Starting as dockworkers, they swept through Chongqing.

Xilun lowered the curtains.

The carriage was a bit dark.

Rhodes saw it too, his expression darkening slightly: "Do we need to touch this line?"

"Don't move now."

"They are continuing to dispense the medication."

"I know."

Xilun's voice was very flat.

The Third Charitable Hospital in the South District is not the old St. Mary's Clock Tower.

The clock tower is like exposed rotten flesh; it can be smashed to pieces with a single shot.

Hospitals are like needles stuck in the blood vessels of a city; if you pull them out too quickly, they will implicate a whole host of people.

Pharmacists' associations, charitable foundations, police stations, donations from the nobility, and medicine bottles used by the poor to survive.

This is the most disgusting aspect of the Black Death cult.

They disguised poison as a life-saving measure, and set up their experimental table on the hopes of the poor.

Xilun closed his eyes, and he could almost hear the dull, churning sound from under the clock tower again.

Mother nest.

Ailing father.

Sacred bones.

And there was Lund's father's old copper piece.

These things are getting closer.

But tonight, he has to face Tusol first.

The carriage continued on its way.

Most of the shops on both sides of the old armory street were closed, with muskets, sabers, cavalry armor plates, and old spurs that had been repaired many times hanging behind the iron fences.

This used to be a favorite street for retired officers and mercenaries.

Now, however, the Tusol Guards can be seen patrolling.

Three motorcyclists stopped at the street corner, one of them inspecting a coal truck.

The driver bent down and handed over the pass, his hands trembling violently.

The knight read it but did not return it to him.

He just casually tossed it into the mud.

The driver froze for a moment, then immediately knelt down to pick it up.

The knight looked down at him as if he were a dirty tool that had rolled to his feet.

Rod's brow furrowed even more deeply.

Siren said calmly, "Write it down."

"Whom should I remember?"

"The knight's face."

Rhodes glanced at Xilen.

Xilun offered no explanation.

Some people are now trampling on other people's access passes.

I might cross my own line in the future.

Just remember that.

After the carriage left the market, the road suddenly widened.

The noble horse path was paved with black stone and lined with holly and dwarf cypress trees, their branches and leaves trimmed into neat walls.

The streetlights are brighter and closer together, and behind the iron fences stand mansions one after another, their windows emitting a warm yellow light.

The fog here seems cleaner than in the north.

The smell of coal smoke faded, replaced by the aroma of damp grass, hay from the stables, and stewing meat from the distant kitchen.

Same city, two different atmospheres.

After changing into a black tuxedo, Xiren's demeanor became even more somber.

The dress fit snugly against the shoulders and back without being tight; the black fabric absorbed the dim light in the carriage, with only a touch of very restrained silver on the cufflinks and lapel pin.

Rod paused for a moment as he straightened his collar.

Xilun's eyes trembled as he pondered.

He suddenly realized that the teacher he relied on also seemed to be in some kind of danger.

Xilun didn't like this feeling.

A strong sense of danger.

He suddenly realized that the person who had been standing behind him, watching over his escape route, had also been added to the headhunting list by an unseen hand.

But Lund won't hide.

Just as Siren won't turn around tonight because of Tusol's defenders.

The carriage slowly came to a stop.

The coachman's voice came from outside: "Sir, the outer gate of Tusol Manor is just ahead."

Rod got off the bus first.

Xilun then stepped onto the stone slab.

A cold wind blew in from the direction of the manor, carrying the scents of pine resin, damp soil, and ironware maintenance oil.

The Tusol family's estate in the North District was not their main residence, but it was still incredibly large.

The outer wall is made of gray and white stone blocks, with withered vines climbing up the top. Every so often there is an iron lamp on the top of the wall, with the lampshade carved into the shape of thorns wrapped around a spear.

Four guards stood on either side of the gate.

Crimson and black riding attire, gleaming shoulder armor, clean gloves, and a long spear held at an angle.

They didn't shout or deliberately make a menacing appearance.

Just by standing there, he kept ordinary carriages at bay.

Inside the gate, a straight driveway can be seen, leading to the brightly lit main building at the end of the driveway.

The roof is steep, the windows are narrow, and stone animal heads lie on the eaves, with rain dripping from their mouths like silent black eyes.

Rhodes handed the invitation to the doorman.

After the attendant's inspection, his gaze lingered on Xilun for a brief moment.

"Mr. Siren, the Third Elder is already waiting in the main building."

Rod immediately prepared to follow.

The attendant reached out to stop him.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Celen is the only guest invited to tonight's banquet."

Rod's expression remained unchanged: "I am the young master's butler."

"The butler can wait in the outer hall."

The attendant spoke politely, but did not lower his hand.

A guard next to him glanced over.

That glance was very faint.

But the air temperature seemed to have dropped.

Xilun raised his hand.

Rhodes took a half step back.

"Wait outside."

Rod whispered, "Young Master."

"Remember the soles."

Rod immediately understood.

Mrs. Martha's reminder during the day was more than just idle chatter.

