Starting as dockworkers, they swept through Chongqing.

A servant entered and whispered, "Third Elder, urgent report from the front: Chief Austin defeated the Whispering Choir's Northwest Chapel last night, capturing twenty-seven people and seizing eleven contaminated items. The Council of Nobles has already sent someone to deliver a commendation."

Oro's face instantly turned ugly.

Oin simply nodded: "Understood."

The attendants withdrew.

The study door was closed again.

Oro lowered his voice: "His reputation has risen again."

"So we need to be even faster."

Oin put the pocket watch back into his breast pocket, his movements slow and steady.

The rain stopped.

A sliver of sunlight broke through the clouds outside the window, casting a pale, gray-white light onto his profile, dividing his gentle face into two halves of light and shadow.

"Auro".

"Father."

“You’ll hear a lot of people cursing me later,” O’In said. “They’ll say I’m insidious, cold-blooded, a traitor to my family, and that I don’t deserve that position.”

Oro immediately replied, "They wouldn't dare."

"They will," Oin smiled faintly. "If I win, they can only curse me in their hearts. If I lose, they'll stand next to my dead body and curse me."

Oro remained silent.

O'In looked at his son, his voice softening slightly: "Don't be afraid of those voices. Power isn't a reward; it's not something you can take just because others think you deserve it. Power is the handle of a knife; whoever holds it has the right to talk about the future."

Oro lowered his head: "I've got it."

"Go."

Oro bowed and left.

Oin was the only one left in the study.

He sat in the chair, took out the old pocket watch, and gently opened it.

In the tattered portrait, the father's smile was blurred.

Oin stared at it for a long time.

"You spared someone's life back then."

His voice was so low it was almost swallowed up by the lingering rain outside the window.

"I won't."

At the same time, in the southern suburbs.

The waterfall roared.

The icy water cascaded down from a height of more than ten meters, crashing against the rocks and shattering into white mist, causing the valley to tremble slightly.

Xilun stood below the waterfall, his feet sinking into the slippery crevices of the rocks, his golden spear held horizontally in his hand.

The water pounded on my shoulders and back like countless hammer blows.

He had his eyes closed.

The Xuan Yin Breathing Technique circulated repeatedly within his body, the cold breath seeping into his bones with the chill of the waterfall, each breath bringing a sharp, piercing pain.

The Great Thunder Breathing Method finds its rhythm in the sound of water, with vibrations in the chest cavity like rolling thunder, gradually transforming the force of the falling water into body-strengthening pressure.

Lund sat on a rock in the distance, wearing an old overcoat, his left arm still wrapped in bandages.

He watched for a while, then said coldly, "Don't let the tip of your spear tremble."

The waterfall was very loud.

But Siren heard it.

He slowly adjusted his wrist.

The tip of the golden spear gradually stabilized in the rapids. The water flow was cut by his Water Splitting talent and then, under his deliberate suppression, crashed back onto the spear shaft.

It's easy to avoid pressure by using your talents.

The difficulty lies in choosing to endure what you could have avoided.

Lund looked at him with a complicated expression.

This kid is growing up too fast.

It's happening so fast it's both comforting and unsettling.

"The Red Star isn't for you to show off," Lund said. "It's the last shot. The last shot means that before you throw it, you should be sure you might not have a second chance."

Xilun opened his eyes.

Water droplets rolled down his eyelashes, his eyes calm.

"I know."

"You know nothing," Lund retorted. "Everything you've done lately, hasn't it been a recipe for disaster?"

Xilun did not refute.

Lund snorted: "Continue. No food until you've fired three hundred stabs today."

Xilun raised his gun.

The chilling breath, the internal vibration of the Great Thunder Sound, and the physical strength all converged at the tip of the spear.

Within the water curtain, a point of dark red light quietly condensed.

boom!

The golden spear thrust out.

The water flow below the waterfall was instantly pierced through, and white mist exploded to both sides, leaving a deep hole about the size of a thumb on the distant rock wall.

Xilun holstered his gun, his breathing slightly erratic.

Lund narrowed his eyes, still sharpening his tone: "Too loose."

Xilun nodded and raised his gun again.

Amidst the roar, his figure was swallowed up by the waterfall time and time again, yet he managed to regain his footing each time.

The southern suburbs are remote, and the noise from the northern districts doesn't reach here.

Power, intrigue, gangs, cults, and nobles are all like objects kept outside the valley by the sound of water.

Weston needs a place like this.

He needs to suppress all the noise.

Because he knew very well that the real danger never disappeared because of a victory.

It will only change its face and its name, and wait for him in the distance.

Time seemed to flow slowly amidst the sound of the waterfall.

It's so slow that every day feels like a repetition of the day before.

At five o'clock in the morning, Xilun got up, drank the diluted Yin Spirit Source Water, first stabilized his mind with the Moon Memory Meditation Method, and then entered a brief period of tranquility with the soothing spell left by Susie.

