Starting as dockworkers, they swept through Chongqing.

Thinking of this, Xilun closed his eyes.

The fire in the stove was dim and yellow, and the white cloth was quiet.

He continued to meditate amidst the pain, like a gun that had been repeatedly forged and was now covered in cracks, yet still stubbornly maintained the direction of its blade.

The sky outside the window was gradually darkening.

Night finally fell once again over Victoria's old town.

But this time, the darkness was missing a man who could cough, curse, and tap his shoulder with an old gun.

Lund's funeral was scheduled for three days later.

The venue was not chosen to be the church's main hall.

It was too bright, too orderly, and too much like some kind of respectable performance.

Savi insisted on holding the funeral in a small chapel near the former site of the Iron Cross Fight Club.

The church had been in disrepair for years, with damp patches on the walls and several broken stained glass windows that had been patched with ordinary glass. When sunlight shone in, the colors were always incomplete.

Lund ran a shop in this neighborhood when he was young.

Many children who couldn't afford the tuition would sneak into the club from the back alley of the church to watch him teach boxing.

"He doesn't like places that are too expensive," Sai said, his eyes red. "He said that in those places you have to cough quietly, it's stifling."

So the funeral was held here.

That morning, the fog was very thick.

The stone steps outside the chapel gleamed from the rain, and the old sign of the Iron Cross Fight Club, wiped clean, leaned against the door.

A crack had appeared on the edge of the sign, and the paint was peeling off, but the simple yet sharp Iron Cross mark was still visible.

Xilun arrived very early.

He was wearing a black suit.

The clothes were altered by someone at the last minute. The cut was made to fit him as well as possible, but it still couldn't hide his excessively pale face and the occasional stiffness in his movements.

He wasn't wearing a hat; his black hair was combed back, revealing his thin, aloof features.

The golden spear was not brought into the church.

It was wrapped in black cloth and placed in an inconspicuous carriage outside the door.

When Siron stood at the church entrance, all conversations fell silent.

Many people saw the legendary Golden Knight up close for the first time.

Rumor has it that he was chased by the third-tier captain of the Tusor family's guards for more than 20 days at sea, but after being promoted in battle, he turned the tables and killed the powerful enemy.

Legend has it that he broke through the blockade at the old textile factory on a rainy night, blew some kind of mysterious bone whistle, and attracted the clash between the God of Black Crows and the Evil God.

Rumors also say that he had actually died once, but was pushed back from the brink of death by some indescribable entity.

But the man standing before them at this moment, Xiren, seemed to be just an overly silent young man.

The silence was so profound that even the sadness seemed frozen.

Saiwei walked over and straightened his collar.

His fingers were still trembling.

"Too thin," he said in a hoarse voice.

Xilun looked down at him, and after a long while, whispered, "I'm sorry."

Tears welled up in Saiwei's eyes.

He raised his hand to hit him, but halfway up, he couldn't bring himself to strike. In the end, he just grabbed his sleeve and muttered, "Neither of you are good people."

Xilun did not refute.

Inside the church, the priests had already begun preparing a dirge.

He was an elderly priest with a slightly hoarse but very steady voice.

He didn't use any elaborate scriptures, but simply sang a farewell song commonly found in the downtown area.

A deep melody slowly spread from under the wooden dome, like mist drifting over the old street.

May the weary sleep peacefully, and may the traveler return home…

When the song began, many people lowered their heads.

A lot of people from the Iron Cross Fight Club came.

Renn, Hughes, Ronta's disciple...

There were elderly boxers with white hair, former boxers with two missing fingers, and teenagers wearing faded short jackets.

They stood haphazardly, but their backs were straight, as if they were waiting for Lund to walk in from the doorway, tap their calves with that old gun, and scold them for their poor posture.

The Iron Blood Society also sent people.

Most of them remained silent, wearing black veils around their necks, their expressions complex as they looked at the coffin.

The fraternity members stood further back.

Rhodes wasn't wearing the gang's usual jacket, but rather a plain black outfit. Yuri's eyes were bloodshot, and his fists were clenched tightly, as if he was suppressing the urge to smash something.

The wreath from the Link family was placed on the left, without a personal signature, only reading "In Memory of Mr. Lund".

The condolence gift from the Tusol family was returned by Xilun.

There was no explanation.

No one dared to ask.

In the center of the church, Lund's body had been cremated, and his urn sat on a small table covered with a black cloth.

Beside him sat his old pipe, a pair of badly worn boxing gloves, and a copy of a gunplay manual with worn-out edges.

The original copy was in Xilun's possession.

He didn't take it out.

That's not something for people to admire.

That was a legacy that the teacher had risked his life for.

