timing of activating the jamming equipment, the possible firing positions of the musketeers, and contingency plans in case the area is not successfully suppressed—

Xilun provided specific solutions for each step.

Heinz became increasingly quiet as he listened.

Finally, he looked up at Xilun, his tone revealing something new he hadn't said before.

"Did you serve in the military before?"

"no."

"So, what's your battle strategy—"

"It was my master who taught me."

Heinz paused for a moment.

"Good master."

Xilun didn't say anything.

He simply nodded slightly.

-

It was already dark when the three of them left.

Daphne walked last, and suddenly stopped at the door.

She turned around and looked at Siren, who was standing in the corridor.

"Your aura is very steady," she said, her tone still cold, but less sharp than when she arrived. "Steady than most second-tier cultivators I've seen."

Xilun looked at her.

Daphne hesitated for a moment—a gesture that was extremely rare for her.

"Don't die tomorrow night."

After saying that, she turned and disappeared into the night.

Xiren stood in the corridor, watching the three figures disappear into the distance.

Kusso leaned closer and whispered, "Sir, can these people... be trusted?"

Xilun turned and went back to his study.

Whether you trust someone or not is not important.

He sat back down at the table, picked up his pen, and added the final line to the counterattack plan.

"The important thing is—tomorrow night, they need me alive, just as they need them."

He put down his pen.

The wind outside the window blew in from the distant dock, carrying the salty, fishy smell of the sea.

tomorrow.

Everything will be tomorrow.

The next day.

The sky was dark and gloomy, with dark clouds pressing down from the sea, shrouding the entire northern district in an iron-gray dome.

The air was thick with the muggy heat of an impending rain.

Xilun practiced shooting for two hours in the back hill.

Today's training was different from usual.

He didn't pursue high penetration rates, nor did he hone the techniques for focusing the Red Star Spear—he simply repeated the four most basic moves: thrust, flick, sweep, and smash.

Each move was executed with only 30% of the force applied.

Each movement was as slow as practicing Tai Chi.

But the trajectory of each shot was so precise, it was as if it had been measured with a ruler.

This is the lesson Lund taught him.

Before a major battle, the focus is not on improvement, but on stability.

Press every movement into your bones, into your muscle memory, to the point where you can do it without thinking.

By that time, the gun in your hand will no longer be a weapon.

It is a part of oneself.

Two hours later, Xilun planted the iron spear in the mud and stood by the waterfall, taking three deep breaths.

The vibrations of the Great Thunder Breathing Technique flowed slowly along the meridians, and every inch of muscle trembled slightly, as if being gently touched by an invisible hand, shaking off all stiffness and fatigue.

He closed his eyes.

The battlefield of tonight flashed through my mind—

In the middle section of Laoqiao Street, there are warehouses on both sides with no side streets.

The field will activate at some point after he steps onto that path.

Then--

The killing intent will surge in from all directions.

He opened his eyes.

His gaze was as calm as a mountain stream.

"Go back," he said to himself.

-

In the afternoon, Xilun made final arrangements in his study.

Rhodes confirmed the ambush formation at the South Warehouse – the first squad of twelve armed insurgents had secretly entered the South Warehouse before dawn, joining the Brotherhood's fifteen Tier 1 Extraordinary Warriors and guards.

Everyone was divided into three groups, who were positioned in ambush inside the main entrance of the warehouse, in the side passage, and on the shelf platform on the second floor.

"Are the lights in the South Warehouse still on?" Rod asked.

"As usual," Siren said. "Everything as usual, don't let them notice anything amiss. Patrols continue as usual, changing of the guard at the same time."

"clear."

"Also—" Xilun took a pistol from the drawer, checked the magazine, and then tucked it behind his waist.

"Tell the people in Nancang that the other side will most likely send a Tier 1 Extraordinary with twenty men to attack. Don't rush, wait for them to come in, wait until most of them have passed through the main gate—then make your move."

He paused for a moment.

"The objective is annihilation; do not let anyone escape."

Rod's Adam's apple bobbed.

