Starting as dockworkers, they swept through Chongqing.

Rainwater trickled down the hem of Xilun's trench coat, forming trickles on the gravel ground.

A wisp of frost clung to the tip of the golden spear, the ice crystals slowly melting in the rain, making a very faint crackling sound.

Chester knelt at the base of the brick wall on the right, his petrified state already shattered. His entire right arm, from shoulder to fingertips, was covered with spiderweb-like cracks, and pieces of skin like gravel peeled off, revealing the purplish-blue bruised flesh beneath.

He opened his mouth, trying to stand up, but his knees trembled uncontrollably.

The lingering shock of that shot still lingered deep within his bones, like a swarm of ants gnawing at his marrow, leaving him unable to even muster the strength to clench his fist.

Monica's situation is even worse.

She leaned against the opposite wall, her right arm from her forearm down completely encased in a layer of grayish-white ice, her rune dagger and five fingers frozen together, like a lifeless piece of withered wood.

The biting cold was still spreading along her veins to her shoulder, and she had to use her left hand to tightly pinch the upper part of her right arm, trying to block the suffocating chill.

Her lips were pale, her teeth were chattering, and her pupils were filled with disbelief.

Four seconds.

Only four seconds passed between the moment the attack was made and the two men fell to the ground.

"...How is this possible?" Monica's voice was forced out of her throat, as if cut by shards of ice. "You're a second-tier...you can't—"

She was interrupted by her own cough before she could finish speaking.

The cold air seeping from the icy shell had already invaded her lungs, and each breath felt like swallowing shattered glass.

Xilen did not look at her.

He gripped the golden spear, his gaze passing over the two men and landing on the figure still holding a military knife deep within the rain.

Victor stood in the very center of Old Bridge Street.

His military knife remained sheathed, the old strips of cloth wrapped around the hilt soaked by rainwater, clinging tightly to his rough palms.

His chest heaved violently, and his breath condensed into a thin white mist in the rainy night.

John behind him had already drawn his dagger, but his hand was trembling—not because of the cold, but because he had witnessed everything that had happened in those four seconds.

Chester's petrifying fist was shattered by a single shot. Monica's runic dagger, along with her entire arm, was frozen solid.

The two second-tier extraordinary individuals, one skilled in physical enhancement and the other in rune enchanting, couldn't even last a single exchange in a direct battle.

This is no longer the combat power that a second-tier extraordinary being should have.

"Boss..." John's voice was hoarse, "Still no news from Grant, and from Nancang... I'm afraid it's the same—"

"Shut up," Victor whispered.

His voice was unusually calm.

Like the deathly silence before a storm.

Victor slowly raised his head and looked at the young man standing in the rain with a gun in his hand.

The golden spear reflected a dark golden luster in the remaining light of the street lamp. The last bit of frost on the spear tip had melted away, replaced by fine lines of rainwater flowing down the spear shaft.

He recalled his reaction two weeks ago when he first heard the title "Golden Knight" from an informant.

He scoffed.

Golden Knight? Just a wild kid from the docks who killed a few good-for-nothings from the Hawk family, and that's how those ignorant drunkards in the North District praised him to the skies.

But now—

Victor's gaze swept over Chester, who was kneeling on the ground, and then glanced at Monica, who was leaning against the wall, trembling.

Neither of them were weaklings. Chester's petrifying fist could smash through a three-inch-thick steel plate, and Monica's rune dagger had a history of defeating second-tier extraordinary beings on multiple occasions.

Together, they would be a core fighting force capable of upholding the reputation of any faction in the Northern District.

But they couldn't even last four seconds against this young man.

Victor took a deep breath.

The damp air filled my lungs, carrying the smells of rain, rust, and gunpowder.

He slowly drew his military knife.

The blade is not fancy, and even looks a bit old. There are a few tiny chips on the edge, which are traces left from years ago when it was licking blood off the sea.

This knife has been with him for seventeen years, from the smuggling docks of Nangang to the storm routes of the East China Sea, and then to this muddy and dirty land of the North District.

He was never some noble or extraordinary being.

He was just a man who couldn't survive, a nobody kicked out of the army and forced into a corner by the world.

Smuggling, trafficking, murder—all these dirty deeds weren't because he enjoyed them, but because he couldn't think of any other way to make a living.

