Starting as dockworkers, they swept through Chongqing.

Chapter 94 Waiting Late at Night, Distributing Treasure Fish, Refining

Captain Mark, like a statue cast in iron, squatted on the swaying bow of the ship.

His face was extremely solemn, his rough hands gripping the edge of the ship's gunwale tightly, his knuckles turning a pale color from the excessive force.

"Did you hear that?" Mark's voice was very low.

The sailors behind him huddled together, breathing rapidly.

In the darkness, everyone nodded repeatedly, like chickens pecking at rice.

The deep, distant sound from the direction of the underwater cave could not be concealed at all.

That was the distinctive cracking sound of a musket being fired, which could be clearly transmitted to the bottom of the ship even through the thick layers of water and rock walls.

"There's gunfire—there are people inside, and not just any people." An old sailor's voice trembled, and the rusty harpoon in his hand shook.

The group exchanged bewildered glances, their eyes brimming with extreme fear of the unknown.

The Greywater River at night is a den of monsters that devours people, let alone the kind of underground ditch that exudes an evil aura.

Mark took a deep breath of the cold air, which smelled strongly of fish, and forced down his agitation. He said in a deep voice, "Everyone wait here. Nobody go into the water rashly. That place is as narrow as a coffin. Going in would make you a sitting duck."

He immediately pulled out the cheap cigarette, soaked with sweat, from his pocket, but didn't light it. He just held it tightly in his mouth and waited quietly.

Time stretched out endlessly in this desolate reed marsh.

Every passing second was accompanied by the monotonous rhythm of waves lapping against the hull, like a dull knife sawing at everyone's nerves.

The night wind grew colder and colder, almost piercing through the thin, waterproof coarse cloth covering their bodies.

After a while, a dry voice came from the darkness: "Captain, are you still waiting? It's been a full hour since we set sail from Xilun."

Mark clenched his teeth, which were gripping the cigarette holder. He didn't answer immediately, but instead looked up at the night sky, which was obscured by dark clouds.

The chill from the thick fog had already begun to form a thin layer of frost on the deck.

"Is it time for us to go back yet?" Mark pondered for a moment.

"We'll be there in ten minutes," the sailor in charge of watching the water clock whispered in response.

Mark spat out the chewed-up cigarette from his mouth and said, slowly and deliberately, "Then wait another ten minutes."

A deathly silence fell on the deck once more. Only the mournful sound of the cold wind whistling through the mast echoed.

Ten minutes passed in the blink of an eye.

The water remained as still as a stagnant pool, without a single bubble rising. The young figure seemed to have completely merged into the abyss of the Greywater River, never to be seen again.

The sailors began to nervously rub their stiff hands, their eyes all fixed on Mark's broad back.

Mark hesitated. A complex mix of emotions flashed across his face, which was etched like a knife by the river winds year after year.

Reason told him that after being underwater for more than an hour and facing unknown armed enemies, the chances of survival were zero.

But the young man named Xilun always exuded a coldness and strength that he couldn't see through.

"I think—" Mark finally turned around, his gaze sweeping over each weathered face, "out of camaraderie as fellow passengers, let's wait another hour. What do you all think?"

Upon hearing this, everyone was taken aback. In this gray river where only money and fists matter, friendship is the cheapest thing.

But the image of Siron tearing the blackfish apart with his claw, and the gratitude he showed for avenging Old Mike, ultimately left a mark on the hearts of these men from the lower classes.

"Vote. Raise your hand if you think it's worth waiting," Mark's voice was firm and decisive.

After a moment of deathly silence, a rough hand slowly rose in the darkness. Then, a second, and a third.

Finally, everyone on the ship, including the most timid old sailor, silently raised their hands above their heads.

In this silent and stubborn way, everyone decided to gamble another hour for the young man who had only been on the ship for a few days.

Time flowed slowly, like stagnant glue.

The sound of each drop of water falling seemed to strike the hearts of everyone present.

Finally, just as half an hour was about to run out and Mark was about to reluctantly order the anchor to be pulled away, "crash!"

A crisp sound of water breaking suddenly ripped through the thick fog.

At that dark and cramped water outlet, a burst of water suddenly exploded.

A figure, like a black demon crawling out of hell, broke through the icy, bone-chilling river water and slowly swam out.

Xilun's face was deathly pale, his short black hair clung tightly to his forehead, and water droplets dripped down his hard jawline.