After the funeral music ended, guests began to come forward to offer flowers and leave messages.

Next to the small table was a thick commemorative album with the Iron Cross symbol on the cover.

Everyone who has ever truly interacted with Lund can write a sentence on it.

Ryan was the first to step forward.

He was one of the earliest members of the club and is now a broad-shouldered middle-aged man.

When he picked up the pen, the veins on the back of his hand bulged, and he couldn't write a word several times.

Finally, he wrote, stroke by stroke:

"A respectable president."

There are only five characters.

After finishing writing, he stepped back, suddenly raised his hand to cover his face, and his shoulders trembled violently.

A tall man wept silently in the damp light of the chapel.

Then came Sarah.

She was wearing a black dress, her hair was neatly styled, but her eyes were swollen and red.

She walked to the commemorative album, her fingers tracing Lund's name, as if remembering the man from many years ago who always scolded her for being clumsy, but would secretly slip her an extra piece of black bread after training.

She writes very slowly.

"Best friend".

After finishing writing, she bent down and placed a small white flower in front of the urn.

"Old man," she whispered, "you've won this time. Everyone will remember you."

No one laughed in the church.

Only Saiwei remained in the corner, biting her handkerchief, tears streaming down her face.

One person after another stepped forward.

Someone wrote "My First Teacher".

Someone wrote, "Thank you for teaching me to get beaten up and then stand up again."

Some people wrote crooked handwriting and only wrote one sentence: "I will practice boxing properly in the future."

Xilun stood to the side without moving.

Just as the commemorative album was about to be closed, Savi looked up at him.

All eyes turned to him.

After a moment of silence, Xilun finally stepped forward.

His pace remained slow.

Every step he took aggravated his wounds, and a sense of decay and coldness surged within him. But he didn't let anyone help him; he simply walked to the small platform alone.

The urn is very small.

It's hard to believe that the man who could wield an old gun like thunder was reduced to such a small weight in the end.

As Xilun looked at it, many fragments suddenly flashed before his eyes.

An old courtyard on a rainy day.

Lund coughed and cursed him for pointing his gun too straight.

In the drafty room in the afternoon, the steam rose from the coarse wheat porridge.

Footprints left half a step back in the courtyard.

The man feigned impatience as the old booklet was tossed into his arms.

Xilun picked up the pen.

His hand did not tremble when the pen tip touched the ground.

He wrote:

"My teacher forever."

The six characters landed on the paper, as black as a nail.

After finishing writing, he didn't immediately leave, but gently pressed the edge of the scrapbook and whispered, "The club will continue."

His voice wasn't loud, but it was loud enough for the people in the front row to hear him clearly.

"As long as I live, the doors of the Iron Cross will never close."

Many teenagers suddenly looked up.

Saiwei froze, then covered his mouth, tears streaming down his face even more.

Rhodes lowered his head slightly at the back of the crowd.

He understood the weight of those words.

Despite having already decided to leave Victoria and even resigning from his position as an honorary director of the fraternity, Siren still promised everyone at this moment that the Iron Cross would not disappear.

This is not expansion.

It's not power either.

This was the last spark Lund left behind.

Even if Xilun were to venture far into the Chaotic Sea, he would first bury the spark for his teacher.

Many people did not leave immediately after the funeral.

They stood in the fog outside the church, speaking in hushed tones.

Some recalled how Lund knocked down three thugs who were collecting protection money with one punch when he was young, some talked about why he left the Ironblood Society back then, and some lamented that a third-tier extraordinary person would actually sacrifice his life for the homeless in the slums.

"He's not going to his death."

Yuri suddenly spoke.

The surroundings quieted down for a moment.

The man, who was usually rude and irritable, had red eyes, but his voice was frighteningly low.

"He was there to fire the first shot."

No one objected.

In the distance, several government special affairs officers stood on the street corner, not approaching. They were accompanied by church deacons, agents of aristocratic families, and observers sent by financial magnates.

They were all watching the funeral.

Watch as a dead Tier 3 Extraordinary is mourned by the people of the Lower City.

It also depends on what attitude the living Xilun will leave behind.

Xilun ignored those stares.

After the ceremony, he personally picked up the urn containing the ashes.

The urn was wrapped in a dark cloth, the corners of which were carefully tied by Savi. She stood before him, her eyes already aching from crying.

"Are you taking him to Tukor town?"

"Um."

"Can your body handle it?"

"Even if you can't hold on, you have to go."

Saiwei opened his mouth, but didn't try to persuade him further.

She knew that no one could take her place on this trip.

What Lund couldn't let go of before he died was not only the Iron Cross, but also his mother who lived far away in the small town.

An elderly woman with white hair may still think that her son is just busy in the city and will come home to see her on a nice day.