The soles of the servants' shoes reveal where they have been.

The kitchen was covered in grease, the stables were covered in hay, the basement was covered in black soil, and the patrol path on the exterior wall was covered in lime powder.

The more a manor tries to hide its secrets, the less it can conceal what it brings back from its grounds.

Rhodes lowered his head: "Yes."

Xiren walked through the gate alone.

The iron gate slowly closed behind them.

The voice was deep.

It's like a road being cut off.

A servant stood every ten steps on either side of the road.

They wore matching black uniforms, with the Tussol family crest pinned to their chests, and carried lanterns, bowing their heads to greet guests.

Xilun is not moving fast.

He noticed that the first servant's shoes had wet mud on the soles; he was a patrolman from the outer courtyard.

The second-place shoe sole was clean, but had fine white powder on it, as if it came from a side corridor paved with lime.

A small piece of dry grass was hanging from the heel of the third-place shoe.

Stable.

The fourth shoe had dark oil stains on the edge of the sole, which looked more like maintenance oil used in a gun room than kitchen oil.

The manor mobilized weapons tonight.

Xilun looked away.

The steps in front of the main building are very wide, with a stone knight statue standing on each side of the steps.

The knight's visor was lowered, his hands resting on his lance, the tip of which was touching the ground.

Rainwater accumulated in the crevices of the stone carving, and when the light shone on it, it looked like cold tears.

The foyer was warm and bright.

Crystal chandeliers hung down in layers of brilliance, the carpet was so thick it could swallow the sound of footsteps, and the walls were covered with portraits of Tussor family members throughout history.

Some of those people were wearing military uniforms, some were wearing hunting clothes, some had their hands on long swords, and some were standing beside warhorses.

Every face carried a similar arrogance.

It's not ostentatious arrogance.

It is not the calm of being certain that one is born to be entitled to sit above others.

A young man came up from the stairs to greet him.

He was in his early twenties, with neatly combed golden-brown hair. His features inherited the sharp contours of the Tussol family, but his eyes were brighter than Oin's and more unable to conceal his emotions.

Oro.

Oin's son.

When he saw Xilun, he first gave a polite smile.

"Mr. Sir Lun, I have long admired your name."

"Mr. Oro."

The two shook hands.

Oro's palms were warm, and his knuckles had calluses from gunshots.

He did not test him forcefully.

This made Sirendo glance at him.

Auro noticed the glance and his smile deepened slightly: "My father said that a truly polite person would not treat the first handshake as a duel."

"Your father is right."

Oro stepped aside: "Please."

They passed through the foyer and walked along the corridor inside.

Hunting rifles and animal heads hung on the walls of the corridor, and red thorns were embroidered along the edges of the carpet.

Every so often, a guard stood in the shadows.

These people were breathing steadily, their eyes were focused, and their fingers were always close to their weapons.

It's not just for show.

They weren't ordinary nursing staff either.

Xilun even sensed a faint second-tier aura from one of them.

Tusol kept the knife very close to him tonight.

Oro seemed oblivious, saying as he walked, "Father originally intended to greet you personally, but there are still several guests sent by the elders in the front hall, so we have to deal with them first."

"A lot of guests?"

"Not many," Auro laughed, "but some guests are more troublesome one person than ten."

This was said very softly.

Like complaining.

It's also like delivering a message.

Xilun did not answer.

Oro glanced at him, his heart sinking slightly.

Father is right.

This person is difficult to be swayed by the enthusiasm of young people, and also difficult to be led astray by casual suggestions.

Unlike ordinary Tier 2 Extraordinary individuals, he would always tense up a little when he saw the guards, coat of arms, corridors, and ancestral portraits of Tusol Manor. Even if he tried to hide it well, his breathing and eyes would reveal it.

Weston does not.

He walked here as if he were walking on a strange but measurable street.

They can observe and remember, but they don't look up to others.

This kind of person is annoying.

It's also very useful.

Oro pushed open the side door of the banquet hall.

A warm fragrance wafts towards you.

Silver candlesticks, long tables, fresh flowers, roasted venison, red wine, fireplaces, and a group of people talking in hushed tones.

Oin stood by the fireplace, talking to an old man with white hair.

He was wearing a dark gray tuxedo tonight, with few medals on his chest, only an old pocket watch chain.

Hearing the door open, Oin turned around.

His smile was gentle, like that of a truly dignified aristocratic elder.

"Mr. Siren, you've arrived."

Several pairs of eyes fell on him at the same time in the banquet hall.

scrutiny, curiosity, vigilance, and contempt.

Xilun stepped into the light.

He did not bow his head.

They didn't speed up their pace either.

The black dress clung quietly to her body, like the night entering the firelight of a nobleman from outside the street.

"Elder Oin."

Xilun stopped at a suitable distance and nodded slightly.

Thank you for the invitation.

Oin looked at him, a barely perceptible hint of satisfaction rising in his eyes.

The old lady was right during the day.

The door to Tusol's house is very high.