"Sir, if anyone surrenders—"

"Do not kill those who surrender," Xilun said succinctly. "But disarm them, tie them up, and lock them in the cellar. No news is allowed to get out until tonight is over."

"Yes."

Rhodes left.

Xilun sat alone in his study, closing his eyes to rest.

He wasn't nervous.

There was no excitement either.

It was just calm.

A kind of peace that comes after you've done everything you need to do.

-

Six o'clock in the evening.

The sky grew completely dark.

A light drizzle began to fall, pattering against the window with a soft, pattering sound.

Xilun changed into a dark gray bodysuit, with an inconspicuous old trench coat over it.

The golden spear was strapped diagonally to his back, mostly hidden by his trench coat; a short gun was tucked behind his waist; and the Soul-Suppressing Nail was concealed in his left sleeve.

Kusso waited at the door, carrying a lantern with its lampshade wrapped in black cloth.

"Sir, the person has arrived."

Xilun nodded and went downstairs.

Three dark figures stood in the rain outside the side gate of the backyard.

Heinz changed into dark clothes and wore a pair of military boots.

Daphne was still wearing that faded old military uniform, but now she had a narrow longsword at her waist.

Karl's gray cloak was bulging, and who knows what he was hiding underneath.

Eight men followed behind them—the second squad of the armed insurgent party.

Everyone was dressed in dark clothes and remained silent, like a group of ghosts that had grown out of the shadows.

"Let's go," Heinz said briefly.

Xilun nodded.

The group of twelve disappeared silently into the rainy night in the northern district.

-

at the same time.

Old shipyard.

Victor stood at the second-floor window, peering at the night outside through the gaps in the wooden planks.

The rain wasn't heavy, but it was enough to cover the sound of footsteps.

Good weather.

Suitable for murder.

"Boss, everyone's ready."

John came up from behind.

"Grant's twenty men have already set off and will arrive at the outskirts of the South Warehouse in half an hour."

The fourteen musketeers had already taken to the rooftops on both sides of Old Bridge Street. Monica and Chester were waiting at the Riverside intersection. Old Bate said that all the field materials had been pre-installed and could be activated at any time.

Victor did not turn around.

"When are we leaving?"

"We'll leave after Grant makes his move," John said, glancing at his pocket watch. "About an hour later."

Victor remained silent for a moment.

"John."

"Um?"

"If I don't get through tonight..."

John's expression changed.

"Boss—"

"I said 'if'." Victor turned his head, his gaze calm.

"If I don't make it out, you take the brothers and leave the North District. Go to South Harbor and find Old Martin. He has a boat there; it'll be enough for you to get around."

"Don't seek revenge on the Golden Knight; it's pointless."

"And don't send anyone to their death."

John opened his mouth, but ultimately said nothing.

Victor patted him on the shoulder.

"Let's go."

-

Night was falling.

Nancang.

Grant led twenty men through the rain-soaked alleyways along the edge of the dock to the outskirts of the South Warehouse.

Grant is one of the surviving leaders of the Black Sails smuggling group, a Tier 1 Extraordinary, thirty-five years old, with a scar on his face that extends from his left eyebrow to his chin.

After Biglen's death, he took over the remaining eleven men of Blacksail and incorporated them into the Anchors.

He is not a smart person.

But he is a vengeful person.

Although Biglen was not a good person, Grant followed him for eight years.

Over the course of eight years, Biglen paid him a salary, helped his sister get medical treatment, and even personally led a team to bail him out when he was being hunted down by other gangs.

All of these things combined were enough for Grant to be willing to avenge him.

"Listen up, everyone." He crouched behind a low wall and lowered his voice.

"Break through the main gate and beat the people inside to death. Don't hold back, and don't hold anyone back."

He glanced back at the twenty people behind him.

Six musketeers had already raised their rifles, and fourteen melee fighters each gripped a knife or club, their breathing heavy.

"Don't stop firing. Switch to melee when you run out of ammo. Remember, we don't need to win—we just need to make the biggest commotion and get that guy named Xilen here."

