Starting as dockworkers, they swept through Chongqing.

The disciples gradually dispersed; some discussed in hushed tones, some headed towards the training ground, while others were called back by their instructors for individual guidance.

Xilun did not leave immediately.

He stood still until the lecture hall was mostly empty before walking forward.

"Master Fowles"

Fowles was tidying up the lecture notes on the table when he heard the sound and looked up.

"Mr. Celen."

Both of them addressed each other very politely.

They were so polite, it was like there was a thin layer of ice between them.

"I benefited greatly from today's lecture," said Xilun.

Fowles said coldly, "If it's just a formality, we can skip it."

Xilun glanced at him.

That saves trouble.

"I want to stay at the Daewoo Dojo to cultivate for a while."

Fowles put down his lecture notes.

His hands were very steady.

"Inappropriate."

They refused without the slightest hesitation.

Xilun wasn't surprised: "The reason?"

"When a dojo accepts disciples, it doesn't just look at their rank."

Fowles said, "You have a complicated background and too many enemies: the Brotherhood, Tusol, the Armed Insurgents, the Black Death... I don't want these troubles to enter the Daewoo Dojo."

He paused.

"Besides, you're not the kind of person who'd be content to be a disciple."

Xilun calmly replied, "I can focus solely on my cultivation and not interfere in the affairs of the monastery."

Fowles looked at him.

There was no obvious hostility in those eyes, but there was also no warmth whatsoever.

"No need."

The air went still for a moment.

Xilun did not press the matter further.

"Then I would like to observe the breathing techniques used in the dojo."

Fowles looked away.

"Like everyone else, just pay up. The number of breathing techniques you can copy, even if it's only for the outer sect, depends on how much you pay. The inner sect's secret techniques are not for sale."

Xilun nodded.

This answer was expected.

He hesitated for a moment, then asked, "I wonder if it's possible to enter the Snow Mountain Wonderland?"

Fowles finally stopped moving.

He looked up.

For the first time, a hint of doubt flashed in his eyes.

"A snow-capped mountain wonderland?"

"Yes."

"The items within the wonderland are useless to you," Fowles said. "You are already a third-order aberrant. While that place might have some effect on lower-level disciples in tempering their muscles and bones and cleansing their disordered breathing, it is nothing more than a cold illusion for you."

Xilun said, "I cultivate ice-based techniques, and the environment is suitable for me. If I can use the extreme cold here to stabilize my body, it might be helpful."

Fowles narrowed his eyes.

He did not answer immediately.

The wind blew through the training ground outside the window, causing the iron rings to clink gently.

Ding.

Ding.

After a few sounds, Fowles turned and walked toward the cabinet by the wall.

The cabinet door opened, revealing several wooden boxes, several scrolls, and several tokens made of different materials.

He took out a black bronze token and placed it on the table.

"You are a knight appointed by the Church and the Empire, and a third-tier extraordinary being; you are qualified."

His voice remained indifferent. "Entry is permitted for seven days. Notify the deputy head before entering, and he will arrange for a gatekeeper."

Xiren picked up the token.

The token was heavy, with snow mountain patterns engraved on the front and the words "Da Yu" on the back.

Thank you.

Fowles said, "Within seven days, you must not damage the core of the wonderland, nor interfere with the disciples' trials. If you lose control inside, the dojo will handle it according to the rules."

"clear."

Xilun nodded slightly and turned to leave.

Stepping out of the room, I entered the corridor.

One side of the corridor has a half-open wooden window, and the other side displays portraits of the museum's past owners.

Sunlight was cut into segments by the windowpanes and fell on the ground, while dust particles floated in the light.

Xilun took a few steps, then suddenly stopped.

He didn't turn around.

The auricle twitched almost imperceptibly.

Listen from afar!

Echo!

After reaching the third rank, his perception became much sharper than before.

Moisture, vibration, and airflow can all serve as senses.

The faint sound of paper rubbing in the office was refracted through the walls and door cracks, reaching deep into his hearing.

Fowles did not continue tidying up the lecture notes.

He opened the drawer.

I took out a photo.

The photo is a bit old, with yellowed edges.

In Xilun's mind, images were constructed with the subtle sounds.

Fowles stood at the table, head down, examining the photograph. His finger lingered on a spot in the photo, motionless for a long time.

His breathing was heavy.

It felt like a stone was pressing on my chest.

"Risa..."

The voice was so low it was almost inaudible.

After a long silence, the paper was rubbed by fingertips, making a soft rustling sound.

When Fowles' voice rang out again, it had become hoarse.

"I will avenge you."

Xilun felt a slight chill run down his spine.

The next moment, Fowles' mutterings echoed through the office.

"But why did he choose to enter the snow-capped mountain scenery?"

There was doubt in the voice, as well as suppressed vigilance.

Xilun didn't listen anymore.

He continued walking forward.

His steps were very steady.

He only slowly exhaled after turning the corner of the corridor and leaving the light shining through the wooden window.

Fowles was indeed connected to Risa.

And it's not just an ordinary relationship.

The grudge was already there, but it was temporarily suppressed by his identity, strength, and the rules of the dojo.