His hand was gripping a large fishing net tightly, and inside the net, countless black fish were leaping and thrashing about, splashing violently.

Mark stood up abruptly, the reprimand he had prepared stuck in his throat. He glanced at the fishing net following Xilun's hand and froze instantly, as if struck by lightning.

They were all black trout.

Its distinctive silver belly shimmered with a dazzling luster under the dim light of the lantern.

Mark Wolf swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down with difficulty.

He looked closely and saw that there were more than twenty lively and wriggling fish in the net! These were not fish, they were practically a gold mine swimming in the water!

"Captain, give me a hand." Xilun's voice was surprisingly calm, without even a hint of panting. He pushed the fully loaded fishing net toward the side of the boat and stretched out a hand that was white from being soaked in water.

Mark then seemed to wake from a dream and suddenly came to his senses.

He hurriedly leaned out, grabbed Xilun's wrist, and with a sudden burst of strength, pulled the seemingly icy young man onto the deck.

"Where did all these treasure fish come from?!" Mark stammered for the first time in his life. He stared at the large net that had been dragged onto the deck and was still thrashing about, his eyes bloodshot.

Xilen did not answer immediately. He pulled a dry towel from the wooden tub next to him and dried himself off expressionlessly.

The icy river water slid down his strong muscles, and within that seemingly unremarkable body lay a terrifying power that sent chills down one's spine.

After changing into dry, coarse cloth clothes, Xilun picked up a glass of chilled ale and downed it in one gulp before slowly opening his mouth, his voice as calm as if he were telling someone else's story.

He briefly explained how he encountered two armed robbers in the underwater cave, how they brutally murdered innocent people, and how he lurked underwater and dragged the two men into the abyss to drown.

There is no exaggeration, no gory embellishment, only the purest and most deadly logic of killing.

The sailors on the ship felt a chill run down their spines. Dragging someone underwater to suffocate? That would require immense strength and terrifying lung capacity!

Upon hearing this, Mark frowned deeply, lost in thought. After a moment, he gasped, "According to your description, those two people—should be Barr and Hawke, whom I know."

Mark's voice carried an undisguised shock: "They are both veteran fishermen in these waters, ruthless and vicious. What's most deadly is that they have both practiced breathing techniques for many years, and their foundation is very solid. A few years ago, they each attempted baptism once, but unfortunately, they both failed and couldn't afford the tens of pounds for a second baptism. But this absolutely does not mean they are weak; on the contrary, their strength on the water is terrifying."

At this point, Mark suddenly turned his head and stared intently at Xilen with an expression as if he were looking at a monster.

Two seasoned, experienced, and armed sea bandits, baptized and armed with firearms, were brutally killed on their own turf by a young man who wasn't even a first-order baptist!

Moreover, judging from Xilun's current appearance, he doesn't have a single decent wound on his body.

It was so powerful that it sent chills down your spine.

Ignoring Mark's awe-inspiring gaze, Xiren calmly pointed to the pile of struggling black trout on his nail plate and said, "As for these fish, although I dived down to catch them, everyone on the boat was waiting for me, so it was helpful. Everyone who sees them gets a share."

This wealth was too astonishing, and Siren was well aware of human greed.

He didn't care about the money; what he cared about was the cultivation progress these fish could bring. Offering to share the profits was the safest concession he could make given the current situation.

However, Mark raised his hand without hesitation to interrupt Xiren.

"No." Mark's weathered face was filled with unwavering determination. "Our help to you wasn't nearly that significant. You were risking your life; we were just standing there for a while. We don't need to give you the 50% we did last time."

Mark turned around, his imposing gaze slowly sweeping over all the crew members behind him. Although the sailors were staring at the fish and swallowing hard, not one dared to utter a word of objection under Mark's watchful eye.

Marx pondered for a moment and made a decision: "Here's what we'll do. I'm the captain, and I've taken the risk of ordering the wait. I'll take two, the others who just raised their hands to wait for you will each take one, and the rest are all yours."

Anyone have a problem with this?

The deck was completely silent.

Xiren gave Mark a deep look.

This rough-looking man possessed a set of principles and bottom lines rarely seen among the lower classes. It was these bottom lines that allowed this dilapidated fishing boat to exude a touch of humanity on the man-eating grey water river.

"Okay." Xilun nodded, no longer refusing.

The group immediately lit the windproof lanterns and began to carefully count the catch in the net.

"One, two—a total of twenty-nine black trout!" The sailor counting the fish exclaimed, his voice shrill with excitement.