Deep meditation!

In this situation, his body can recover very quickly.

Half an hour later, he went to practice shooting under the waterfall.

Practice Akahoshi in the morning.

In the afternoon, I practiced the Xuan Yin breathing technique and the Great Thunder Sound breathing method.

He read books at night, processed the intelligence reports sent by Rhodes, recorded changes in his body, and then underwent a final round of tempering using the Bone Forging Iron Armor ascetic method.

The days were so monotonous they were almost cruel.

There was no banquet.

There was no fine wine.

There are no women.

There was no applause.

There was only the sound of water, the chill, the pain, the tip of the gun, and the long silence of reading one's breath after each failure.

The Brotherhood members gradually got used to the young master not showing his face.

Rhodes became the one who actually handled affairs in the mansion.

Kusso was in charge of training new gunmen, Reina was in charge of the intelligence network, and the South Warehouse, the old freight route, the dockside secret agents, and the patrol teams all began to operate according to fixed rules.

Occasionally, when a newly allied gang leader wanted to see Siren, Rhodes would simply tell them gently, "The young master is in training."

At first, some people didn't believe it.

They felt that the fraternity was deliberately putting on airs.

One night, a reckless black market broker, having accepted money from the Whisper Choir, attempted to sneak into the mansion's backyard to investigate.

He climbed over the wall and landed, then saw a light on in the training shed.

Under the lamp, Xilun stood between seven water tanks.

The water flowed suspended in mid-air, like seven transparent curved swords.

Before the man could even utter a sound, the water at his feet silently swirled around his throat, lifting him upside down.

The next morning, he was stripped naked and thrown at the entrance of the North District market, with a wooden sign hanging around his neck.

"Next time, what we'll send back is our heads."

Since then, no one has doubted whether Xilun is really still in the North District.

But he still rarely makes a move.

He devoted more time to spiritual practice.

Every ten days, he would travel to the Tusor family's residence to perform purification treatments on the corrupted knights, scouts, or physicians.

Tusol offered very generous compensation.

Contamination crystals, ancient medicine books, rare mineral powder, sealed aberrant biological tissues, and several loot lists from the Whispering Choir and the Scarlet Retreat.

Oin is always there.

He was always polite to Xilun, as if the two had never had a conflict.

They talked about treatment, pollution, order in the North District, and occasionally Austin's achievements on the front lines.

But no one mentioned the autumn hunt.

There was no mention of facilitating agents.

Xilun didn't ask, and Aoin didn't speak.

The two players were playing chess as if separated by a thin mist; each could see the other's hand, but could not see where the pieces would actually land.

By the third month, the Tusol family's pace of expansion had clearly accelerated.

The Whisper Choir's three secret chapels on the outskirts of the North District were dismantled, a secret potion supply line of the Scarlet Retreat Society was cut off, and a large number of low-ranking believers and apprentices were hanged outside the old warehouse.

That morning, the whole street was littered with corpses.

Tusol's double lion flag was planted atop the warehouse, its black and red face unfurled in the wind, below which was a row of nooses still dripping blood.

Residents passing by dared not look for long.

But when they took the detour, their steps were lighter than before.

Chaos is terrifying.

Order can also be frightening.

The former will randomly devour people, while the latter will at least tell you where the knife is first.

The North District is starting to get used to Tusol's presence.

A delicate balance exists between the aristocratic forces, the armed insurgents, and the Brotherhood.

Albert stopped frequently probing Siren, sending only two supplies and one secret letter.

The secret letter mentioned that the lower levels of the Third Charity Hospital had been cleared out by the armed insurgents and the church, but the "sick father" in the wheelchair had been moved ahead of time, leaving behind only a large number of failed experimental subjects and burned data.

The closed-eye crow symbol disappeared for a period of time.

After reading the letter, Xilun burned it to ashes and wrote down four words.

"I will come back."

The Black Death cult will not disappear just because one of its lairs has been destroyed.

As long as one madman is alive, that kind of organization will take root again in the gutter.

However, he doesn't have the energy to pursue them to the depths of the southern district right now.

His energy was consumed by more pressing matters.

At the end of the fifth month, under the waterfall.

The water was bone-chillingly cold in the depths of winter.

Icicles hang on the rock face, and when the water mist blows to the shore, it forms a thin layer of frost on the stone surface.

Xilun stood barefoot in the water, his golden spear hanging at an angle, his breath almost blending into the waterfall.

Lund stood on the shore, not cursing him as usual.

Because he sensed the difference.

The waterfall cascaded down on Siron's shoulders and back, but it didn't shake his body at all.

The chill emanating from his body was no longer just a sharp cold, but had become deep, heavy, and resilient, like an underground river buried beneath frozen soil.

Xilun closed his eyes and slowly inhaled.

This breath was very long.

The sound of the waterfall seemed to be drawn far away.

The chill entered the lungs through the mouth and nose, then penetrated the spine and reached every part of the body. Bones, fascia, flesh, and internal organs were all affected in the same instant.

