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

Chapter 142 The Outer Heavens, the Thirteenth Floor

These three words carry great weight in the martial arts world.

Beyond the heavens, on the thirteenth floor, each is different.

The thirteenth floor is not for the world.

Therefore, it is called the Heaven Beyond Heaven, the Thirteenth Floor.

Some believe in bloodshed and violence, and that only through blood and fire can they hone their fighting skills.

The Star-Picking Tower is full of charlatans who pretend to be gods and ghosts, set traps and schemes.

The Unforgivable Tower—that is the assassin's palace.

Feng Congyun had spent decades at the Dark Martial Arts School and had witnessed too many deaths.

Some died in the arena, some in the secret realm, and some in the shadows.

But those who die at the hands of the Unforgiving Tower often die in the most chilling ways.

Those people didn't die in the ring—that would be too honorable. They died on the road, in their cars, in their own beds, in any place you thought was safe. They died silently.

Like being gently crossed off a list with a pen, without blood, without screams, without a funeral. Just vanished from this world, cleanly and completely.

Feng Congyun opened his eyes, took out his phone from his pocket, and scrolled to a number in his contacts that had no name saved. It was Lu Chen's private number, which he had saved for many years but had never called.

Lu Chen. The principal of the Dark Martial Arts Academy, a peak sixth-realm expert. He is also the only person in the Dark Martial Arts Academy who has the ability to remove someone from the list of the Unforgivable Pavilion.

Feng Congyun stared at that number for a long time, his finger hovering above the send button, but he didn't press it.

He and Lu Chen didn't have much of a relationship. When he joined the Dark Martial Arts School more than twenty years ago, Lu Chen hadn't arrived yet. By the time Lu Chen was parachuted in as the principal, he had already become disheartened by Ye Liuxing's affair and voluntarily resigned from his teaching position, remaining a figurehead at the school in a semi-retired state.

The relationship between the two was merely a nodding acquaintance. When they met, they would say "Teacher Feng" or "Principal Lu" and then turn around and walk away without exchanging another word.

But now, he has no other choice.

The fact that the list cannot be removed means that people from Wushelou will come one after another.

If a bronze medalist dies, a silver medalist is sent; if a silver medalist dies, a gold medalist is sent; if an assassin dies, a stronger assassin is sent, until the name on the list is completely crossed off. This is the rule of the No Mercy Pavilion—once the order is placed, it cannot be cancelled.

It's not about money, it's about reputation. If Wushelou cancels its orders because of anyone's threats, its reputation will be ruined. So even if he is a sixth-realm swordsman, even if he was once the leader of the Eight Elders of the Round Table, Wushelou will not back down because of his threats.

Feng Congyun gritted his teeth and typed out the message anyway.

"Principal Lu, Sun Fan is being targeted by assassins from the No Mercy Pavilion."

Click send.

The message was sent. There was no reply.

Feng Congyun waited for five minutes, ten minutes, half an hour. The phone screen lit up and went out, went out and lit up again, but there was still no new message notification.

He poured the last mouthful of wine from the flask into his mouth, leaned against the pavilion pillar, and looked at the stars in the sky. The winter stars were very bright, each one like a scattering of diamonds on a black cloth, or like countless eyes coldly watching the world.

He suddenly smiled. It was a bitter smile.

Wind from the Clouds, you're just a washed-up swordsman. Why should anyone help you?

He was about to put his phone away when the screen suddenly lit up.

It wasn't Lu Chen's number; it was a number I didn't recognize at all.

Just a few lines.

"I will go to the No-Pardon Building to negotiate."

Feng Congyun stared at that line of words for a long time, and a slight smile slowly appeared on his lips.

It wasn't a laugh, it was a sense of relief. A relief that came from finally letting go of something that had been weighing on your mind.

He placed his phone on the stone table, looked up at the stars, and exhaled a puff of white breath. The winter night wind blew down from the mountaintop, biting cold, but he didn't feel cold. Warmth welled up from his heart, like taking a big gulp of strong liquor, warming him from his throat all the way to his stomach, and from his stomach to every part of his body.

In the principal's office of the Dark Martial Arts School, Lu Chen hung up the phone, stood up, walked to the window, and looked at the night outside. He didn't turn on the light; moonlight shone in through the window, falling on his face and illuminating his angular, imposing features.

He was over sixty years old, but his physique was still as robust as a mountain. He wore a gray Zhongshan suit, the buttons fastened meticulously, and his hair was combed neatly. Even in the dead of night, there was no trace of sloppiness.

He was thinking about the message Feng Congyun had sent him—"You've been put on the list of those in the Unforgivable Pavilion."

The Unforgivable Tower. One of the thirteen towers of the Outer Heavens, the highest hall for assassins.

There are many assassin organizations in this world. There are small workshops that only take on low-level jobs, assassination groups that specialize in working for the underworld, and private armed forces that are affiliated with certain powerful families. But all these organizations are insignificant in front of the Unforgiven Tower.

The Wushe Tower is different.

It wasn't because its assassins were the most skilled, nor because its intelligence network was the most extensive, nor even because it charged the most money. It was because of its rule—once a job was accepted, it was a fight to the death. It wasn't for the money, but for the prestigious reputation it held.

Once you're on this list, you either kill everyone who tries to kill you, or they kill you, or you die on this endless hunt. There is no third way.

Even members of the Unforgivable Pavilion themselves cannot cancel orders. This is not the decision of any one person, but an ironclad rule of the entire organization, a promise built over hundreds of years with countless corpses, and one that has never been broken.

Lu Chen turned around, picked up his coat from the table, draped it over his shoulders, and strode out of the office. One by one, the motion-sensor lights in the corridor illuminated his path. He walked quickly, each step carrying an unwavering certainty, as if he knew where he was going and what he should do once he arrived.

He walked out of the administration building, across the playground, and down the main road lined with ginkgo trees. The ginkgo trees were bare in winter, their branches swaying in the night wind, rustling softly. The moonlight shone on him, casting a long, long shadow, like a giant sword stuck in the dark ground of the martial arts school.

He stopped at the school gate.

The security guard poked his head out of the window, saw it was him, and paused for a moment: "Principal Lu, it's so late, are you going out?"

Lu Chen didn't answer, but simply took out his keys from his pocket and pressed the remote control. The iron gate slowly opened, emitting a muffled hum.

He stepped outside.

The night wind was strong, making his clothes flutter. But he walked steadily, each step firmly planted on the ground, moving step by step toward that direction.

The Martial Arts Association Building. Intelligence Section.

It's 3 a.m. The lights in the corridor are still on.

A young intelligence officer was organizing documents in the duty room when he suddenly heard the red phone on the desk ring. That red phone was an emergency line, not a call from someone within the martial arts association; it was a number only important figures on the outside could dial. It usually only rang twice a year, but today it rang.

The young intelligence officer paused for a moment, then quickly answered the call. "Feed?"