A person sacrifices himself to become a saint in a chaotic world of martial arts.

After all, the position of jailer is not a low one.

Many people think this is a trivial position with little power, just a job guarding the prison cells, dealing with prisoners all day, dirty and tiring, and covered in mold and blood. But that's not the case. The position of prison warden has never been a simple one since ancient times.

Wherever there is a local official, one of the core personnel will inevitably be the jailer.

This seemingly insignificant position actually involves various parties. It connects to the county government at the top, to the marketplace at the bottom, and to those imprisoned on both sides. Like a knot in a large net, a slight movement can affect the entire net.

You know, for many prisoners, whether they live or die, and when they will live or die, are all very important questions.

There's a lot more to this than meets the eye—some want someone to die in jail, while others want them to come out alive; some want the case to continue investigating, while others want it to rot inside and never see the light of day again; some want to meet with prisoners in jail and pass on information, while others want to silence the prisoners and bury the truth forever.

All of these issues inevitably involve the prison warden.

If the jailer nods, the deal is done; if the jailer shakes his head, even the Emperor himself can't help it.

Therefore, this position has always been given to trustworthy people, people who are of great use.

Ning Yuechan's intention in placing Su Bai in this position was quite profound.

As Xing Huai'an thought about this, the surprise on his face gradually faded, like the tide receding, and was replaced by a sense of realization.

He looked at Su Bai again, his gaze now more meaningful. His eyes lingered on Su Bai's face for a moment, like a soft ruler carefully measuring something, before slowly moving away and landing on a spot outside the window, on the branches and leaves of the old locust tree, on the dancing spots of light, as if he were pondering something profound.

His fingers tapped lightly on the table, one tap after another, rhythmically.

"Please keep this a secret for now, Lord Xing!" Su Bai said, clasping his hands in a fist salute, his palms folded in front of his chest, the veins on the back of his hands slightly bulging. He leaned forward slightly, bending at a respectful angle, his attitude sincere and solemn.

His voice wasn't loud, but it carried an undeniable weight; every word seemed to come from the depths of his heart, heavy and warm.

"Rest assured, I understand, and I will keep my mouth shut," Xing Huai'an said, returning the greeting with a fist salute. He raised his hands to eyebrow level, his face solemn, his eyebrows slightly furrowed, and his eyes serious as if he were making a solemn oath.

He nodded, his movements slow but firm, the muscles in his neck slightly tense, like a promise, a silent agreement. He paused, his Adam's apple bobbing, and then added:

"This kind of thing really shouldn't be publicized too early. It's not too late to talk about it after the transfer order comes down and everything settles down. At that time, I'll definitely treat Lord Su to a drink to celebrate his promotion."

"Then I'll take my leave," Su Bai said, bowing again with his hands clasped, bending even deeper at the waist, before straightening up and turning to walk towards the door.

His footsteps echoed inside the room, the soles of his boots making a dull thud on the ground, one after another, like the rhythm of a heartbeat, fading into the distance.

As he reached the doorway, his figure paused for a moment in the doorway frame. Sunlight streamed in from outside, gilding him and outlining his silhouette—the lines of his shoulders and the curves of his waist. Then he pushed open the door, and the light intensified, almost blinding him. The door then closed with a slight creak, the sound of the hinges turning somewhat jarring. His figure vanished outside, leaving only a long shadow that flashed past in the crack of the door.

Xing Huai'an stood there, staring at the closed door, his gaze lingering for a long time.

His brows were slightly furrowed, a shallow "川" character forming between them. His fingers tapped the table unconsciously, making a soft, rhythmic sound that was particularly clear in the quiet room, like a water clock ticking away, second by second.

After a long while, he finally looked away, his eyes darting around before he sat back down in his chair, which creaked slightly. He picked up the now-cold teacup, took a sip, and found the tea to be cold and slightly astringent.

He held the tea in his mouth, not swallowing it immediately, his eyes deep, lost in thought, his pupils reflecting the swaying shadows of the trees outside the window.

This time, apart from alerting Ning Yuechan and having her discover his strength, everything else was still under control.

As Su Bai walked back, he silently made plans in his mind.

The sunlight shone down from above, somewhat dazzling, and he squinted slightly, his eyelashes casting a small shadow beneath his eyes. His steps were unhurried, maintaining a steady rhythm. Various sounds came from the shops on both sides of the street—the clanging and banging of blacksmiths striking red-hot iron, sparks flying.

The storytelling in the teahouse rose and fell with rhythmic cadence, the gavel slammed on the table with a crisp crack; and the cries of vendors rose and fell in waves.

"Fresh fruit—" "Hot steamed buns, just out of the steamer—"

But these sounds were as if they were separated by something, not clearly heard, like through a layer of water, blurry and indistinct.

