Starting as dockworkers, they swept through Chongqing.

Chapter 85 New Talent: Swimming

Xilun paused for a moment, then nodded subconsciously, his gaze falling on his palm.

A very thin black line was rising from the fish carcass, silently disappearing into the back of his hand and burrowing into his skin.

There were more than a dozen pairs of eyes around, but no one saw it.

Xilun clenched his fist.

"As expected, only I can see it."

The river breeze swept across the deck, carrying away the stench of blood.

The fish carcass lay at my feet, its lifeless eyes staring murky at the night sky.

Xilun loosened his fist and glanced at his palm.

There wasn't a trace.

On the quiet, dimly lit Greywater River, the engine of a fishing boat sputtered, its bow cleaving through the dark water as it headed towards the shore.

Siren leaned against the ship's side, still clutching the iron fork in his hand.

A river breeze carrying a fishy smell swept over us, and the reeds on both banks swayed in the morning mist. Occasionally, a few unidentified white flowers would sprout among the wild grass, standing out conspicuously in the gray-blue light of the sky.

He looked away and glanced at the winding waterway ahead.

"That's a long route."

Mark crawled out of the cabin, his hands still covered in fish blood, and plopped down on the wooden crate next to Xilun.

"no way."

Mark wiped his hands with his sleeve, his voice still as gruff as ever.

"We make a living by catching valuable fish, and those things all have to be caught in deep water. So the journey back is naturally quite long."

Xilun didn't reply, his gaze sweeping across the river.

Deep within the pupils, a pale red data stream silently emerged.

[Talent: Swimming]

[Source: Slippery Black]

[Effect: Allows for free breathing underwater.]

Xilun blinked.

Underwater breathing...

His fingers tightened slightly as he quickly reviewed the practical value of this talent in his mind.

It's not very useful normally.

But he crossed his arms.

The opportunities to work with water will only increase in the future.

If they encounter another underwater alien species, this talent will be their trump card for survival.

Siren leaned the harpoon against the side of the boat, his gaze returning to the river.

The morning mist drifted across the tips of the reeds, and the gazes of several sailors around them all fell on Xilun.

No one spoke, but their eyes betrayed their feelings.

That scene just now was too eerie.

That blackfish had thick skin and tough flesh; stabbing it with a harpoon felt like a mere tickle, and even a speargun shot would only break the skin without damaging the bone.

Captain Mark himself couldn't subdue it, and it managed to struggle against him several times.

But that young man slashed down with his claw.

Skin torn and flesh ripped open!

It looked rotten, as if something had gnawed at it from the inside.

A burly man swallowed hard and subconsciously looked towards the deck.

The carcass of that black fish lay there, its body thicker than an adult man, its scales gleaming with a dark bluish sheen.

The wound on its back was clearly visible, with five claw marks that penetrated deep into the fish flesh, the edges charred black, and grayish-black liquid still seeping out.

The burly man glanced at Xilun again.

The young man leaned against the side of the boat, his face calm, as if nothing had happened.

Mark glanced at everyone's expressions and grinned.

"There are special places that buy these fish, and they can fetch a good price."

He patted his knee, the sound was soft, but everyone on the ship could hear it.

"Fifty percent goes to West Lun, and the rest is divided among everyone, how about that?"

No one objected.

The burly man was the first to nod.

The other sailors echoed this sentiment, some even giving Xilun a thumbs-up.

50%!

At any other time, this way of dividing things would cause arguments on any ship.

But everyone saw it tonight: without that kid's claw, not only would the fish have escaped, but it might have even lost its life.

Xilun nodded slightly, which was considered an agreement.

Once the topic was turned over, the atmosphere on the ship relaxed.

The feeling of surviving a disaster slowly welled up inside them. The sailors' hands were still trembling, but they had already started joking with each other.

A bearded man remained silent for a long time before suddenly standing up.

"I'll take Old Mike's body back."

There was a two-second silence on the ship.

Xilun turned his head and looked at the lump covered with tarpaulin in the corner of the deck.

Half of a leg and an old leather boot stained with fish blood were visible beneath the oilcloth.

The part above the waist is gone.

Just one bite!

When the fish opened its mouth and bit down, half of a grown man's body was gone.

Xilun looked away without saying a word.

The atmosphere fell silent for a moment.

Mark got up and went into the cabin. After rummaging around for a while, he brought out a ceramic pot.

The teapot was wrapped in a black cloth, and the seal was coated with wax.

"This is one of my most treasured possessions."

Mark sat back down on the wooden crate, moving much more gently than usual, as if he were handling something valuable.

He unscrewed the lid, and the aroma of the liquor immediately wafted out, ten times stronger than the barley wine sold by the shilling at the dock.

He poured a glass for Xilun first.

The amber-colored liquor rippled slightly on the swaying deck of the rough earthenware cup.

