Starting as dockworkers, they swept through Chongqing.

"I have some things to take care of these next few days," Lund said. "Don't stay here anymore. Find somewhere else. Come see me in seven days."

Xilun did not speak immediately.

It feels like there's a void somewhere inside me.

He knew many people in Victoria.

Rhodes, Rena, Kusso, Yuri, Daisy, Albert, Oin.

Among these people are subordinates, allies, trading partners, and enemies.

The only person I could truly call an acquaintance was Lund.

Having come all the way from the club, this mild-mannered, protective old marksman is almost one of the few remaining connections he has with the past.

Now this thread is suddenly being pulled away.

The world suddenly felt much emptier.

Xilun whispered, "Teacher, I'm already at the third level."

"I know."

"Some things, you don't have to bear alone."

Lund looked at him with a gentle gaze.

"Of course I know you're already at level three."

He paused for a moment, then said, "That's why I'm relieved."

That sounds like a comforting statement.

But this only intensified the unease in Xilun's heart.

He didn't ask any more questions in the end.

Because if Lund doesn't want to talk, forcing him to talk will only put both of them in an ugly position.

"it is good."

Siren stood up. "I'll come in seven days."

Lund nodded.

"Go."

Xilun walked to the door and paused.

He looked back.

Lund sat in the dimly lit room, his face expressionless.

Saiwei stood behind him, hesitant to speak, a deep sadness welling up in his eyes.

At that moment, Xilun really wanted to ask a question.

What exactly are you hiding from me?

But he swallowed the words back down his throat.

He simply said, "Teacher, I'm leaving."

Lund paused for a moment.

He then laughed and cursed, "Get lost."

Xilun pushed open the door and left.

It's very cold outside.

The door behind me closed, shutting out the light inside.

Xilun walked along the alley, went quite a distance, and then looked back once more.

The old courtyard was as quiet as a small grave in the mist.

inside the house.

Saiwei finally spoke.

"Young Master, are you really planning to let Young Master Xilun live alone?"

Lund did not answer.

After a long silence, he finally said, "Can I take care of him for the rest of my life?"

Savi remained silent for a moment.

The sound was so soft it seemed to shatter.

"So you're just going to leave me all alone?"

Lund's fingers trembled slightly.

He didn't look at her.

"You'll get used to it."

Saiwei's eyes reddened, and he turned and went into the inner room.

The curtain swayed.

Lund sat alone at the table.

Dusk gradually crept up the walls.

He looked at the old gun by the wall and suddenly realized how small the room was.

It was too small to contain his father's admonitions, his mother's teachings, the housekeeper's care, or his master's transmission of skills, nor could it contain all the regrets he had refusing to admit throughout his life.

"I have already let down my parents, my housekeeper, and my master."

He muttered to himself.

The sound was carried away by the wind.

"I only hope that this time, I can live up to my students' expectations."

He slowly raised his head.

The turbidity in his eyes faded, leaving only a cold glint like the edge of an old gun.

"As his teacher, I'll help him one last time."

As night fell into the underground of the South District, Victoria seemed to transform.

The filth, shrouded in soot and fog during the day, becomes even clearer at night.

Rotten vegetable leaves floated in the drainage ditch, moldy sacks were piled up in the corner, and rats scurried between the bricks, occasionally letting out a few sharp gnawing sounds.

To the southeast of the Third Charity Hospital, there is an abandoned chapel.

The chapel roof was half collapsed, the cross was crooked, the stained glass windows were covered with black cloth, and only a dim yellow oil lamp remained at the entrance to the basement.

The basement is very deep.

The stone steps were damp, and with each step down, the rotten, sweet smell in the air grew stronger.

In the lobby on the ground floor, there was a long table.

Seven people were sitting at the table.

They were all wearing masks.

Some masks resembled a doctor's beak, some looked like a faceless wax mask, and some had only a closed eye carved on the forehead.

A glass jar was placed in the center of the table.

The jar contained a dark red liquid, and a lump of flesh-like substance floated in the liquid.

It contracts gently from time to time, like an undeveloped heart, or like an embryo curled up in its mother's womb.

With each contraction, fine water droplets condense on the edge of the glass tank.

A man in a bird-beak mask whispered, "How much longer?"

The faceless mask opposite opened the record book.

"If it's just a common pathogen, it can enter the second stage in three days. But if we want to cultivate a true source of plague, it's not enough."

"What's missing?"

"A fresh and unique bloodline."

The basement fell silent.

The oil lamp flame flickered slightly.

Someone said, "After the failure at the Old St. Mary's Bell Tower, we lost too many samples. Siren has advanced to the third tier and is no longer easy to capture. Lund is also becoming increasingly dangerous."

"Danger does not mean it cannot be done."

The man in the bird-beak mask spoke calmly, "We've waited for over twenty years, not to stop at the door."

The other person opened a file.