The fact that Fowles didn't act immediately doesn't mean he won't.

A fourth-tier demon hunter guild master.

A grand cosmic dojo.

A spectacular snow-capped mountain scene.

If someone were to deliberately create an accident in a wonderland, it would be difficult for outsiders to discern.

Xilun put the black bronze token into his inner pocket.

A chill ran down my fingertips.

The more dangerous the place, the more likely it is to hide what he needs.

After leaving the backyard, he did not go directly to the deputy librarian, but instead went to the dojo's library as Fowles had instructed.

The library is located in a low building on the east side.

There was a faint smell of mildew and paper ink inside the building. An old administrator wearing round glasses sat at the door. When he saw the token and the banknotes handed over by Xilun, he only raised his eyelids slightly.

"The third-tier area is on the second floor, and the organizational documents are in the metal cabinet on the right. Copying will be charged separately, and damage will be compensated tenfold."

Thank you.

Xilun went upstairs.

The second floor was dimly lit, with narrow windows, but the bookshelves were very densely packed.

The books here lack the aristocratic atmosphere of the Link family mansion; most are rough and sturdy, their covers polished smooth by many hands.

He first practiced the third-stage breathing method.

Iron Stone Spinal Method.

"The Battle of Red Furnace"

"White Ape Muscle Sound Technique".

"The Technique of Cutting Through the Lungs and Intestines by Wind".

As he looked through each door, Xilun's brow remained furrowed.

These methods are all valuable.

Some focus on defense, some on burst damage, some on building strong muscles, and some on speed.

If he were still a regular Tier 2 player, any one of these books would be worth the huge cost.

But now, what he needs is not icing on the cake.

Rather, it is a core method that can be combined with the Xuan Yin Breathing Technique and the remnants of the Great Thunder Sound.

He continued searching.

Until a thin book with a dark blue cover appeared in the corner.

Breath of the Styx.

The pages were cold.

It wasn't the extraordinary materials that caused the coldness, but rather the fact that the text itself had recorded too many cold and gloomy cultivation experiences, and the paper had been repeatedly soaked in medicinal liquid, leaving behind a cold smell like rotten wood.

Xilun turned to the first page.

Refine the cold air, absorb the hidden wind, let it sink into the lungs and viscera, and then release it through the mouth and nose.

This breath is cold and piercing, entering the body like an illness, corroding muscles and bones, and disrupting the five senses.

One breath can cause the enemy to feel cold blood, blurred vision, tinnitus, stiff tongue, and bone pain.

Xilun's eyes flickered slightly.

Let's continue reading.

The Breath of the Styx is not difficult to master; all you need is an extremely cold environment, extraordinary materials of the ethereal and frigid type, and sufficiently strong lungs.

The difficulty lies in its profoundness. The further you go, the higher the requirements become for breathing rhythm, mental stability, and the quality of the feeling of coldness.

When one cultivates to a high level, one's breath is no longer just cold, but like blowing the lifeless river water into the body of a living person.

It is not as ornate as some noble secret arts.

It also doesn't require thousands of pounds of materials.

Extremely cold environment.

A chilly breeze blows.

Extraordinary materials of the cold and gloomy type.

These requirements are still expensive for ordinary Tier 3s, but not unaffordable for Xilun.

Especially the spectacular snow-capped mountains.

Xilun gently closed the book.

This method was like a knife placed in front of him.

Sharp, insidious, and not exactly honorable, but it suits him perfectly now.

He put the book aside and went to look through the organizational documents.

The Black Death Cult.

The materials preserved by Daewoo Dojo are incomplete, and many parts are just excerpts and hearsay.

Compassionate Physicians Association.

The Third Charity Hospital.

The emblem of closed eyes.

Lesion, bearing, sacred bone, mother nest.

Xilun turned to an old file.

The record states that an unusual plague occurred in a port city more than a decade ago.

Infected individuals experience high fever, coughing up blood, irregular subcutaneous lumps, localized limb hyperplasia, and rapid decomposition of their bodies after death, leading to large-scale rat infestations.

Official records refer to it as "slum disease," which ended with the burning of the neighborhood.

Beside that page were hastily written annotations by someone who had come before.

Suspected of being artificially cultivated.

Xilun's fingertips stopped.

Artificial cultivation.

He recalled the brown medicine bottles distributed by the Third Charitable Hospital, the rotten, sweet black liquid seeping from the cracks in the pharmacy door, the sacred relics in the Old St. Mary's Bell Tower, and the "benign legacy" in Lund's father's bloodline.

The Black Death Cult is conducting experiments.

They are not simply spreading death.

They are screening.

Select people who can withstand pollution, who can survive disease, and who can become a kind of container.

So, is the plague itself a tool?

Or is it a product?

Xilun continued turning over for a long time.

The more I looked, the colder his expression became.

The Black Death cult is not a gathering of lunatics.

They are disciplined, hierarchical, possess medical knowledge, have aristocratic funds, peripheral hospitals and pharmacies, and have means to control their members.

What's even more frightening is that they seem willing to spend decades waiting for an experiment to mature.