Xilun held the urn, his fingertips feeling its silent weight through the fabric.

He suddenly felt that this was heavier than the golden spear.

That night after the funeral, Siron did not return to his North End residence.

He returned to the old courtyard in the southern suburbs and sat alone until late at night.

Most of the outer blockade has been removed, leaving only a few scattered sentries.

All parties seem to have reached a tacit understanding to no longer openly approach each other.

This silence does not signify goodwill.

Fear, observation, and calculation temporarily outweighed greed.

Siren placed the urn on the table, next to Lund's old pipe.

He took out the reply letter written to the Link family.

The wording of the message sent by the butler was very formal.

The Link family accepted the request and will purchase several old properties around the Iron Cross Fight Club in the family name and hire the original club staff to continue operating them.

The official reason given was to commemorate Mr. Lund's contributions to order in Lower Victoria.

The wording is elegant and the tact is excellent.

There was no mention of Siron.

There was no mention of Daisy either.

Xilun folded the letter and burned it in the fire.

The firelight reflected off his pale face, flickering uncertainly.

Then he picked up the letter from the fraternity board of directors.

Midas's handwriting was steady and composed.

The letter did not try to persuade him to stay, but only said that the board of directors respected his decision and his honorary directorship was revoked effective immediately, but the fraternity would always remember the protection he had given.

The last line was written very lightly:

May you still hold fast to your golden heart even in the far reaches of the sea.

Xilun watched for a long time.

Then burn it as well.

Flames engulfed the paper, leaving only the smell of ashes in the room.

In the middle of the night, Rod prepared the carriage.

It wasn't the Brotherhood's usual vehicle, nor was it a vehicle from the Weston Mansion; it was a rented old carriage with the markings of an ordinary freight company painted on the outside.

The driver was a taciturn middle-aged man who didn't ask many questions after receiving the money.

Xiren changed into a long gray coat, put on a hat, and held the urn in her arms.

Saiwei stood at the gate of the courtyard, clutching an old scarf in his hand.

"This is his," he said softly. "He used to wear it when he went to town in the winter."

Xiren took the scarf and wrapped it around the urn.

The rough yarn had become stiff from washing, and there was a patch on the edge.

He suddenly imagined Lund wearing this scarf when he was young, returning to the town in the cold wind, pushing open the door of his mother's house, and saying nonchalantly, "I'm back."

My chest started hurting again.

This time it's not a wound.

"I will pass on the message," Siron said.

Saiwei nodded, and tears fell again.

"Young Master Xilun."

"Um?"

"Don't lose yourself," Sai said hoarsely. "What the master fears most is that you'll sacrifice yourself in your quest to avenge him."

Xilun remained silent for a long time.

I will try my best.

This was the most honest answer he could give.

When the carriage left the southern suburbs, the city of Saint Laurent was still asleep.

The streetlights cast a dim yellow glow, and the stone pavement reflected a cold light after the rain.

In the distance, factory chimneys spewed grayish-white steam, like the lingering sickness of the city.

Xilun sat in the carriage, holding the urn containing the ashes, listening to the sound of the wheels rolling over puddles.

As the carriage passed near the cordoned-off area of ​​the old textile factory, he lifted the curtain and peeked out.

The area was surrounded by high wooden planks, and the perimeter was covered with lime and church purification powder.

The night watchmen huddled under the shed, and no one spoke.

The camp and the clock tower were nowhere to be seen deep within the ruins.

But Xilun could still feel the lingering stench and fear from underground.

Many unidentified corpses are buried there.

It also holds the echo of Lund's last shot.

The carriage curtain fell.

Xilun closed his eyes and pressed his fingertips against the edge of the urn.

"teacher."

He said to himself.

"Let's go home."

The carriage headed out of the city.

As night deepened, the outline of Saint Laurent was gradually swallowed by the fog.

In the darkest part of the sky, a sliver of gray-white morning light is slowly tearing through the clouds.

……

At dawn, the town's bells rang three times.

Tukor is much quieter than Saint Laurent.

There are no towering chimneys, no crowded slums, and no gaslights that burn all night.

A thin mist drifted along the low rooftops, dew clung to the low fences lining the cobblestone path, and the distant fields glowed with a damp, green hue.

When the carriage stopped at the town entrance, Xilun felt a moment of unease about the tranquility.

He hadn't seen a morning like this in far too long.

There were no gunshots, no blockades, no putrid stench, and no chilling malice from countless people lurking in the shadows.

Only the aroma of wheat wafting from the bakery, the early-rising woman carrying a basket walking past the street corner, and the first crisp strike coming from the blacksmith's shop.

The tranquility felt almost unreal.