A blurry photograph was pasted on the paper.

The man in the photo is much younger, with sharp features, and his left arm is not injured.

He stood at the edge of an underground boxing ring, with a chaotic scene behind him, only the outline of the spear in his hand was clear.

"Lund, son of Roy George."

The faceless mask slowly said, "Bloodline confirmation is over 70%. The old member's residual blood has a stable life lineage, high tolerance to pollution, and strong mental resilience. If the body is intact, it can serve as the first vessel for the source of the plague."

"His strength is extraordinary." Someone reminded him, "A third-tier spearman, even with serious old injuries, is not comparable to those street urchins."

The person wearing the bird-beak mask looked at the glass tank.

"If his body is necessary, then he will have no room to resist."

After those words were spoken, no one in the basement objected.

It's not that they haven't seen strong people before.

Even the strong get sick.

It also breathes.

They also need water, food, sleep, and things to worry about.

And concern is often more effective than poison.

The faceless mask asked again, "Where is Xilun?"

"Don't move for now," said the man in the bird-beak mask. "He just advanced to the third rank, and all the forces are watching him. Tusor, the Armed Insurgents, the Great Yu Dojo, the Brotherhood... If we touch him now, it's like lighting a lamp for everyone."

"But he had already noticed the pharmacy and the homeless camp."

"Let him notice."

The man in the bird-beak mask tapped the tabletop lightly with his fingertips.

"Just because one person sees Mars doesn't mean they can stop the whole city from burning."

The meat chunks in the glass tank shrank again.

The dark red liquid rippled in concentric circles.

The emblem with closed eyes seemed to come alive in the lamplight.

On the same night.

After leaving Lund's old compound, Siren neither returned to the Brotherhood mansion nor went to the South District outpost.

He suddenly didn't want to go back to any place that belonged to him.

The mansion contained reports from Rhodes, the awe of the Brotherhood members, maps, ledgers, informants, and patrol arrangements.

The base still held the lingering warmth of cheers, and the barely audible excitement of Yuri and the gunmen.

None of these are home.

He didn't care before.

In Victoria, he stayed at the Brotherhood mansion, the Link family guest room, Lund’s hard bed, and the icy pool in the abandoned mine.

Those who survive shouldn't be picky about their beds.

But tonight is different.

Lund's words, "Don't stay here," were like a hand gently pushing him out of a dilapidated house.

No force was used.

But it's enough to make someone stand in the wind.

Xilun walked through two streets, and the night fog grew thicker and thicker.

He had seven or eight hundred pounds of cash on him.

By Victoria’s downtown standards, this was a huge sum of money that would tempt many people to take risks.

But standing under the streetlamp, looking at the flickering light inside the lampshade, he looked like a lonely, destitute vagrant.

Money can buy rooms, food, weapons, and breathing techniques.

He couldn't buy a lamp that would make someone wait for him to come home.

Xilun gave a self-deprecating twitch at the corner of his mouth.

This feeling is unfamiliar.

It's also useless.

He continued walking forward.

When we reached the outside of an abandoned warehouse, our pace suddenly slowed down.

Someone was following him.

two.

The distance wasn't close, and the movements were fairly clean.

If it were an ordinary Tier 2, they would likely just mistake him for a homeless person or a drunkard at night. But Xilun was already Tier 3, and the moisture in the mist was his eyes.

Twenty-seven steps to the left rear, by the wall.

On the right-hand side of the alley, under the low eaves.

The two of them were breathing very softly, but their heartbeats were a little fast.

They are not Tusol's guards.

The guards have a harder gait and a noticeable feeling of weight on their shoulders and back.

It doesn't seem like a fraternity operation.

The Brotherhood wouldn't leave such a stupid blind spot behind him.

Xilun turned into an unlit alley.

There was standing water in the alley, and the brick walls were slippery. In the distance, one could hear the sounds of a drunkard vomiting and a woman's shrill laughter.

He walked to the middle of the alley and stopped.

The footsteps behind them stopped.

Xilun raised his hand.

A puddle on the ground silently split into two lines, meandering along the base of the wall.

The next moment, a muffled groan came from the left wall.

The waterline wrapped around the man's ankle and was suddenly pulled.

Before the other person could even utter a sound, Xilun had already taken a step closer, pressing his fingers against the man's Adam's apple, the chill penetrating his skin.

The second person reacted quickly, turning and running away.

Instead of rushing to his companion's rescue, he bit directly into the inside of his mouth.

Xilun's eyes turned cold.

The water vapor in the alley suddenly condensed into ice needles.

Snapped!

The ice needle was injected into the man's jaw.

His teeth were forced apart, and he failed to break the venom sac hidden in his molars. At the same time, a stream of water sprang up from the puddles, wrapped around his wrist, and slammed him against the wall.

After two muffled thuds, the alleyway fell silent again.