A very thin layer of white frost appeared on his body.

The next moment, the white frost shattered.

A more concentrated chill burst forth from his pores, and the water droplets splashing around him condensed into tiny ice crystals in mid-air before being crushed by the roaring water flow.

[Successfully completed one breath control exercise. Mysterious Yin Breathing Technique experience +1!]

[Skill Advancement → Master Level!]

[Skill: Profound Yin Breathing Technique (Master Level)]

[Progress: 0/4000]

Xilun opened his eyes, and a cold moon seemed to sink into his eyes.

He felt no joy.

He simply looked down at his palm and slowly clenched his fist.

The power was not out of control.

There was no leakage of breath.

The chill, like a tamed beast, lay quietly deep within his body, waiting for him to give the thought to bite through his enemy's bones.

Lund finally spoke: "It's done?"

"It's done."

"How are you feeling?"

Xilun thought about it carefully: "More stable."

Lund smirked: "You broke through to a master-level breathing technique, and you only managed to utter two words?"

"It gets even colder."

"roll."

Xilun smiled.

The smile was brief, quickly obscured by the waterfall's mist.

Lund took two steps closer and examined him carefully: "Your physical body is almost at the second-tier extreme level."

Xilun nodded: "Almost."

"If you include all that nonsense you've got, you've already surpassed the average second-tier extreme realm."

Lund frowned. "What you really lack right now is not killing power, but a leap in life form across three levels."

Xilun plunged the golden spear into the water: "The 'Easy-to-Convert' potion is still missing two ingredients."

Lund paused for a moment: "Which two?"

"Lunar phase silver marrow, the slumbering fluid of the sleeping one."

Lund's brow furrowed even more deeply.

"They're all hard to find."

"Um."

"Tusol might have it."

Xilun looked at him.

Lund said coldly, "Don't look at me like that. The Tusol family has fought so many wars and wiped out so many polluted strongholds, it's not surprising that they have some rare things hidden in their warehouses. But you should think carefully, getting this kind of material from nobles won't be cheap."

"I know."

"That old dog Oin has been contacting you quite frequently lately?"

Once every ten days.

Lund sneered, "He's not looking for you, he's assessing you. Assessing your worth, your usefulness, and whether you'll get in the way."

Celen did not deny it.

The roar of the waterfall continued.

Lund looked up at the snow-capped mountaintop, his voice lower than before: "The autumn hunt is approaching."

"The autumn hunt in Tusol?"

"Hmm. Aristocratic tradition, a pack of beasts in finery, guns and hounds, going into the mountains to prove they still have ancestral blood," Lund scoffed, then added, "This year won't be peaceful."

"What did you hear?" Siron asked.

"Someone from the Ironblood Society mentioned that Tusor has recently been secretly mobilizing a group of his old subordinates, ostensibly for hunting ground security, but in reality, the personnel are overstaffed. Several retired officers have also suddenly returned to the main city; they all had connections to Oin's father's branch of the family in the past."

Xilun's eyes flickered slightly.

Lund looked at him: "Don't pretend you didn't understand."

"Oin is about to make a move."

"Very likely."

"What about Austin?"

"The front lines," Lund said. "It's too coincidental that the Northwest remnants of the Whispering Choir have suddenly become active and tied Austin up there."

Too many coincidences mean they are no longer coincidences.

Xiren recalled Oin's perpetually gentle face.

That person is indeed willing to wait.

They can also be ruthless.

"Are you planning to get involved?" Lund asked.

"I don't plan to."

Siron answered calmly.

Lund stared at him: "Really?"

"At least not now." Siren drew his golden spear. "The power struggle within Tusol won't immediately affect the Brotherhood, no matter who comes to power. Austin and I are friends, but not close enough for me to rush into the noble infighting for him."

Lund nodded: "That's a fairly clear-headed statement."

"However, things will get complicated if Oin uses the materials I need as leverage."

"Then let's look at the price."

Siren looked into the shadows behind the waterfall: "I can make trades, but I can't be tied to a war chariot."

Lund scoffed: "Many people think that way, only to find themselves sitting in a prison van, not a war chariot."

Xilun did not refute.

Of course he understands.

Therefore, he needs a second option.

"teacher."

"explain."

"Can the Ironblood Society help me find out about these two materials?"

Lund raised an eyebrow: "So you finally remember I'm still of some use?"

"You've always been very useful."

"Come on."

Lund cursed, but there was no anger in his eyes.

He patted the water droplets off his coat and turned to walk ashore: "I'll ask for you, but the Ironblood Society isn't a charity. Even if we have information, we'll have to exchange it for something."

"I have prepared the payment."

"Gold pounds?"

"Gold pounds, potions, pollution cleanup services, or intelligence on Tusol's recent loot."

Lund paused, turned to look at him: "You're becoming more and more of a proper bastard."

"Thanks."

I wasn't praising you.