Xilun took it: "That move just now."

Mark poured himself a glass and held it up.

"It's really beautiful."

Xilun didn't stand on ceremony and took a sip.

The liquor was spicy, burning from my throat all the way down to my stomach.

He put down his cup, his eyes still scanning the river and the reeds on both banks.

We're almost at shore, but we can't let our habits slip away. Who knows what might be lurking beneath the surface?

Mark sighed as he looked at Xilen, who was always on high alert.

"When I first learned that it was just a young kid doing the cross-arms job, I was really worried."

He took a big gulp of wine, the liquid dripping down his stubble without him wiping it away.

"Now I can finally relax."

Several sailors nearby nodded in agreement, and the burly man chuckled.

"Not only are you at ease, Captain, but with this brother around, we'll be much bolder venturing into deep waters from now on."

Xilun didn't respond, but just took another sip of wine.

The lantern at the bow of the boat swayed in the wind, and the outline of the shore ahead became clearer and clearer.

The fishing boats docked.

The sky was already showing a hint of gray, and a few people were scattered on the dock by the shore. They were laborers and foremen waiting to receive the goods and put them into storage.

They were doing the same old work: once the catch came ashore, they weighed it, put it into storage and sealed it up, and the spears and harpoons, which couldn't get wet, were put into the warehouse, wiped dry and sealed with oil.

As soon as Mark's boat docked at the pier, several people on the shore gathered around to look.

A short, stout steward peered over the shoulder and froze.

"Fuck you—"

On the bow deck, a black fish lay sideways, its tail dangling over the side of the ship, its head resting against the mast base.

Its body is thicker than a millstone.

The dark blue scales gleamed with a cool, oily sheen in the morning light.

The short, stout manager gasped and shouted behind him.

"Come and see! Captain Mark has brought back a huge cargo!"

A group of seven or eight people swarmed over, standing on tiptoe to look at the boat, chattering excitedly.

"Judging by that size, she must weigh close to 400 pounds, right?"

"What nonsense are you talking about? She weighs at least 500 pounds! Look at her waist!"

A thin, long-faced manager squinted at him for a while, his tone full of emotion.

"Mark is impressive; he single-handedly rowed an entire boat. His fork-wielding skills are probably among the best in the entire Greywater River!"

He paused, then lowered his voice: "I heard they recently brought in a new assistant, who might be able to take over his job in the future."

A bald old man next to him shook his head.

"Take over? Look at that fish again."

The bald old man gestured towards the boat with his lip.

"With that size, it's almost a low-level mutant. Its abilities in the water are beyond our wildest imaginations. Mark can easily kill even this thing; who can take his place?"

The group of people took turns speaking, their tone filled with admiration.

The planks of the boat were placed on the pier, and the sailors began to unload their catch.

Baskets were passed down one after another, filled with white-scaled fish, river shrimp, and miscellaneous fish, piled on the wooden planks on the shore.

Several laborers who had come aboard to help walked to the stern, lifted the tarpaulin, and saw the mangled body of a half-human torso underneath. Their movements froze in unison.

"This is... Old Mike?"

The short, stout manager came closer, and the excitement on his face vanished instantly.

"What a pity."

Mark jumped out of the cabin, his expression calm, but he couldn't hide the weariness in his eyes.

"That beast ambushed me and bit off half my body."

There was silence on the shore for a few seconds.

Someone patted Mark on the shoulder and whispered something.

"At least you killed the fish, which avenges old Mike."

Mark paused for a moment.

He looked up, his expression a little strange.

"I didn't kill him."

The shore fell silent again.

The thin-faced manager smiled, thinking Mark was joking.

"Captain, when did you learn to be humble? This fish can't even be pierced with a harpoon. Who else but you can kill it?"

The bald old man squatted down next to the fish carcass, stared at the wound on its back for a long time, and frowned.

"Are these traces of claw techniques?"

He reached out and touched the charred and corroded fish flesh at the edge of the wound, then withdrew his fingers, his fingertips covered in a layer of grayish-black powder.

"Mark, when did you start learning claw-based combat techniques?"

Mark didn't answer. He turned and walked to the pier, waving to Siron, who was passing fishing baskets down.

Siren jumped off the deck, the harpoon still tucked in his arm.

Mark slapped him on the shoulder: "The new forklifter who just joined the fleet."

Mark's voice wasn't loud, but everyone on the shore heard it.

"He's incredibly capable; he avenged Old Mike."

More than a dozen pairs of eyes on the shore fell on Xilun.

The bald old man stood up and looked Xilun up and down twice.

The young man was lean but had broad shoulders and a very low center of gravity, clearly indicating that he was a trained fighter.

The old man's gaze fell on Xilun's hands hanging by his side.

Long, slender fingers with thick knuckles, and a thin layer of calluses on the palms.