He walked among the crowd, people coming and going around him. Some brushed past him, some walked towards him and then passed by, but none of this mattered to him. He was immersed in his own world, thinking about his own thoughts.

The key point is that this kill of An Wuyu was a huge gain.

He has already taken the time to study the secret manuals he found on An Wuyu.

It was after he returned to his lodgings last night that he lit an oil lamp, took out the cloth bag from his bosom. The bag still bore traces of blood, now dried to a dark brown and stiff. He unfolded it layer by layer, the bag making a slight rustling sound, revealing two thin booklets.

The flame of the oil lamp flickered, casting flickering shadows on the booklet, sometimes bright, sometimes dim, as if it were alive.

He opened the first book, and on the cover were four characters—Frost Sword Manual. The handwriting was somewhat messy, but the strokes were powerful, each one as if etched in. He opened the second book, and there were again four characters—Icy Strength, the same handwriting, the same force.

The Frost Sword Technique is a superior sword technique of the Diancang School, extremely swift and powerful.

The booklet contains detailed sword techniques and methods of channeling energy. Each page is covered with densely packed annotations in varying shades of ink, indicating that they were added at different times.

There are also some hand-drawn human figures, with fine lines marking the angle of the sword strike and the direction of the force. The human figures are in different postures, some thrusting forward, some sweeping backward, some slashing horizontally, and some chopping vertically.

The handwriting was somewhat messy, and it was clear that it was a handwritten copy, but every stroke and line showed care and the piety and seriousness of the copyists.

The Frost Force is a superior internal skill of the Diancang School, also famous in Zhangzhou. When mastered to a high level, it can truly freeze opponents with ice. It is said that when mastered, a single palm strike can freeze a three-foot square body of water.

This booklet is slightly thicker than the previous one, and the paper is a bit yellowed with slight curling at the edges. It contains complete internal energy cultivation methods and diagrams of energy circulation routes. The lines meander and twist on the human body diagram like streams, some thick, some thin, some deep, and some shallow, marking the path of true energy circulation and the location of acupoints.

As Su Bai flipped through the pages, he could feel the rough texture of the paper under his fingertips. The paper was somewhat brittle, so he had to be extra careful when turning it over. There was also that old, bookish smell mixed with a hint of mildew and a faint, almost imperceptible, smell of blood—perhaps it was his imagination, or perhaps An Wuyu's blood had seeped into the cloth bag and stained the booklet.

The only problem is whether he can practice these two techniques.

He closed the booklet, the cover making a soft snap as it closed.

He fell into deep thought, his gaze fixed on the flickering lamplight, the flames dancing in his pupils, sometimes large, sometimes small.

The Diancang Sect is a prestigious sect, established for over a century with a deep-rooted foundation. Their techniques are never passed down to outsiders, let alone such superior martial arts; these are secret teachings accessible only to core disciples. To rashly practice such techniques and have one's origins revealed, bearing the marks of the Diancang Sect in one's actions, could likely bring immense trouble.

When the Diancang Sect comes knocking, at best his martial arts will be crippled, at worst he will be killed on the spot, and no one can save him.

Moreover, once the Diancang Sect learns that he killed An Wuyu, will they know that An Wuyu possessed a secret manual, or that he seized the manual? These are all unknowns, like a fog, unclear and intangible.

If the Diancang Sect knew that An Wuyu's secret manual had fallen into his hands, would they send someone to retrieve it?

In short, some things need to be observed further.

He carefully wrapped the two booklets again, layer upon layer, as if they were something precious and fragile. Then he tucked them into a hidden compartment under the bed board, which was slightly loose and could be easily lifted open.

After he placed it in place, he pressed the bed board back down, making sure it was completely sealed so that not a trace could be seen.

Then I lay on the bed, put my hands behind my head, and stared blankly at the beams of the roof.

The beams were old, blackened, with wormholes and signs of smoke and fire. Moonlight streamed in through the cracks in the window, casting a thin, white glow on the floor, like a silver thread. He turned over, the bed creaking, and closed his eyes, but his mind kept wandering, tossing and turning like a revolving lantern.

However, he had already collected both of these techniques.

Regardless of whether you can practice it or not, and regardless of what troubles may arise later, it's always a good thing to have the item in your hands.

As he thought this, his mood gradually calmed down, and his breathing became even and long.

The sound of the night watchman's clapper came from outside the window, dong, dong, dong, it was the third watch of the night. The sound carried far in the quiet night, with a slight echo.

Then came a long shout: "Dry weather—be careful with fire—" The voice trailed off, drifting in the night wind, gradually fading into the darkness.