But the young man did not bow his head when he entered.

The fire in the banquet hall was burning very brightly.

Above the fireplace hangs a huge oil painting depicting an ancestor of the Tussor family standing on a snowy plain, a spear piercing the throat of a giant white wolf.

Wolf blood stained the snow, but the ancestor did not look at the prey; instead, he looked beyond the painting.

Those eyes were painted with an extremely cold expression.

It's like scrutinizing everyone who stands in front of the fireplace.

Xilun could sense that there were at least four second-tier extraordinary individuals in the banquet hall.

Two people, dressed in fine clothes, sat on the right side of the long table, like distant relatives.

A slender man stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, holding a wine glass in his hand, his gaze fixed on the area near Xilun's left flank.

There was another one, the old knight with the diagonal scar whom I had seen on the street during the day.

He wasn't wearing his guards' riding attire, but instead a black dress uniform with an old military medal hanging on his chest.

Even so, he stood there like a lance sheathed in its sheath.

The old knight also saw Xilun.

Their eyes met briefly.

There was no hostility.

But there was no goodwill involved.

It's more like two scouts on a battlefield spotting each other through the fog, neither making a move, but silently memorizing each other's positions.

Oin came over in person.

"Tonight is just a family dinner, Mr. Celen, please don't be shy."

Xilun glanced at the guests on both sides of the long table.

Family dinner.

There were twelve guests, seven servants, six guards, and four second-tier soldiers, two of whom were not direct descendants of Oin.

If such a family dinner is considered relaxed, then the breakfast at the Tussor family's house could probably determine the life or death of several people.

"I will try my best to get used to it."

O'In smiled. "Many young people in Victoria, when they enter an aristocratic banquet hall for the first time, always focus on the chandeliers, the silverware, and the surnames. You are different."

"I saw the Guards marching through the streets during the day."

"How do you feel?"

"Very neat."

Oin looked at him: "Just neatness?"

"And it's expensive."

Several pairs of eyes in the banquet hall shifted slightly.

Oro almost burst out laughing, but immediately held it back.

Oin actually laughed.

"Good answer. It is indeed much more expensive to maintain a capable guard than to maintain a group of relatives who only recite poetry in salons."

A middle-aged nobleman standing nearby stiffened.

He seemed to be one of Oin's relatives; upon hearing this, he dared not refute it and could only lower his head and drink.

Xilen noticed this detail.

O'In was not just joking.

Every word he spoke in the banquet hall was like pushing a chess piece to a specific position.

The fact that the mocked relatives dared not speak indicates that Oin's power in this manor had surpassed that of most of the collateral branches.

But he still needed the banquet.

This means there are still some things that are not fully grasped.

"Please sit down."

Oin led Siren to the third seat on the left side of the long table.

This position is very delicate.

Not the guest of honor or the head of the table, but close to O'Indone.

It gives sufficient respect without making others feel that Xilun is being overrated.

Xilun sat down.

A servant stepped forward to pour wine.

He glanced down at it.

The servant's shoes had clean soles, but the edges had very fine black powder on them.

Powdered coal.

It's not a kitchen, it's an underground boiler room.

The main building has increased its heating tonight.

Or, to put it another way, there are people active underground who need the boiler to keep running to mask certain sounds and temperature changes.

Xilun took the glass, but didn't drink it.

O'In seemed not to see it.

The banquet began naturally.

The appetizers were smoked fish, cold cuts, and pickled cucumbers.

Then came thick soup, roasted venison, mashed potatoes, and pear stewed in red wine.

The conversation began with the fighting on the front lines.

A collateral nobleman praised Chief Austin's victory in the Northwest, saying that he was indeed the sharpest spear of the Tussor family in this generation.

Oin listened with a gentle smile.

"Auston is indeed excellent."

He spoke calmly.

"He is young, decisive, and brave, and it's a good thing that he can win honor for the family on the front lines."

The nobleman from the collateral branch breathed a sigh of relief and immediately continued to praise.

Ke Xilun noticed that Oro's fingers tightened slightly as he held the knife and fork.

The old knight's eyelids drooped slightly.

When Oinqua Austin was there, there was not a trace of sarcasm or weirdness.

It is precisely because it lacks something that it is more like a knife hidden in its sheath.

He admitted that Austin was sharp.

But a family cannot only be sharp.

On the other side of the long table, an elderly man with white hair suddenly said, "After the great victory at the front, the autumn hunt will probably be even more lively. If Chief Austin can return before the autumn hunt, the main house will be very happy."

The banquet hall fell silent for a moment.

Oin scooped up a spoonful of the thick soup.

"The war situation is still undecided; whether or not to return depends on military orders."

"But the autumn hunt is a family tradition," the white-haired old man said. "It's not appropriate without the clan leader present."

Oin looked up at him.

The smile is still there.

"Tradition is meant to ensure the continuation of the family line, not to drag the family into the grave with tradition."

The white-haired old man's expression changed slightly.

The temperature in the air seemed to drop a little.