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

Chapter 141 Memories

"You don't need to tell me," he said. "You just need to go back and tell your superior, Sun Fan, that Feng Congyun has saved his life. If you want to kill him, you'll have to get past me first."

The man in black was stunned.

Lu Qing released his grip, took two steps back, put his hands back into his pockets, tilted his head and looked at him. There was no murderous intent in his eyes, only a lazy, nonchalant look, as if he were looking at stray cats and dogs on the roadside.

The man in black stood still, staring at Lu Qing for a few seconds. He couldn't understand why this person had let him go.

In the assassin world, the rule is that if you fail, you are either killed or crippled; there is never such a thing as "letting you go."

Unless—this person doesn't care about him at all. Doesn't care if he makes a comeback, doesn't care if he brings someone even more powerful.

Because in his eyes, he was just an ant, and the ant's revenge was not worth taking seriously.

A hint of humiliation flashed across the man in black's face, but he said nothing. He bent down, picked up the dagger from the ground, and turned to disappear into the darkness of the connecting area between the carriages.

Lu Qing leaned against the carriage wall, took out his phone from his pocket, and sent a message to Feng Congyun: "Master, the people from Wushelou came. Bronze badge, codename Centipede, they've been dealt with. They weren't killed, they were released."

Less than ten seconds after the message was sent, Feng Congyun's reply arrived. It contained only two words: "Attention."

Lu Qing stared at the two words for a few seconds, then suddenly smiled, put his phone in his pocket, and turned to walk towards the carriage where Sun Fan was.

He walked to the entrance of Sun Fan's carriage, but didn't go in; he just stood there for a while. Through the semi-transparent carriage door, he could see Sun Fan sitting by the window, head down, holding the hilt of a sword, seemingly resting with his eyes closed. The elderly couple opposite him were already asleep, as were the mother and child next to him; only he remained awake, like a taut bowstring, ready to be released at any moment.

Lu Qing watched for a while, then turned and left.

He had no intention of speaking to Sun Fan. His master's task was protection, not befriending. Sun Fan didn't need to know he existed, what he had done, or even that someone had taken a knife for him from behind his back. Some things, the unknown, are easier to keep from sleeping.

He walked back to his seat, sat down, picked up the half-read magazine again, and continued reading. It was as if nothing had happened.

But he knew this was just the beginning.

The bronze-ranked assassins of the No Mercy Pavilion are only the lowest tier. If a bronze-ranked assassin fails, they'll send a silver-ranked one. If a silver-ranked one fails, they'll send a gold-ranked one. Once on the No Mercy Pavilion's list, it's a fight to the death. This isn't a threat; it's a promise. A promise built on bones, one that has never been broken.

The train continued on its way.

It was completely dark outside. Sun Fan sat in his seat, eyes closed, seemingly resting, but actually constantly circulating his internal energy. The inner force of the Divine Illumination Scripture flowed slowly through his chest, the warm energy repeatedly washing over his meridians. The injury on his left shoulder hadn't fully healed, but it was no longer a problem. He flexed his fingers, his knuckles cracking, but his hand gripping the sword remained strong.

He knew nothing about the man in black. He was completely unaware that Lu Qing had taken care of the assassin for him in the shadows.

But he knew one thing—someone was following him.

Sun Fan opened his eyes and looked out at the dark night. The train was passing through a wilderness, with scattered lights in the distance, flickering like diamonds scattered on a black cloth.

He took out his phone, opened the search bar, and typed in the three words "ginkgo tree".

The search results showed that his old house was located on an old street on the outskirts of Jiangcheng. The street was lined with ginkgo trees, which turned the ground golden in autumn, making it a well-known local attraction. The street was called Ginkgo Lane, and his house number was 17. It was a two-story building with gray bricks and blue tiles, and there was a ginkgo tree in the yard that was older than the house itself.

He found a photo album from its predecessor.

Sun Fan stared at the photo on his phone screen for a long time. The photo was taken several years ago; the ginkgo leaves hadn't turned yellow yet, they were lush and green, blocking out the sun. Standing under the tree was a boy, wearing a white T-shirt, holding a wooden sword, smiling to reveal two rows of white teeth.

That was its predecessor.

Sun Fan, eleven years old.

Behind him stood two people: a tall man in dark blue overalls, with short hair and a resolute face, his large hand resting on the boy's shoulder; and a woman a little further away, wearing a floral dress, with long hair flowing down her shoulders, smiling gently, holding a palm-leaf fan as if fanning the boy.

Those were his parents. He had never seen them in photos or videos during his year at the Dark Martial Arts School.

In his past life's memories, their faces were always blurry, as if seen through frosted glass. But in this photo, their faces are clear—clear eyebrows and eyes, clear smiles, so clear that he can see the tiny scar at the corner of his father's eye and the faint mole on his mother's left cheek.

Sun Fan zoomed in on the photo and stared at his father's face for a long time.

He recognized those eyes. Not in a photograph, but somewhere else?

He couldn't remember.

That feeling surged up again—like something was being suppressed deep within his memory, desperately trying to emerge, but blocked by a thick, hard shell. He could feel movement beneath the shell, and hear muffled impacts, but the shell was too thick; he couldn't break through it no matter what he did.

He put his phone away, leaned back in his seat, and closed his eyes.

The station lights outside the window cast a dim yellow glow, illuminating a few scattered people waiting for the train. Some boarded, some alighted, their footsteps echoing on the empty platform like pebbles thrown into a deep well. Sun Fan watched the figures flash past the window, then suddenly remembered something, took out his phone from his pocket, and glanced at the time.

One o'clock in the morning.

He leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes, and continued circulating his internal energy. The inner force of the Divine Illumination Scripture flowed slowly through his chest, the warm energy washing over his meridians again and again. The injury on his left shoulder hadn't fully healed, but it was no longer a problem. He flexed his fingers, his knuckles cracking, but his hand gripping the sword remained strong.

Feng Congyun, far away at the Dark Martial Arts School, did not sleep a wink that night.

He sat in the pavilion atop the small hill, a pot of wine, a dish of peanuts, and a cell phone on the stone table. The screen was lit, displaying a message from Lu Qing: "From Wushe Tower, bronze badge, codename 'Centipede'."

He lifted his wine cup from the clouds, tilted his head back, and took a swig. The wine stung his throat, sharp as a knife. He didn't swallow; he held it in his mouth, squinting at the dark night outside the pavilion. After a long while, he slowly swallowed, put down the cup, leaned against a pillar, closed his eyes, and tapped his fingers lightly on the stone table.

The Unforgivable Tower.