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

Chapter 140 Undercurrents

There are too many such "automatic filtering" memories in the predecessor's memory.

Perhaps because the pain was too intense, the brain chose to block it out.

In his predecessor's memories, there were too many such "automatic shielding" phenomena. It wasn't forgetting, but rather shielding, as if someone had covered those gaps in his memories with a semi-transparent membrane. You knew there was something underneath, but you couldn't see through it no matter what you did. Sun Fan tried hard to think, to pry open that membrane, but every time he was about to touch it, a strange dizziness would surge up, like drowning, like falling, his consciousness being dragged into a hazy void, unable to grasp anything, unable to see anything.

He opened his eyes and looked at his blurry reflection in the car window. The lights in the carriage had been dimmed, the stark white light turning into a yellowish hue, casting a veil over his face. The bloodshot in his eyes was almost invisible in the dim light, but he knew it was still there, like a thorn stuck in his heart—not painful, but always there.

The train stopped at another station. The platform lights were dim, illuminating a few scattered people waiting for the train. Some boarded, some disembarked, their footsteps echoing on the empty platform like pebbles thrown into a deep well. Sun Fan's gaze swept over the group boarding—a middle-aged man carrying a woven bag, a young woman holding a child, and an elderly man in a gray cotton-padded coat, hunched over and coughing as he walked in.

No exception.

But Sun Fan's hand never left the hilt of the sword.

A few carriages away, a silent confrontation had already ended.

Feng Congyun's disciple was named Lu Qing. In his early thirties, at the peak of the fifth realm, he wasn't particularly burly, but he had a broad frame and looked like a small mountain when he sat there. He wore an inconspicuous dark blue down jacket and a baseball cap pulled low over his shoulder, holding a half-read magazine in his hand, looking like an ordinary business traveler.

He's been watching that person for a long time.

The man boarded the train from the city where the dark martial arts school was located. He was wearing a black trench coat, sunglasses, and his hat was pulled low. He was carrying a black travel bag. After boarding, he didn't look for a seat but stood in the connecting area between the carriages, leaning against the window, his left hand in his trench coat pocket and his right hand hanging at his side.

Lu Qing noticed that his right hand had never been taken out of his pocket.

It wasn't cold. The carriage was heated, over 20 degrees Celsius; wearing a trench coat was already warm enough, and having your hands in your pockets would only make it hotter. Unless—there was something hidden in your pockets.

A short knife. Or a dagger. Or something smaller, more concealed, capable of taking a life in three seconds.

Lu Qing didn't rush to make a move. His master had said that the assassins of the Unforgivable Pavilion were not best at direct combat, but at stealth and assassination. They were like snakes, hiding where you couldn't see them, waiting for you to lower your guard before striking a fatal blow. But once exposed to the light of day and forced into direct confrontation, their advantage was greatly diminished.

What Lu Qing had to do was expose the snake to the sunlight.

He didn't follow the man in black, but walked ahead of him. He walked from the connecting area between the carriages to the hard-seat carriage, from the hard-seat carriage to the sleeper carriage, and from the sleeper carriage to the dining car. He didn't look back, didn't glance at him, didn't scrutinize him, but simply slowed down at each turn, waiting for the man to catch up.

The man in black followed. Not stalking, but getting closer. He couldn't afford to have too many witnesses where he was going to make his move.

The dining car was closed, and the aisle between the carriages was deserted. The train entered a tunnel, and the carriages became completely dark, with only the green glow of the emergency lights illuminating the aisle floor like will-o'-the-wisps.

Lu Qing stopped in his tracks.

He didn't turn around; he just stood there, his back to the man in black, motionless.

The man in black stopped three meters behind him. The shadows of the two men stretched long under the green light, like two crossed swords, one in front of the other, one still and one in motion.

"You've been following me for a long time," Lu Qing said, his voice not loud, but it was exceptionally clear in the quiet corridor.

The man in black did not answer. He slowly pulled his right hand out of his trench coat pocket. Sure enough, he was holding something—not a short knife, but a smaller, narrow-bladed dagger, only a finger's length long, with a jet-black blade that did not reflect light and was almost invisible in the dark.

"The Wushe Building?" Lu Qing asked again, his tone as casual as if he were asking what was served in the cafeteria today.

"Your master is Feng Congyun?" He finally spoke, his voice hoarse, as if something had burned his throat.

Lu Qing did not answer.

"He sent you to protect that kid surnamed Sun?" The man in black took a step forward.

Three meters becomes two meters.

Lu Qing remained motionless. His hands hung limply at his sides, holding no weapon, not even clenched into a fist. He looked vulnerable, like a lamb to the slaughter.

The man in black raised his dagger.

Two meters becomes one meter. Within that one meter, he is confident he can pierce anyone's throat in half a second. His dagger is poisoned, deadly upon contact with blood; it doesn't need to penetrate deeply, just a slit in the skin, and within three seconds, even a god couldn't save him.

Then he saw Lu Qing's hand.

It wasn't a reach to the waist, nor was it taking something out of one's pocket; it was simply a wrist flip. The right hand, which had been hanging at the side, now faced upwards with the fingers slightly spread, as if to catch something.

The man in black didn't see how Lu Qing made his move. He only saw a shadow flash past in his peripheral vision, and then his right wrist was wrapped around something—not a rope, but fingers. Lu Qing's fingers, like five iron clamps, gripped his wrist tightly, with a force so great it felt like he was going to crush his bones.

The dagger slipped from the man in black's hand and fell to the ground with a clang.

The man in black's expression changed. He tried to pull his hand away, but couldn't. He tried to reach for his spare weapon with his left hand, but Lu Qing's other hand was already on his left shoulder. A powerful surge of internal energy flowed into his Jianjing acupoint, like a red-hot iron rod piercing his meridians, causing him to lose all feeling in his entire left arm instantly.

"A bronze medal." Lu Qing glanced down at the small bronze tattoo on the inside of the black-clad man's wrist, his voice remaining calm. "A bronze medal assassin from the Unforgivable Tower, codenamed 'Centipede'?"

The man in black's pupils contracted sharply. He hadn't expected the other party to even know his code name.

"Your master has been investigating us for a long time?" There was finally a hint of unease in his voice.

Lu Qing did not answer the question. He loosened his grip on the man in black's wrist, but did not let go. Instead, he changed to a more effortless position, lifting the man by the back of his neck like a chick, and pressed him against the carriage wall.

"Who hired you?"

The man in black's lips twitched, as if hesitating whether to speak. In their line of work, rules were more important than life. If he revealed his employer's information, even if he returned alive, the Unforgivable Pavilion wouldn't let him go. But if he didn't speak, he didn't know whether the man before him would kill him.

Lu Qing saw through his hesitation and suddenly smiled. It was a very soft smile, like a pebble rolling down his throat.