These aren't calluses from holding a harpoon; they're the kind that only someone who has practiced hand and claw techniques for a long time would develop.

Moreover, the fingers are fair and slender with distinct knuckles, which are not the marks one would see from practicing with knives or swords.

It's clear that the hands were specially forged with extraordinary materials to create such marks.

"Claw Skill----"

The old man muttered something to himself and then looked at the wound on the fish carcass.

He didn't say anything more, and silently nodded.

The catch is stored away, and the harpoons and spears are put away.

The fish's carcass was lifted onto a cart by four laborers and taken away separately.

Xilun walked along the riverbank for about ten minutes before returning to the Golden Rooster Hotel.

He closed the door, took off his coat, which was stained with fish blood and smelled of the river, and hung it on the back of the chair.

The hot water was boiled in advance.

Anman had placed a pot of tea on the stove before leaving, and it was still warm.

Xilun poured hot water into the tin basin and used it to wash away the blood and sweat from his body.

The fishy smell of the river faded from my skin, replaced by the pungent, alkaline smell of coarse soap.

He dried himself off and changed into a clean coarse cloth shirt.

The sky outside the window was already fully bright, and the grayish-white light squeezed in through the cracks in the window, shining on the small wooden table by the bed.

There was a black box on the table.

Xilun sat on the edge of the bed and opened the box.

Only a thin layer of deer antler cream remained in the box; the translucent cream adhered to the bottom of the box, emitting a faint herbal fragrance.

He scooped out a small piece and applied it to the skin of his forearm and chest.

The moment the cream melts, a cool sensation seeps into the pores, then turns warm, flowing slowly along the meridians.

Xilun closed his eyes and activated the Iron Wall Breathing Technique to guide the medicine deep into his skin.

A few minutes later, he opened his eyes.

I scraped the bottom of the container with my fingertip, and the cream was almost gone.

"It's time to buy some materials to aid in my cultivation."

Xilun closed the box and looked at the morning light streaming in through the window.

He tossed the empty box into the bedside drawer and lay down on the hard bed.

Faint sounds of ship horns and the shouts of laborers carrying goods drifted from the direction of the dock outside the window.

He closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep a few seconds later.

Inside the third-floor hall, a dozen or so people stood in front of the wooden stake.

Heusses pressed his hands against the stake, his palms pressed against the wood grain, his fingers slightly bent, and his strength extended outward along his metacarpal bones.

"The key is here."

He patted the side of the stake; the dark golden luster flashed and disappeared, leaving a shallow dent.

"Many people always think about tearing their opponent apart with one claw, putting all their power into their fingertips, but that's wrong."

Hughes turned around and scanned the audience: "The fingertips are the blade, the base of the palm is the hilt. If you can't hold the hilt firmly, even the sharpest blade is just scrap metal."

The trainees dispersed, facing each other in pairs, and pushed and shoved each other to test their skills, following the instructions they had just learned.

The muffled thuds of palm strikes echoed one after another.

With his hands behind his back, Hughes walked slowly between the groups, occasionally stopping to correct someone's hand position or tap someone's elbow.

After walking around twice, his gaze fell on the corner by the window.

Xilun kept his head down.

This person almost never looks up.

Hughes has taught martial arts for so many years and has seen all kinds of students.

Some people love to ask questions, as if they want to break down every detail and swallow it all; others are taciturn, but their eyes are always fixed on your hands.

West London is different.

He neither asked questions nor did he pay much attention to people.

Most of the time, he kept his head down, as if he was listening, or as if he was thinking about something else.

Then he silently practiced it himself, once, twice, three times.

Hughes looked at him for a moment, about to continue explaining the next point.

Xilun raised his head.

Those eyes looked over calmly, without doubt or urgency.

Hughes paused for a moment.

A thought suddenly popped into my head.

When he was talking about the point of force application, he reversed the connection between the palm heel and the wrist bone.

Hughes's lips twitched slightly.

"————There was a part that wasn't quite accurate just now."

He walked back to the wooden stake and placed his palm on it.

"When you generate power from the base of your palm, your wrist bones should be slightly turned inward, not outward. If they turn outward, the power will dissipate through the web between your thumb and forefinger, which is a waste of effort."

After he finished speaking, he glanced at the corner again.

Xilun has already lowered his head.

Hughes made a mental note: This kid wasn't ignoring it.

On the contrary, although he was thinking with his head down, he was putting his mind to it.

If he looks up one day, it's not because he's paying attention in class, but because Hughes has misspoken.

That concludes the explanation.

Hughes clapped his hands, his voice booming across the room: "Let's begin sparring now, starting with group nine."

The trainees returned to their respective positions.

The current nine groups were originally the eight groups.

After being driven down by Xilun and Falun, these people never managed to climb back up.

The practice session proceeded very quickly.

Nine groups finished, then eight groups, seven groups...