Starting as dockworkers, they swept through Chongqing.

The butt of the gun struck my shoulder, like hitting a thick piece of iron.

Xilun's arms went numb from the shock, but he used the recoil to flip himself backward.

Just as Fowles was about to give chase, the snow beneath his feet suddenly collapsed, and the dark water that Xilun had brought in advance in the valley turned into ice chains, binding his ankles.

This entanglement lasted for less than half a breath.

Half a breath is enough.

Xilun made no progress again.

Red star!

The dark red killing intent on the spearhead was enveloped in a black and blue icy mist, only suddenly exploding in the last three feet.

Fowles crossed his fists to block the gun tip.

boom!

The snow in the cold forest exploded, and more than a dozen dead trees snapped off in unison.

Xilun staggered back seven steps, each step shattering the ice, blood gushing uncontrollably from his mouth.

Fowles also took a step back.

There's only one step.

But the wound in his chest reopened, and the golden residual power was drawn by the force of the spear, allowing the dark blue Styx aura to penetrate even deeper.

Fowles' expression changed.

He raised his hand to his chest, and for the first time, he didn't catch up immediately.

Xilun saw it.

Right now.

He holstered his gun, turned around, and rushed out of the cold forest without hesitation.

Fowles wanted to give chase, but as soon as he took a step, a chilling cold suddenly ran through his body.

It's not the cold of the snow-capped mountains.

It was a coldness that emanated from deep within flesh and blood.

He looked down and saw a very faint bluish-black ring around the wound in his chest.

The bluish-black color slowly spread along the blood vessels, like some kind of disease looking for a crack to take root.

Fowles' pupils constricted.

The faint scent that Xilun had left underwater, combined with the dark blue mist emanating from the last Crimson Star, finally seeped into his body through the wound caused by the Luohan Paper.

Breath of the Styx!

Xilun paused for a moment in the distance.

His face was so pale it was almost transparent, yet a dark blue aura slowly emanated from his mouth and nose.

The aura was extremely faint.

Like the last breath of a dying person.

But as it swept through the wind and snow, several nearby withered leaves silently turned black, curled up, and crumbled into dust.

Fowles finally understood that it was not just a simple chill.

Plague, disease, death, and decay.

The domineering nature of this breathing technique lies not in its direct attack, but in its ability to entangle wounds and seep into every opening, like a disease that never sees the light of day in a sewer.

Xilun did not make another move.

He had no strength left.

Those few exchanges had almost completely drained the little strength he had just recovered.

If Fowles continues the pursuit, he can only gamble on the waterway and on the opponent's injuries worsening even faster.

Fowles stood there, his eyes filled with a terrifying intensity.

To pursue, or to heal.

If he catches up, he still has a chance to kill Xiren.

However, the residual power of the Arhat paper had not dissipated, and the breath of the Styx had already entered the body. Continuing to forcibly circulate the qi and blood might allow that cold, deathly aura to spread deep into the heart.

Fourth-order beings are not invincible.

Even the strongest witcher's body can be worn through.

Fowles stared at the figure disappearing into the snow.

He suddenly remembered the first time Risa stood on the dojo stage, her face covered in blood but still smiling.

He recalled the disciples calling him "Master," the hesitant look in Belang's eyes, and the sounds of boxing practice that echoed every morning beneath the plaque of the Dayu Dojo.

He can avenge Risa.

But I can't bury myself here too.

At the very least, one cannot die in vain.

Fowles slowly exhaled a breath tinged with blood.

His breath contained a dark blue mist, which he crushed bit by bit with his dark gold blood energy.

"Silon".

His voice traveled through wind and snow.

"This matter is not over."

Xilun did not turn back.

He dragged his golden spear and stumbled toward the distant valley.

The wind and snow quickly obscured his figure.

Fowles stood there until he could no longer feel the chill, then he sat down cross-legged.

He took off his torn boxing gloves and pressed his palms against the wound on his chest.

The dark golden energy gradually contracted, attempting to seal the remaining power of the golden light and the death energy of the Styx River.

But both of those forces were extremely difficult to deal with.

A fierce and solemn judgment, like the one left behind by an angry Arhat.

A cold, dense, and sinister hand, like a hand reaching out from the depths of a dead river.

Fowles broke out in a cold sweat.

He closed his eyes and began to regulate his breathing.

the other side.

Xilun walked along the valley for a long time.

He dared not stop.

We also cannot immediately leave the entrance to the Wonderland.

Although Fowles did not chase after them, there might be others waiting outside the Dayu Dojo.

He had to take a detour, clean himself of his scent, and make the traces of Fowles' tracking fade as much as possible.

Time seems to stretch out in the snow-capped mountain wonderland.

He slipped and fell several times, but each time he managed to get back up using his gun.

My chest, shoulders, back, and lower abdomen—all the wounds are screaming in pain.

Fowles's aura lingered in his body, like several dark iron nails, pinning his flesh and blood, making the flow of coldness sluggish.

Xilun tried to expel the aura using the Xuan Yin breathing technique, but found that the aura was extremely heavy, like impurities that had been burned into iron, and could not be removed in a short time.