According to Mark's allocation plan, the crew members were divided into nine groups.

The remaining twenty were all put into water-filled wooden barrels that Xilun had prepared separately.

Even Mark, with his exceptional self-control, couldn't help but look at the overflowing bucket of black elixirs with longing, glancing at it again and again. This was a resource that could fetch an astronomical price, enough to make countless martial artists envious.

"Sirlen, what are you going to do with all these fish? There are plenty of people on the black market willing to pay high prices for them," Mark asked tentatively.

Xilun tightened the lid of the wooden barrel without the slightest hesitation. He looked up and spoke in a calm tone, as if he were talking about tonight's supper: "I'm not selling any of these. I'll eat them myself."

Upon hearing this, Mark swallowed hard, and his eye twitched violently.

That's truly the height of extravagance.

Mark frowned, pondered for a long time in bewilderment, and then realized that only someone with such an obsessive pursuit of their own strength could turn the tide and kill Baal and Hawke in such a hopeless situation.

"Weigh anchor! Return to port!" Mark turned around and shouted sternly.

A dilapidated fishing boat, laden with heart-pounding wealth and unknown bloodshed, slowly drifted through the thick night and silently disappeared into the deep, boundless reed marshes.

The White Crow Wharf in the early morning exuded a decaying, damp chill.

The thick fog had not yet dissipated, and the early-rising laborers, like walking corpses, began their day's work under the dim yellow light of the gas lamps.

Avoiding everyone's gaze, Xilun carried the heavy, specially made wooden bucket and quietly returned to room 302 of the Golden Rooster Hotel.

The moment he closed the door, he completely shut out the noise from the outside world.

The room was filled with the musty smell of old wooden planks.

Instead of lighting the gas lamp, Xilun skillfully walked to the makeshift stove in the corner and lit a charcoal fire.

He pulled a black trout that was still struggling desperately from the bucket. Its scales were covered with a fine layer of mucus, exuding an extremely rich sense of life.

With swift, decisive strokes, he removed the scales, cut open the abdomen, and gutted the animal.

The iron pot was placed on the glowing red charcoal fire, and the water quickly boiled.

Xilun threw the cleaned blackfish in whole.

The soup was clear and watery, without a single drop of excess oil. Just before serving, a pinch of chopped green onions and coarse salt were sprinkled on top to enhance the flavor.

Steaming hot fish was served. Xilun picked up his knife and fork and devoured the firm, white fish.

Black trout has a very unique texture; it melts in your mouth and then transforms into a warm torrent that travels down your throat and slams into your stomach.

Even the last drop of soup was drunk clean.

After finishing his meal, Xilun immediately sat cross-legged on the hard wooden bed, closed his eyes slightly, and began to breathe slowly and rhythmically.

Iron Wall Breathing Method, in operation.

With each long breath followed by two short ones, the medicinal power in his stomach, transformed from black trout, seemed to ignite like gunpowder. Scalding hot blood and qi exploded from his abdomen, surging wildly through the blood vessels of his limbs like a flood bursting its banks.

His skin quickly flushed an unnatural crimson, and fine beads of sweat seeped from his pores. With each breath, he could clearly feel the medicinal power being greedily devoured by his muscles and skin.

The hidden injuries and fatigue accumulated from the intense training of the past few days quickly melted away under the nourishment of this warm energy.

It wasn't until two hours later that the effects of the medicine were fully absorbed. Xilun exhaled a breath of stale air and fell into a deep sleep.

The next morning, the blinding sunlight shone through the gaps in the blinds onto Xilun's face.

He suddenly opened his eyes, his whole body brimming with energy, as if he had inexhaustible strength within him.

Deep within the retina, a deep red panel slowly emerged.

A line of pale red data flickered like breathing:

[Iron Wall Breathing Method: Expert Level (700/1000)]

Just one black trout, plus a night of breathing exercises, saved him the effort of four or five days of arduous training he usually needed.

This visible speed made even Xilun's cold, hard heart pound violently.

"continue."

In the following period, Xiren canceled all unnecessary inspections at the docks, and even made excuses to cancel the Iron Cross Club's routine practice sessions.

He poured all his energy and time into these twenty black trout.

Day 1, Day 2, Day 3 —

Every morning without fail, he would cook a black trout, chew it up and swallow it whole, skin and bones, and then frantically practice the Iron Wall Breathing Technique, squeezing out every last bit of medicinal power.