Starting as dockworkers, they swept through Chongqing.

Xilun gripped the steering wheel with both hands.

My palms are cold.

The internal injuries were torn open again and again with each bumpy ride.

He seemed not to feel any pain.

Half of the windshield wipers were broken, and the water curtain in front of the car window was blurry.

He pressed a thin layer of frost onto the glass with his coldness, forcing his vision to be clear.

Camp for wanderers.

White face mask.

Medicine liquid.

Fat rat.

A foreign object in a pregnant woman's abdomen.

Son of Roy George.

Fourth-order extraordinary.

Thirteen third-rank servants.

These clues raced through my mind, eventually settling on the last line of Lund's letter.

I hope he wasn't lying to me.

Xilun suddenly remembered how Lund first taught him Red Star.

The guy coughed as if he was going to vomit his lungs out, but still put on an impatient expression, cursing him for being too tight-lipped, too inflexible, and too direct in his killing intent.

He said that guns are not something you can just recklessly acquire.

People don't live by being ruthless alone.

Krund himself eventually went.

He carried an old gun, his body covered in wounds, and the shot he couldn't deliver during that torrential rain ten years ago.

The car suddenly veered through a puddle.

The car body jolted violently.

Xilun coughed up blood, which splattered onto the edge of the steering wheel.

He didn't wipe it.

Ahead, the old textile factory area where the homeless camp is located is already surrounded by a large area of ​​dim yellow lights.

blockade.

Gunman.

Black umbrella.

carriage.

There were also some clean leather shoes that shouldn't be on the edge of a slum.

Siren slowly applied the brakes.

The car did not come to a complete stop.

He looked up.

Deep in the rain, the camp behind the old textile factory was devoid of its former soup kitchens and bustling crowds.

Instead, there was a suffocating, oppressive silence.

He sensed it.

An aura of fear.

It was cold, rotten, and enormous, like the breaths of countless dead people gushing out from the ground at the same time.

The aura was so powerful that even the Styx Breath that he had just suppressed within his body trembled slightly.

Xiren sat in the car, silent for a moment.

The initial enthusiasm I felt along the way was suddenly dampened by this aura.

Reason returned to my mind.

Danger.

Going in will kill you.

It's not just a possibility.

Rather, it is very likely.

He remembered what Saiwei had said.

You're asking for it.

Xilun raised his hand and slowly turned off the engine.

The car lights went out.

He was surrounded by torrential rain.

He sat in the darkness, listening to his own breathing.

He always thought he was terrified of death.

Therefore, he schemed, he endured, and he never gave his true heart to anyone.

He can bow down to save his life, or he can kill to save his life.

He hated being bound, hated being arranged for, and hated anyone deciding his fate for him.

But at that moment, he suddenly felt that death wasn't such a big deal.

If he can turn away even when his teacher is nailed to the ground right in front of him, then he can certainly live a long time in the future.

The one who is alive is probably no longer Siren.

The car door was pushed open.

The torrential rain came crashing down.

Xilun picked up his golden spear and headed towards the blockade line.

He was quickly spotted by people outside the blockade.

"stop!"

Someone raised a gun.

More people turned their heads.

The rain pattered against their black umbrellas, creating a dense, crackling sound.

They are not like the Black Death cultists.

At least not entirely.

Some were dressed in aristocratic guard uniforms, some wore pharmacists' association armbands, some wore municipal security cloaks, and a few men standing further away, with clean leather shoes and expensive canes, were clearly just there to "look".

Look at the plague.

To witness death.

Let's see if the lower city area will catch fire.

Xilun walked forward expressionlessly.

A guard stepped forward to stop him, but as soon as he reached out, he was sent flying by an invisible chill, crashing into the mud and water, his shoulder turning blue from the cold.

The gun barrels were raised simultaneously.

"Don't shoot!"

Someone recognized him.

"It's Xilun!"

"The Golden Knight..."

"What is he doing here?"

"Why did you trespass here?"

Whispers spread through the rain.

Xilun ignored him.

He walked up to the roadblock and pressed the golden spear down.

The heavy wooden stakes and iron chains were covered with frost inch by inch, and then crumbled.

Several guards instinctively stepped back.

They had seen people force their way through the blockade.

I've also seen patients who have gone mad.

But I've never seen a third-tier extraordinary being covered in blood, pale as a corpse, yet still making people afraid to pull the trigger.

Siren crosses the roadblock.

The old textile factory site in front of us finally came into full view.

The homeless camp is in a terrible state.

The soup kitchen collapsed after the fire.

The wooden stakes were charred black, and the cloth hanging in mid-air looked like pieces of burnt skin.

The ground was covered with black bloodstains and grayish-white lime.

Many makeshift beds lay overturned in the mud and water, their bedding filthy, and medicine bowls shattered.

In the distance, several old buildings were half-collapsed, their brick walls riddled with bullet holes and burn marks.

The air was a mixture of rainwater, coke, disinfectant powder, putrid odors, and blood.

Lots of blood.