"Victor." Siren's voice came from the rain, neither too loud nor too soft, as if he were talking to an old acquaintance.

Victor did not respond.

He simply gripped his military knife tightly, slowly took a half step back with his right foot, and slightly lowered his center of gravity—this was a starting stance that had been ingrained in his instincts for seventeen years.

"You should know that tonight's outcome was decided from the start," Celen said.

Victor suddenly smiled.

The smile was brief and bitter, like cheap liquor diluted by rain.

"Of course I know," he said, his voice hoarse. "I knew from the moment Grant went missing."

His gaze swept over the seven or eight men who remained behind him.

John, Old Bate, and several other first-order brothers. Some held knives, some held guns, but all of them had the same word in their eyes—

afraid!

Victor suddenly remembered what he had said to John before he left.

"If I don't come back tonight, take the brothers and go to Southport. Don't look back."

He had a premonition when he said those words.

But it still came.

Because taking a step back would be like stepping off a cliff. Biglen is dead, Black Sails are scattered, and if Anchor is also uprooted that night, then his brothers who have followed him for many years will be hunted down by every force in the North District like stray dogs.

At the very least, he wanted the young man opposite him to know—

Not everyone has the right to choose to live a dignified life.

"John," Victor said softly.

"Boss."

"Take the brothers with you."

John paused, then his voice suddenly rose: "Boss!"

"That's an order." Victor didn't turn around; instead, his voice became unusually calm, like a stagnant pool.

"Go south along the riverside road, pass through the old dock, exit through the No. 3 sluice gate, do not take the main road, do not stop, and leave the North District before dawn."

John's lips moved a few times, but he didn't say anything.

He watched Victor's back—broad shoulders, a straight back, the saber tilted slightly in his hand, the raindrops on the blade like a thin silver thread.

He had been watching that figure from behind for twelve years.

From the very beginning, when they unloaded cargo at the South Port smuggling terminal, to later sailing through the reefs of the East China Sea on stormy nights, and then to the repeated battles and fights in the North District.

This man never let them go hungry, nor did he ever abandon any of his brothers.

John gritted his teeth.

"Go!" Victor shouted sharply, without turning his head.

The shout made John's body move reflexively.

He grabbed the stunned old man beside him, then gestured with his eyes to the others and whispered, "South, quick!"

Old Bate's hands were still trembling as he held the field toolbox. He glanced back at Victor, but ultimately said nothing, and bent over to disappear into the shadows of the side alley.

The footsteps gradually faded into the distance.

The sound of rain filled the entire Old Bridge Street once again.

Only Siren remained in front of Victor.

—No, not just one person.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the scarred-faced men and cold-eyed spectators borrowed from the rioters behind Siron.

Especially the woman wielding the longsword, Daphne. She didn't even sheath her sword; a gray vortex was still slowly circulating around her, like a coiled venomous snake, ready to pounce at any moment.

But Victor's gaze never left Siren.

"Your men can leave," Siron said.

Victor was taken aback.

"I said," Xiren tilted his head slightly, raindrops sliding down his hair and dripping onto the collar of his trench coat.

"Those at level one, put down your weapons and you may leave."

Victor was silent for two seconds, then suddenly let out a low laugh.

"You really are..." He shook his head, "just like the rumors say."

"What do they say in the rumors?"

"I said you're a person who follows the rules." Victor's tone changed, becoming more serious.

"In a lousy place like the North District, people who follow the rules either don't live long, or they really have the ability to make everyone follow their rules."

Xilun did not respond.

General Victor held his sword across his chest, the blade reflecting his own deeply lined face.

"Golden Knight," he formally addressed the title for the first time, "let me see what gives you the right to establish this rule."

Before he finished speaking, he suddenly sprang up!

The saber whistled through the rain, Victor was much faster than Chester and Monica.

He is a second-tier Ripper with enhanced aura. He is not as durable as Chester, nor as cunning as Monica, but his explosive power and swordsmanship are definitely among the best in the North District's smuggling circles.

The blade aimed straight for Xilun's throat.

Fast, accurate, and ruthless, without any fancy prelude, this is an instinct honed over seventeen years of licking blood off the coast of the sea—every strike is aimed at vital points.

But Celen reacted faster.