With one in each hand, Xiren dragged the two into deeper shadows.

They wore tattered work clothes, their faces were pale, and there were faint marks of closed eyes on the inside of their cuffs. Underneath their skin were fine bluish-black lines, like necrotic blood vessels.

One of them even tried to bite his tongue.

Xilun raised a finger and touched his chin, the chill freezing his muscles.

"Who are you people?"

The two of them stared intently at him.

His eyes were lifeless.

Not a word.

It's not about being tough.

It's more like they were already trained to know that talking is useless, and that death is an easier choice.

Xilun crouched down.

"Are you monitoring my location?"

They remained silent.

"The Black Death Cult?"

Both of their pupils contracted slightly at the same time.

enough.

Xilun stretched out his hands and pressed them against the forehead of one of them.

The chill did not seep into the flesh and blood, but rather probed very subtly along the fluctuations of the mind.

His hypnotic abilities were not as refined as those of professional mentalists, but after reaching the third level, his mental core was more stable, enough to suppress the consciousness of an outer member for a short period of time.

The person being held down first trembled violently.

His eyes then became unfocused.

Xiren whispered, "Who are you?"

"Number... Gray Seventeen".

His voice was hoarse, as if it were being squeezed out from a dry, cracked throat.

"What organization?"

"Holy Origin Black Death Cult".

Sheng Yuan?

Xilun's eyes flickered slightly.

He had never heard of this prefix before.

"Who sent you?"

"Send a message."

"Where is the messenger?"

"Wandering..."

Just as he finished speaking, the man's throat suddenly swelled up.

It's not a cough.

It's like something under the skin suddenly swelled up.

Xilun immediately withdrew and retreated.

Gray Seventeen's pupils constricted sharply, the whites of his eyes rolled back, and blackish-red foam gushed from his nostrils and the corners of his mouth. His chest felt as if it were being torn open from the inside, and a faint cracking sound of bones breaking could be heard.

He stopped breathing in less than three breaths.

The other person stared wide-eyed in horror.

"You can hypnotize..."

That fear is not of death.

It's not so much the fear of having their secrets exposed.

He started gritting his teeth too.

Xilun reached out and pinched his chin, attempting hypnosis again.

But this time, as soon as the mind was touched, a certain restriction under the other party's brow was like gunpowder that had been ignited.

His body stiffened abruptly.

The bluish-black lines under the skin spread rapidly.

First it started on the neck, then the cheeks, and finally spread to the corners of the eyes.

"Saint..."

He seemed to want to say something.

He only managed to utter one word before he died.

The alleyway was filled with the sweet smell of fermented bean curd.

Xilun did not approach immediately.

He conjured a thin layer of ice to cover the two corpses, insulating them from the splashing liquid, and then crouched down to examine them.

Their bodies were decaying at an abnormal rate.

The skin collapsed like wet paper, and black pus seeped out from under the flesh.

The pus contained tiny particles that slowly wriggled under the stimulation of the cold.

It's not an ordinary toxin.

It's more like a living disease.

Xilun recalled the homeless man with a fever and cough outside the dojo, the few people with lumps under their skin, and the port plague records in the Black Death cult's documents.

They carry the virus.

Perhaps it's not just about infection.

It's still about control.

These peripheral members must periodically return to the Black Death cult to receive drug suppression or undergo some kind of ritual for stabilization.

Otherwise, if they are hypnotized, leak information, or are out of control for too long, the pathogens in their bodies will quickly erupt, killing them and destroying the clues.

It is cleaner than a poison sac.

More steadfast than a vow.

Xilun stood up, his face grim.

He left no body.

A chill penetrated the corpse, first freezing the pus, then sprinkling it with the purification powder it carried.

After doing this, he dragged the two bodies into the collapsed well behind the abandoned warehouse and buried them simply.

It wasn't out of pity.

Rather, they didn't want ordinary homeless people to come into contact with them.

After doing all this, he left the alley.

The night was deeper.

There were few pedestrians on the street, and occasionally a policeman wearing an old raincoat would walk by, but he would only keep a distance from those dark corners.

Instead of returning to the bustling city center, Siren continued walking towards the slums.

There were cheap hotels, makeshift beds, workers' dormitories, and stinking drains.

The closer you get to the slums, the more homeless people you'll find.

They huddled at the base of walls, under bridges, and in abandoned wooden sheds, keeping a distance from each other.

In the past, people would fight tooth and nail over territory in places like this, sometimes even fighting to the death over half a loaf of bread. But tonight, it's eerily quiet.

It is not order.

It's an illness.

An old woman was sitting on the steps, coughing and clutching a tattered cloth bag. With each cough, her shoulders trembled, as if she were coughing her lungs out of her chest.

A thin man walked by and whispered, "Let's go to the camp tomorrow."

"What camp?"

"The homeless camp, which just opened in the south, offers free porridge and medicine."