Xilun's gaze swept over the marks.

Battles have taken place here.

It's not an encirclement or suppression.

Someone fought their way in from the outside.

The gunshot marks were straight, and the gunshots were vicious; many walls were pierced with circular cracks.

He recognized the wound left by the Crimson Star Spear.

Xilun's grip on the gun tightened slightly.

There is an old clock tower in the center of the camp.

The clock tower originally belonged to a textile factory and has been abandoned for many years, with half of the clock face hanging crookedly outside the wall.

At this moment, an extraordinary aura still lingers above the clock tower.

But the collision was very weak.

Like a lamp that is about to go out.

Xilun looked up.

In the rain, several figures stood on a high place.

Some wore gray robes, some wore bird-beak masks, and some wore aristocratic black cloaks.

Higher up, a tall, thin man stood beside the ruins of the clock tower.

His face was hidden in the shadow of the black umbrella, and he exuded not an exaggerated sense of power, but a corrupt calm that made people instinctively want to stay away.

Fourth order.

Xilun confirmed it almost immediately.

Like Fowles, a witcher whose blood and energy are like a furnace.

Moreover, she possesses another unforgettable quality.

Damp, cold, and rotting, like a doctor waiting for a patient to breathe their last at a hospital bedside.

On the clock tower wall, Lund was pinned to the ground by a long spear.

The spear pierced his shoulder blade, suspending him against the cracked brick wall.

His clothes were torn, and his chest, abdomen, and legs were covered in wounds.

The blood, washed pale red by the rain, trickled down the wall.

He is still alive.

He lived like a breath about to dissipate.

Xilun stood in the center of the camp, looking up at that familiar figure.

They didn't call for the teacher immediately.

They didn't rush forward.

He simply raised the golden spear slowly, its tip pointing towards the clock tower.

"Come down and face your death!"

His voice cut through the torrential rain.

The camp fell silent for a moment.

Immediately, someone laughed.

The laughter was tinged with absurdity and mockery.

"Another Tier 3 has arrived."

"What day is it today?"

"These guys from the lower city, do they really think that being at Tier 3 can change anything?"

"Don't rush to conclusions, he has many more secrets. It seems that both Tusol and the armed insurgents are keeping an eye on him."

"We can collect them together."

"Put Lund's blood into the petri dish first. The cocoon is about to open, don't miss the time."

Several men in grey robes were talking in hushed tones, as if discussing the order in which the medicinal herbs should be used.

The surrounding bystanders also moved silently.

No one left.

No one intervened.

They just watched.

Just like many years ago, some people watched slums burn, watched people die in colonies, and watched hospitals push patients into basements.

They're used to it.

They no longer even consider it a choice.

On the clock tower, Lund struggled to open his eyes.

Rainwater streamed down his brow bone.

He saw Xilun.

He paused for a moment, then burst into laughter.

The laughter aggravated his wound, causing him to cough up blood.

"you……"

The sound was very soft.

But Siron heard it.

"Aren't you afraid of dying?"

Xilun tilted his head back.

The torrential rain lashed my face, feeling as cold as knives.

He suddenly laughed.

The laughter grew louder and hoarser, eventually sounding almost like a tearing sob.

He remembered when he was very young, his mother would beat and scold him in the rainy night, scolding him for not being more useful, for not being able to get that high and mighty man to look at him more.

That night, he hid outside the door, his clothes soaked by the rain.

He didn't cry.

Because crying won't help.

Later, he was looked down upon, used, and hunted down, but he rarely cried.

Because tears can't buy anything.

He was always calm, always proud and free, and would never reveal his true feelings to anyone.

But at this moment, he was smiling in the downpour, yet tears were streaming down his face uncontrollably.

He finally admitted that he was actually very sad.

I felt so sad, like my chest was being crushed by a hand.

He took something out of his pocket.

A black whistle.

The whistle is very small, like it was made from some kind of bird bone, with dark red patterns on the surface.

It lay quietly in Xilun's arms.

He has never played it since that day.

Because he knew this wasn't a cry for help.

This is an exchange.

From a distance, someone spotted the whistle and their eyes flickered slightly.

The man on the fourth floor of the clock tower finally lowered his gaze.

"What is that?"

The bird-beak mask said softly, "I don't know. But the aura emanating from him... is problematic."

"Stop him."

The order was given.

Three men in grey robes jumped off the bell tower at the same time.

They exuded the aura of third-tier extraordinary beings, and the putrid, sickly mist spread in the rain, like three living, foul clouds.

Siren, however, did not look at them.

He simply put the whistle to his lips.

A gentle blow.

There was no sharp sound.

There wasn't even a regular whistle.

But the sound of rain suddenly slowed down.

It's not that the rain has actually slowed down.

Instead, everyone's senses were being pulled into deeper darkness by some unseen force.

The water droplets remained suspended in mid-air.

The smell of gunpowder from the muzzle solidified.

The three third-tier gray-robed men who rushed forward simultaneously froze.