He could only seal it with cold for now.

Half a day later, he found another snow ditch leading to the entrance.

Using the moisture as a means of sensing, they avoided several snow wolves and hid behind an icefall for a long time. Only after confirming that there were no pursuers did they quietly approach the exit.

Outside the small hall, beyond the bronze mirror, lies a familiar, tranquil courtyard.

The disciple on duty's expression changed instantly when he came out.

Xilun's clothes were torn, he was covered in blood, and his golden spear was covered in dark red frost. He looked as if he had just walked out of a mountain of corpses and a sea of ​​blood.

"Mr. Siren, you..."

Before the disciple could finish speaking, Xilun glanced at him.

The sound was stuck in my throat.

"The curator is still inside."

Xilun's voice was hoarse.

"Don't bother him."

The disciple's face turned even paler.

Xilun offered no explanation, dragging his gun as he walked out of the courtyard.

When Brennan arrived after hearing the news, he only saw a receding figure.

He stared at the bloodstains remaining on the snow, his smile vanishing completely.

"Should we stop him...?"

After much deliberation, Brenand decided it was better to avoid trouble.

Whether he lives or dies is ultimately none of his business.

At most, it's just a matter of getting a different boss.

Siren did not return to the Brotherhood, nor did he go to the North District Mansion.

He has the air of Fowles about him.

If this fourth-order remnant is brought back, it may become a clue for the dojo, Tusor, and the Black Death Cult to track him down.

More importantly, he needs someone quiet and familiar enough to help him determine just how serious these injuries are.

As dusk fell, a cold rain began to fall in Victoria.

The coal smoke was suppressed by the rain, the street ditches were stained with oil, and the faint sound of coughing could be heard from the slums in the distance.

Xiren changed into a gray cloak he bought from a secondhand store and walked across the southern suburban path with his head down.

He had to stop every few steps and use his cane to support his body.

He forcibly swallowed back the occasional wisp of dark blue breath that escaped from his mouth and nose.

Having just mastered the Breath of the Styx, he used it against a fourth-tier opponent, and the cost was heavier than he had imagined.

My lungs felt as if they had been soaked in an icy river, cold and heavy.

But he doesn't regret it.

Without that last breath, Fowles wouldn't stop.

The rain fell harder and harder.

The outline of the old courtyard in the southern suburbs finally came into view.

The courtyard gate was half-closed.

The little lamp that Saiwei always hung under the eaves was no longer there.

Xilun stopped outside the door, his heart suddenly sinking.

He reached out and pushed the door open.

The wooden door creaked slightly.

The courtyard was empty, and rainwater splashed into the water vat, creating ripples.

There were fresh footprints under the old tree where Lund often practiced shooting.

It's not Lund's.

It's not from LDK Solar either.

Xilun's eyes suddenly turned cold.

He forced himself to walk into the house.

The fire in the stove had gone out, the cups and saucers on the table were scattered, and a chair had been overturned.

The air still carried a faint smell of disinfectant powder, a rotten sweetness, and a wisp of bloody stench diluted by the rain.

Xilun stood at the door, his pale face expressionless.

Only the fingertips, little by little, formed frost.

He was still too late.

……

Rainwater streamed down the eaves.

Drop by drop, it fell on the bluestone slab in front of the threshold.

Xilun stood at the doorway, half of his body hidden in the dim light of the day. His gray cloak clung to his shoulders and back, and the blood, diluted by the rain, slowly dripped from the corner of his clothes.

The room was very quiet.

It was so quiet that it didn't seem like anyone had been attacked.

If it were a fight, the table legs wouldn't just bend by an inch, the cups and saucers wouldn't just be scattered, and the chairs wouldn't fall over so easily.

The real battle will tear this old house apart.

When Lund fires his gun, the walls crack, the floor collapses, and years of accumulated dust on the roof beams are shaken down.

But it's not here.

There's only one kind of messy, overturned state.

It was as if someone had slowly walked in after Lund left, patiently searching through everything, item by item.

Xilun's gaze swept over the old wooden crate in the corner.

The lid had been opened, but there were no pry marks on the latches.

The cabinet by the window had also been ransacked, and several old clothes were roughly folded with the edges sticking out.

A copper medicine pot is missing from beside the stove.

Lund's usual pipe was missing from the table.

The gun was out of reach.

It wasn't stolen.

Lund took it with him.

Xilun entered the house with very light steps.

With each step he took, it felt as if tiny pieces of iron were grinding inside his chest.

The force of Fowles' punch was still embedded deep in his ribs, and his dark gold blood and qi were as heavy as a branding iron.

The chilling aftereffects of the Breath of the Styx surged upwards from his lungs, making his throat taste sweet.

He gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles turning slightly white.

There was a ring of dried tea stains on the table.

There were also two fingerprints next to it.

It belongs to LDK Solar.

Xilun recognized his tidying habits; he always liked to wipe the edge of the table very clean with a damp cloth. However, she dared not move much on the side where Lund sat.