He thrust the golden spear into the ground with its butt, then hung it at an angle, just before the blade arrived, and it was positioned next to his neck.

when!

The dull thud of metal clashing exploded in the rainy night, and Victor's hand went numb.

Immediately afterwards, Xilun moved.

Instead of retreating, he took a step forward, his left foot twisting and turning on the slippery stone pavement, the entire golden spear drawing an arc around his waist and hips—

It wasn't a thorn, it wasn't a poke, it was a sweep.

This sweep carried a force so heavy it was almost despairing. The moment the saber touched the gun, Victor realized that the force far exceeded his limits.

He gritted his teeth and took the hit with the back of the knife.

when--!

The saber was jolted into a visible arc, and Victor was shoved sideways by the force. His shoes left two long water streaks on the wet ground, and his back slammed heavily against a metal lamppost.

The lamppost emitted a muffled hum, and the remaining gas lamp flame inside the lampshade snapped out.

Viktor felt a dull, bone-cracking pain in his back, but he didn't loosen his grip on the knife handle.

He let out a low growl, pushed off with his toes, and used the springiness of the lamppost to propel himself forward again.

This time he changed his tactics, no longer engaging in a head-on confrontation, but instead leaning to the side against the wall, using short and dense diagonal slashes to find Xilun's weaknesses.

The aura on the saber suddenly condensed, and a grayish-white blade light overflowed along the edge, like a thin layer of frost.

One cut, two cuts, three cuts—

Each slash precisely targeted the knuckles, elbows, and armpits of Xilun, the most difficult close-range blind spots for long weapons to defend against.

This is Victor's true skill. His swordsmanship in the military when he was young was not outstanding, but seventeen years of real combat experience honed these basic moves into his own.

Every angle, force, and timing of the cut is learned through countless lives lost.

pity--

He was not facing an ordinary second-tier extraordinary being.

Xilun's golden spear remained unmoved despite his continuous slashes.

No, to be more precise, each parry of the gun occurred precisely in the breath before the saber fell.

It was as if they knew in advance where he was going to cut.

Echo chamber.

Xiren's hearing had already caught the subtle sounds of Victor's muscles contracting before each swing of his knife, the slight creaking of his kneecaps sliding with each step, and even the changes in his breathing rhythm.

The fourth strike was deflected by the butt of the golden spear.

The fifth strike was intercepted by the middle of the gun barrel.

The sixth cut—

Victor suddenly changed his move, switching his saber from a diagonal slash to a straight thrust, the tip of the blade carrying a grayish-white aura as it plunged straight into Xilun's abdomen.

This was his fastest strike.

But Celion is faster.

Instead of using his gun to block, he took a half-step to the left, simultaneously pulling the golden spear back with his right hand and keeping his left palm facing forward with his fingers slightly spread.

An invisible, heavy shock spread from his palm.

Tiger and Leopard Thunder Sound.

Victor felt a loud "buzz" in his head, as if someone had struck a bronze bell next to his ear.

His military knife deflected by half an inch, the tip grazing the hem of Xilun's trench coat without causing any damage.

In that half-second gap, Xilun's left hand had already reached out.

A cold palm pressed against Victor's chest.

Mysterious Yin Condenses the Meridians.

The extreme cold air, like a serpent, surged along Victor's sternum and into his heart.

Victor's body stiffened abruptly. He opened his mouth to shout, but only a short, muffled groan escaped his throat, as if it had been cut off.

He stopped walking.

The saber slipped from his fingers and clattered to the wet ground.

Xilun withdrew his left hand and took a step back.

Victor stood still, the chill in his chest spreading at an alarming rate. He could feel his heartbeat slowing down—not from fatigue, but a physical deceleration caused by being frozen.

He looked down and saw a thin layer of white frost forming on his chest.

"You lost," Celen said calmly.

Victor bent his knees and knelt on one knee on the puddle-filled stone floor.

He looked up, his face streaked with rain, but he could still see Xilun's face clearly.

Young, composed, without anger or smugness, even his murderous intent was faint—it was the composure that only someone who had already secured victory could possess.

Victor suddenly realized something.

From beginning to end, this young man never considered himself a real opponent.

This is not contempt, nor arrogance, but an absolute crushing defeat in terms of strength.

Just like a fully grown snow wolf facing a wild dog, it doesn't even bother to show its fangs.