Behind Siron, a black raven landed.

The crow's feathers spread silently, obscuring a small patch of the rainy night.

A soft voice whispered in his ear.

"You should know."

The voice sounded like a woman's, yet also like a dream coming from a distant place.

"When you blow it, you are destined to lose yourself."

Xilun looked at the world.

Looking at the charred camp.

Looking at those poor people who were being used as medicine.

He watched the nobles who stood by, the indifferent guards, and the excited cultists.

Finally, he looked at Lund, who was dying on the clock tower.

He slowly closed his eyes.

"Um."

A moment later, his voice was very soft, carrying a hint of childish grievance.

"I have nothing left."

Family ties, friendships, and gratitude.

Parents, friends, teachers.

Everything except myself was lost.

Until even he himself was lost...

A black crow landed on his shoulder.

The rainy night suddenly changed color.

Crimson blood fell from the depths of the sky, like someone spreading out a blood-stained black cloth.

Xilun's consciousness suddenly plummeted backward.

It's not a coma.

It felt more like being pushed out of one's own body.

He can still see and hear, but he can no longer control his fingers.

The image of a woman unfolded in the depths of her consciousness.

Black robe, pale hands, long hair as dark as night.

He has no face.

Or rather, his face was hidden in a layer of shadow that made it impossible to see clearly.

"Xilun" opened his eyes.

Those eyes were no longer a cold blue.

Instead, it was a deep, almost black, scarlet red.

The three third-tier gray-robed men who had rushed at them finally resumed their movements.

The first person swung his bone blade, and a surge of sickness emanated from it.

"Silon" raised a finger.

Just a gentle touch.

The bone blade shattered.

The third-tier extraordinary individual was struck as if by an invisible hammer; his chest caved in, and he flew backward, crashing through a charred wooden shed.

The second person opened his mouth and spewed out a bluish-black plague mist.

"Silon" did not dodge.

He simply walked through the rain.

The plague mist approached him within three feet, then, as if encountering a higher level of fear, it suddenly reversed and swirled back into his mouth and nose.

The gray-robed man screamed, and countless black spots bulged under his skin.

The third person turned around and wanted to leave.

The golden spear had vanished from its original spot at some point.

The next instant, the gun barrel swept across and struck him in the waist and abdomen.

The sound of bones cracking was so clear in the rain that it made your teeth ache.

He was bent into an eerie arc and crashed into the base of the clock tower; his fate is unknown.

The camp was deathly silent.

This is still the power of a third-tier power.

It did not truly surpass the total amount of Qi and Blood in the fourth rank, nor did it break through the threshold of the Calamity rank.

But everyone sensed something was different.

That's not about the amount of power.

It is a positional case.

The same drop of water is just water when it falls on mud, but it becomes a command when it falls on a crown.

Xilun's chill, marksmanship, physique, and breath of the Styx are all still the same.

But at this moment, they were gently draped in a cloak of some kind of dark divinity.

And so all things began to fear.

The illness began to recede.

Third-tier extraordinary beings began to be easily pried apart like inferior materials.

The bird-beak mask on the clock tower finally fell silent: "Impossible!"

The fourth-level man's fingers tightened slightly as he held the umbrella.

He looked down at the young man slowly rising, and for the first time, genuine fear appeared in his eyes.

It's not because Xilun is that strong.

Rather, it's because he doesn't understand it.

The unknown is what all high-level extraordinary beings hate the most.

"Xilun" lifted off the ground with its toes, and black rainwater gathered into a circle of ripples at its feet.

He drifted toward the clock tower.

The movements are very slow.

But no one dared to stop them.

The bird-beak mask gritted its teeth and shouted sharply, "Stop him! The cocoon can't be damaged!"

Four more third-rank servants pounced out from the shadows.

Some people have rotting fleshy wings extending from their backs, some have arms that have transformed into long whips covered in disease spots, and some have a third bluish-black eye splitting open on their foreheads.

They are not without courage.

They also have their own beliefs and desires.

They believed that after Nurles' return, the world's illnesses would no longer be the suffering of the lowly, but would become a just cause.

Nobles get sick, rich people rot, and priests cough up blood in front of their idols.

They hate the world and yearn to redistribute everything through the hands of an evil god.

But their fairness means dragging everyone down into a pool of pus and blood.

"Xilun" looked up.

The phantom of a black crow unfolded behind him.

The four third-rank servants froze simultaneously.

Scarlet fear surged down like a tidal wave.

One of them bled from all seven orifices and knelt on the ground.

Another person roared and broke free of fear, lunging forward, only to have "Silen" reach out and press his face down.

There was no roar.

There was no explosion.

The man's head seemed to be half swallowed by the night, collapsing silently.

The other two's expressions changed drastically, and they joined forces to activate the disease mist.

The cuffs of "Silon" fluttered lightly.

The rainwater transformed into thin, dark blue blades, skimming across the puddles beneath their feet.

Both men broke their knees at the same time and fell to the ground in the mud.

The bystanders finally began to back away.