He stood up and drew the curved sword from his waist.

"Walk."

Twenty people surged toward the main gate of the South Warehouse like a black tide.

There were only two Brotherhood patrolmen carrying lanterns at the entrance.

Seeing the group rushing towards them, the two men froze for less than half a second before reacting. One of them turned and ran into the warehouse, while the other drew his dagger and charged forward, shouting at the top of his lungs—

"There's been an attack—"

A gunshot rang out, interrupting his shout.

The bullet flew from thirty meters away and hit his left shoulder. The huge impact made him stagger back two steps, but he did not fall down—he was a Tier 1 Extraordinary and withstood the bullet.

Then the second shot came.

The third shot.

The fourth shot.

Six rifles fired almost simultaneously, bursting into a series of blinding flashes in the night.

A dense hail of bullets poured towards the main gate of the south warehouse, blasting the wooden door open with bullet holes the size of bowls, and splinters of wood flew everywhere.

"Charge in!" Grant roared, kicking open the battered door first.

Behind the door was darkness.

All the lights in the warehouse went out.

Grant rushed in three steps, his pupils suddenly contracting—

He saw a dense crowd of people.

It wasn't seven or eight guards, nor was it a dozen or so.

There were at least twenty people, distributed behind the cargo boxes inside the main entrance, at the corner of the side door passage, and at the edge of the second-floor shelf platform.

Everyone was holding weapons.

Everyone was watching him.

"Hold--"

Grant managed to squeeze out half a word, and then countless lights blazed in the darkness.

A barrage of gunfire erupted inside the warehouse, the echoes colliding and crashing against the tall dome, making eardrums ache.

The first group of men, who were lying in ambush inside the main gate, opened fire first—the crossfire of seven rifles tore the front row of the smuggling gang that rushed in, and three men fell to the ground on the spot, their bodies emitting smoke.

Grant reacted swiftly—he rolled sideways behind a stack of crates during the first round of shots, his scimitar gripped tightly in his hand, a bloody gash on his forehead from a splinter of wood.

"We've been ambushed! Retreat! Get out!"

He roared.

But it was too late.

The second group of ambushers from the side passage attacked from the right flank, blocking the retreat route.

The third group of men on the second-floor platform, positioned high above, used rifles and crossbows to block the main exit of the warehouse.

Twenty people were trapped in a sack.

Grant's eyes were bloodshot.

He realized he had fallen into a trap.

But what he didn't know was that the plan was never intended to kill him, but rather to ensure that he and everyone he brought with him could not send out any messages tonight.

The battle inside the warehouse was exceptionally fierce.

After being surrounded, the smugglers fought back desperately.

Musketeers fired desperately, melee fighters slashed with their swords, and Grant, with the physique of a first-tier extraordinary being, cut down two ambushers in succession.

But then, three spears came at once, one of which pierced his right leg and pinned him to a cargo box.

He roared and swung his sword, severing the spear shaft, but more people surged forward.

The battle ended fifteen minutes later.

Of the twenty men, seven died, eleven were wounded and captured, and two were seriously injured and unconscious.

Grant was pinned to the ground by six men, his mouth stuffed with rags, his hands tied behind his back, and dragged into the cellar deep inside the warehouse.

Nancang returned to silence.

Only the smell of gunpowder and blood lingered in the air.

-

Almost at the same moment.

Two miles north of Old Bridge Street.

A smuggling gang sentry crouching on a rooftop spotted what he had been waiting for all night.

A figure emerged from the direction of the Brotherhood's mansion.

The man was wearing a dark trench coat, with a long, thin object strapped diagonally across his back, and he walked slowly and steadily in the rain.

Even from a distance of over two hundred meters and in the light drizzle, the sentry recognized the silhouette at a glance—

He was upright, composed, and his steps were even, as if he were taking a stroll.

It's him.

That golden knight.

The sentry's heart skipped a beat. He suppressed his excitement, turned around, and gave two coded signals behind him—a flash, a dim flash, a flash.