This kind of patience is more unsettling than the bloodshed itself.

Before dusk, Xilun copied down "The Breath of the Styx".

The cost is 500 pounds.

The administrator glanced at him as he collected the money.

"Five hundred pounds, just to buy a book on obscure law?"

"Unpopular?"

"People have died from practicing this." The old man pushed up his glasses. "If someone's internal organs aren't strong enough, they'll be the first to get sick if they practice it. There was once a second-stage extreme cultivator who didn't believe in this, and after three months, the breath he exhaled could freeze the rim of a cup. He also coughed until his lungs shattered."

Xilun put away the copy.

"Thanks for reminding me."

The old man said no more.

When I left the library, the area outside the temple was already bustling with activity.

After the martial arts training ended, many disciples flocked to the street food stalls in groups of three or five.

The aromas of hot soup, roasted meat, and medicinal wine mingled together, adding a touch of life to the streets after a cold morning.

But Xilun walks slowly.

He noticed rats on the street corner.

More than one.

Abnormally obese.

They scurried past the drainage ditch, their fur glossy and their tails trailing in the dirty water, yet they were not afraid of people.

A pancake vendor kicked the rat, which scurried away a few steps before turning back to gnaw on the crumbs on the ground.

It's not surprising to find rats in the suburbs.

What's strange is the quantity.

And those homeless people.

In the past, many homeless people would huddle against the walls of open spaces near the temple and in the suburbs, waiting for leftover food from taverns and discarded medicinal residue from the temple. But today, there are far fewer of them.

The remaining few had ashen faces, their coughs muffled and muffled, like broken bellows.

They were wrapped in tattered blankets, and their exposed wrists had several protrusions, with what looked like wriggling lumps hidden under the skin.

A homeless man leaned against the wall, his forehead burning hot and his lips chapped.

Someone nearby whispered words of advice to him.

"How about we go to the homeless camp... I heard they have free food and beds."

"A bed?" The sick man coughed, bending over. "Could they be lying?"

"What are you lying about? What else could we possibly be lying about?"

Another skinny guy chimed in, "I heard last night that there are lots of rats in the sewers, so fat they could be sold for money. Before we go to camp, we should catch a bag and exchange them for some liquor."

The group chuckled softly.

The laughter was quickly interrupted by coughing.

Xilun walked past them without stopping.

But he detected a very faint, sweet, rotten smell.

It's very shallow.

Mixed in with coal smoke, sweat odor, and hot soup, it was almost indistinguishable.

But he remembered the taste.

Old St. Mary's Bell Tower.

The Third Charity Hospital's partner pharmacy.

Black liquid medicine.

Xilun's eyes darkened.

Without alerting anyone, he hired a carriage along the street and headed to the southern suburbs.

Lund's old house remains dilapidated.

The courtyard gate was half-closed, and the branches of the old tree swayed in the wind. Saiwei was tidying up the cloths drying in the yard. When he saw Xilun, his expression first lit up with joy, but then quickly became complicated.

"Young Master Xilun."

"Is the teacher here?"

"exist."

Saiwei stepped aside.

Inside the room, Lund sat at the table.

There was no map or copper plates on the table, only a cup of tea that had gone cold.

He looks thinner than last time.

His left shoulder drooped slightly, and his cough was suppressed in his chest, like a wisp of ash that had not yet been extinguished.

"Did you go to the Daewoo Dojo?" Lund asked.

"I've gone."

Xilun sat down and briefly recounted what had happened.

Fowles.

Military training.

The library.

Breath of the Styx.

The magnificent snow-capped mountains.

Lund frowned when he mentioned the old photograph of Fowles.

"Does he hold a grudge?"

"At least I haven't forgotten."

"Then be careful," Lund said. "There are rules in the dojo, but that doesn't mean the rules will always protect you. The older the place, the more likely they are to make an accident look like an accident."

Xilun nodded: "I know."

Lund picked up his tea, took a sip, and realized it was already cold.

Saiwei wanted to switch, but he waved his hand and refused.

The room was quiet for a moment.

Lund suddenly said, "I plan to leave for a while."

Xilun looked up.

"Where to?"

"Outside."

"How far?"

"It's not decided yet."

This is not how Lund usually speaks.

If he truly has a clear plan, he will usually explain the route, risks, and escape routes in detail.

The more ambiguous he is now, the more it shows that he has decided to keep it a secret.

Xilun looked at him.

"The Black Death Cult?"

Lund chuckled: "You're starting to think of the Black Death in everything you do now."

"Because all the recent troubles ultimately point to them."

"Perhaps it's just about an old friend." Lund put down his teacup. "I owed some money when I was young, and now I want to go and see."

Xilun remained silent.

He could sense that Lund didn't want him to ask further questions.

You can also sense that behind this "don't want to" lies a deep weariness and resolve.

"When are you leaving?"

"Seven days later."

Xilun frowned slightly.

"So fast?"

"When you get old, you can't afford to delay."

Saiwei stood to the side, his fingers gripping his apron so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

Xilun glanced at her, then looked at Lund.

Lund's expression was excessively calm.