Martial Arts Secret Realm: Only I Can Know the Plot?

Chapter 139 Train

Sun Fan ignored the noise and continued to think with his eyes closed.

His whereabouts were easy to predict. The year-end competition was over, and he was going home for the holidays—a perfectly normal arrangement. Even the diva Chao Qingwu could guess he was going home; how could the mastermind not have?

Although the Dark Martial Arts Academy is bloody and cruel, it is at least a place with rules. No matter how fierce the fights between students are, they are still within the framework of the rules.

Things change once you step outside the school gates. There are no rules, no referees, and no Zhang Guangcheng and Feng Congyun watching over you. Many methods that are inconvenient to use on campus can be used outside.

For example, assassination.

Sun Fan placed his hand on the sword hilt, his fingertips tracing the notch on the guard, a mark left by the Blood Blade Ancestor's dagger. The rough metallic feel transmitted through his fingertips reassured him somewhat.

There are too many strangers on the train, the environment is too complex, the police can't manage it all, and there are blind spots in the surveillance. One "accident" could make a first-year student disappear forever.

Anonymous phone calls, hiring murderers, staging accidents. There are countless methods; with enough money, anything can be done.

Sun Fan didn't know if the mastermind had money, but he knew that the person who could mobilize Yan Gaotian and Shen Wuxiu must have plenty of resources.

The question is whether he's willing to fight off-campus? Fighting on campus, on the other hand, has the backing of rules and the ring as cover, and if something goes wrong, he can blame it on an "accident."

Taking action outside of school changes the nature of the crime. Assassinating a student from a shady martial arts school, if discovered, could provoke the school's fury.

Therefore, the mastermind will definitely not act personally. He will find someone, someone who has no direct connection to him, someone who, even if caught, will not be able to implicate him.

Sun Fan opened his eyes and looked at his reflection in the car window.

A young face, not exactly handsome, but clean-cut. There were heavy dark circles under his eyes, the result of not sleeping well these past few days.

The faint trace of bloodshot blood remained in his eyes, like the mark left by a drop of ink in clear water. He looked at himself for a moment, then looked away and gazed out the window.

The train passed a cemetery, the tombstones densely packed on the hillside like rows of silent soldiers. Looking at the tombstones, Sun Fan suddenly remembered his parents' disappearance. The police had investigated for months, but found nothing. No clues, no witnesses, no surveillance footage. The two of them had simply vanished into thin air, as if they had evaporated from the face of the earth.

Impossible. Two people disappearing would leave traces. Unless, someone deliberately erased those traces. And someone who could erase traces before the police could act is definitely not an ordinary person. They either have official connections or very strong financial resources.

The mastermind behind it all.

It's him again.

Sun Fan gripped the sword hilt tightly, his nails digging into his palms, causing a slight pain.

The old man opposite him woke up, rubbed his eyes, glanced at Sun Fan, then at the sword hilt sticking out from under his arm, a hint of wariness in his eyes. He nudged the old woman beside him, who also woke up, followed the old man's gaze, her expression changed slightly, then she lowered her head, pretending not to have seen anything.

Sun Fan noticed their reaction but didn't explain. He tucked the sword under his seat, covered it more tightly with his coat, then leaned back and continued looking out the window.

The train stopped at one small station after another, with people getting on and off at each stop, making the carriage increasingly crowded and the air increasingly stuffy. The smells of instant noodles, sweat, and cheap perfume mingled together, giving everyone a headache.

Sun Fan didn't care much. He had been in much harsher conditions during his time in the army, so this smell was nothing to him. What made him uncomfortable wasn't the smell, but an indescribable feeling, as if something was watching him from the shadows. It wasn't human gaze, but something more abstract and hidden, like an invisible net closing in from all directions, enveloping him.

This feeling started the moment I left the school gate and has never disappeared.

The train emerged from a tunnel, and the carriages darkened, with only the overhead fluorescent lights shining through, casting a pale, chalky light on everyone's faces, like a layer of chalk. The tunnel echoed loudly, a deafening rumble that made one's ears ring. Amidst this noise, Sun Fan closed his eyes, beginning to sort through his memories of his past life.

Were there any unusual signs before your parents went missing?

He tried hard to recall, piecing together fragments of his past life's memories—his father frequently received phone calls during that period, and his expression was never good after each call; his mother began tidying up the house, packing some old photos and letters into a cardboard box and placing it at the deepest part of the cabinet; under the ginkgo tree in the yard, his father dug a hole and buried something.

What was buried?

Sun Fan's heart skipped a beat. He carefully recalled the scene—one evening, the setting sun dyed the yard orange-red, his father was digging a hole under the ginkgo tree with a shovel, and his mother stood beside him, holding a small oilcloth package, about the size of a shoebox. After his father finished digging the hole, his mother put the package in, his father filled it with soil, tamped it down, and then covered it with a layer of fallen leaves.

What did they bury?

My memory ends here, as if the signal has been cut off, and the following scenes are all blank.

Sun Fan opened his eyes and looked at his reflection in the car window. The bloodshot in his eyes was particularly clear under the pale light. He vaguely felt that the thing buried under the ginkgo tree might be the key to everything.

Why did his parents disappear? Why is the mastermind targeting him? Why are they sending people to kill him again and again?

The answer may lie under that ginkgo tree.

The train stopped at another station, and a man in a black trench coat boarded. He wore sunglasses, his hat was pulled low, and he carried a black travel bag. Instead of looking for a seat, he stood in the connecting area between carriages, leaning against the window and looking out. His posture was relaxed, but Sun Fan noticed that his right hand remained in his trench coat pocket the entire time.

Sun Fan's gaze lingered on him for a moment, then shifted away, pretending to look out the window. But his right hand had already slipped under his coat and grasped the hilt of his sword.

The man in black stood there for about ten minutes, then took out his phone from his pocket, glanced at it, frowned, put the phone away, picked up his travel bag, and walked towards the other end of the carriage. As he passed Sun Fan, he paused slightly, then continued walking, disappearing at the far end of the carriage.

Sun Fan loosened the hilt of his sword; his palms were covered in sweat.

He didn't know if that person was after him, but he knew one thing—this journey home wouldn't be peaceful.

The train continued its journey, and the sky outside the window gradually darkened. Winter days are short; before five o'clock, the sun began to set in the west. The orange-red sunset painted the horizon like a faded oil painting, its colors fading layer by layer until finally blending into the gray-blue twilight.

Sun Fan leaned back in his seat, watching the scenery rushing past the window. Telegraph poles, farmland, villages, and hills flashed by one after another, like a fast-forwarded shot in a movie, blurry and fragmented.

He suddenly remembered a quote from Ding Dian: "Some things don't cease to exist just because you stop thinking about them. They'll always be there, waiting for you to turn back."

He had thought about his parents' disappearance before, but every time he thought about it deeply, a strange feeling would well up inside him—not sadness, not anger, but resistance. It was as if his brain was automatically blocking out those images, preventing him from thinking about them any further.