These two finger marks suggest that she had stood here for a long time, her hands pressing on the table until her fingertips were sweaty.

Xilun remained silent for a moment, then turned and went into the inner room.

Lund's bed was pulled back, and there was nothing under the pillow.

The old notebook that was originally underneath is gone.

Several bottles of medicine for treating injuries were also missing from the bedside drawer.

Where the old map of the southern continent's coastline once hung on the wall, only four rusty nails remain.

The plaster around the nails was still fresh, indicating that the map had not been removed for long.

Xilun reached out and pressed down on one of the nails.

Cold and damp.

His eyes remained expressionless.

The frost on my fingertips just kept getting thicker and thicker.

Lund has been gone for a long time.

More than one day.

They weren't forced to leave on short notice.

He took away guns, medicine, maps, notes, everything he could take, but left this room to Sevier, and also to himself.

Xilun suddenly remembered that seven days ago, Lund sat at the table and said in a calm tone that he had to settle some old scores.

It rained like that back then.

Saiwei stood to the side, his eyes red, but he couldn't say a word.

He saw it.

He clearly saw it.

But he still left.

Because he knew Lund didn't want him to get involved, and because he believed he would be back from Wonderland soon.

soon.

Xilun coughed softly.

The taste of blood spread through my throat.

He pulled a vial from his pocket, uncorked it, and tilted his head back to drink it.

It has a bitter, spicy, and pungent metallic taste.

The medicine rolled into my stomach, like a fire that briefly burned away the coldness inside my body.

Xilun closed his eyes and slowly sat down against the wall.

Don't rush.

Especially at times like these, we must not rush.

His body had reached its limit.

If emotions continue to cloud one's judgment, one might not even be able to leave the southern suburbs, let alone save lives.

Xilun held the golden spear across his knees, his hands hanging naturally at his sides, and his breathing gradually slowed down.

The rain was falling heavily outside.

Raindrops pounded in the water tank, on the leaves, and on the dilapidated roof tiles.

The sounds gradually separated in his perception.

Nearby is waterlogged courtyard.

Further away are the ruts on the dirt road.

Further away, there were intermittent coughs from the direction of the slums, barking dogs, the suffocating stench of coal smoke suppressed by the rain, and curses from people who had fallen in the alleys.

Xilun peeled away these noises layer by layer.

The Xuan Yin breathing technique operates slowly.

The chill lingered along the broken ribs, sealing away the restless dark gold energy.

The Breath of the Styx is like a narrow, dark river, flowing slowly along the edge of the lungs, pushing the backlash back into the depths.

The pain did not disappear.

He simply held her down inch by inch.

He was like a block of ice sitting in a dilapidated house.

After an unknown amount of time, it became completely dark.

The rain is getting heavier.

When Xilun opened his eyes, there were no lights on in the room.

But darkness cannot block the perception of a third-order aberrant.

He stood up, his movements still somewhat stiff, but his steps were much steadyer.

He began to search the house again.

Instead of scanning like before, I looked at it inch by inch.

There were fine marks under the table indicating it had been dragged.

Hidden in the ashes was a small piece of burnt paper with only half a letter on it.

The inside of the window frame was covered with a light layer of disinfectant powder.

There were scratches from a stranger's fingernails on the edge of the cabinet door.

The person who came was very careful, but he didn't understand Lund's habits.

They ransacked the gun rack, the bed, the medicine box, and even the small cabinet where Sevier kept his needles, thread, and dry bread.

They are looking for something.

Or a letter.

Xilun squatted by the wall and lifted up a loose floorboard.

It's empty inside.

This place was originally supposed to contain some of Lund's old documents, several military badges from the Southern Continent colonies, and a short knife left by his father.

are gone.

Xilun's expression shifted slightly.

Lund took these things, not as if he were fleeing for his life.

It was more like going to a rendezvous.

A pact that requires proof of identity, bloodline, past, and hatred.

Son of Roy George.

The first vessel needed by the Black Death Cult.

Xilun slowly closed the floorboards.

He suddenly felt that the room was terribly cold.

It's not because the temperature is low.

Rather, certain voices are missing.

There was no longer the sound of Saiwei complaining in the kitchen about how bad the pots were.

The forced, suppressed breathing that Lund coughed was gone.

The sound of that old gun gently leaning against the wall was gone.

Xilun walked to the outer room and stopped in the spot where Lund usually sat.

There is an old wooden chair there.

The chair back was worn shiny.

When Lund taught him marksmanship, he would often sit here, first scold him for being "too straightforward," then slowly get up and take an old gun and point it half a step on the ground.

Conceal, borrow, deceive, sever.

Half a step back, half a step forward.

Xilun reached out and touched the back of the chair.

The wood had cooled completely.

Just then, light footsteps came from outside the courtyard gate.

The footsteps were hurried, then suddenly stopped at the door.

Xilun did not turn back.

Through the rain, someone asked in a low voice, "Is that... Young Master Xilun?"

Savi.

His voice trembled, as if it were about to disintegrate from being soaked in rainwater.