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

Chapter 144 Door-to-Door Visit

"Principal Tie, the rules of the No Mercy Pavilion state that anyone who trespasses will be killed without mercy." His voice turned cold.

Tie Fusheng finally stopped. He stood in front of the man in gray, half a head taller, looking down at him. His eyes were as calm as a stagnant pool, a calmness that sent chills down one's spine.

"What's your name?"

The man in gray was taken aback, not expecting him to ask that. "—'Crane.' Silver plaque from the Unforgivable Pavilion."

"Silver medal." Tie Fusheng nodded. "What was your ranking?"

Thirty-seven.

Tie Fusheng looked him up and down, then said, "Get lost."

A hint of humiliation flashed across the gray-clad man's face.

He spent fifteen years at the No Mercy Tower, fighting his way up from bronze to silver, ranking twenty-seventh, and was a well-known figure in the assassin circle.

But when faced with Tie Fusheng, he found that he had no confidence to refute him.

Tie Fusheng stood there, knife slung over his shoulder, completely unguarded. But he could sense which one would die if he made a move. It was an assassin's intuition, an intuition honed through countless brushes with death.

This intuition wouldn't lie to him.

But the rules of Wushe Tower did not allow him to back down. "He" gritted his teeth and drew a short knife from his waist with his right hand. The blade was pitch black and did not reflect light. It was coated with a deadly poison.

"Principal Tie, you've offended him!" he rushed forward.

The short sword drew a black arc in the air, heading straight for Tie Fusheng's throat. "Crane" was incredibly fast, as fast as lightning. Within a radius of about ten feet around Tie Fusheng, there were countless sword shadows, densely packed, like a black net, enveloping Tie Fusheng in the middle.

This was already the silver-medal killer's all-out effort.

Then he felt something grab his right arm.

It wasn't that he was blocked, but that he was grabbed. Tie Fusheng's left hand, somehow, slipped into the shadows of the blades, passing through every gap in the attack, and with a precision as if measured with a ruler, grabbed his wrist. Three fingers, like three iron clamps, gripped his wrist bone tightly.

Crane's pupils contracted sharply. He tried to pull his hand away, but couldn't. He tried to kick with his left foot, but Tie Fusheng's knee was already pressing against his lower abdomen.

It's not about using force, it's just about holding on.

Tie Fusheng's voice came from above, flat as a still lake: "I said, get out."

"He" raised his head and looked at Tie Fusheng. He would never forget the expression on that face—it was like looking at an ant.

Tie Fusheng released his grip and took a step back.

"Crane" staggered back several steps, almost falling. He looked down at his wrist; three bright red finger marks were now on his skin, burning with pain. Looking down again, he saw his knife was still in his hand, the blade without a single mark.

This person could have easily crushed his wrist. He could have easily broken his arm. He could have easily smashed his throat with a single punch. But he didn't. He didn't even hurt a finger.

"Crane" stood there, watching Tie Fusheng continue walking up the mountain, his figure growing increasingly blurry in the morning mist. His lips moved a few times, as if he wanted to say something, but nothing came out. He just stood there, his hands still trembling.

Before an incense stick had burned, a second person appeared.

This time it wasn't one person, it was three. They were all dressed in black, their faces covered with black cloth, revealing only pairs of indifferent eyes.

The three people stood in a triangular formation in the middle of the mountain path, completely blocking the way.

Tie Fusheng stopped and looked at them.

The masked man in the middle spoke, his voice hoarse, like sandpaper scraping against stone: "Principal Tie, Wushe Building does not welcome you."

"If we go any further up, we won't stand on ceremony."

Tie Fusheng did not answer, but simply took the knife off his shoulder and held it in his hand.

This was the first time he had taken the knife off his shoulder since he went up the mountain.

Three gold medals, that's interesting.

The three men in black simultaneously placed their hands on their weapons—two short swords and a soft sword. Their auras merged into one, forming an invisible net that completely sealed off the mountain path. This was the combined attack formation of the Wushe Tower, a three-person unity, combining offense and defense. It was said to have evolved from ancient military formations, specifically designed to deal with attackers whose cultivation level was higher than their own but whose numbers were few.

Tie Fusheng took a step forward.

The three men in black drew their weapons simultaneously. Two short swords, one on the left and one on the right, slashed towards Tie Fusheng's ribs; a soft sword thrust forward from the front, its tip flashing as it aimed straight for Tie Fusheng's throat. The three weapons arrived almost at the same time, fast, accurate, and ruthless, without any warning.

Tie Fusheng did not dodge. He raised his knife and swung it horizontally.

There were no moves, no set pattern, just a single sweeping strike. The blade drew an arc in the air, whistling through the wind, as it swept past the tips of three weapons. Three crisp sounds rang out almost simultaneously. Two short swords flew from their hands, one embedding itself in a pine tree on the left, the other landing on the stone steps on the right, its blade humming and vibrating. The soft sword snapped, half of its blade flying into the air, tumbling several times, before landing in the roadside bushes.

The three men in black retreated simultaneously, looking down at their hands that gripped their weapons. Their thumbs and index fingers were split open, blood seeping out and trickling down their sides.

Tie Fusheng sheathed his sword, the tip pointing towards the ground, and continued walking forward. He passed between the three without even glancing at them.

At a glance.

The three men in black stood there, none of them moving, none of them speaking. It wasn't that they didn't want to stop them, but that they couldn't.

Tie Fusheng only used one-tenth of his strength in that strike. That one-tenth of his strength was enough to crack their tiger's mouths; if they hadn't retreated, that strike would have severed their arms as well. This is something they only realized afterward.

Tie Fusheng walked away and disappeared into the morning mist.

The mountain path grew steeper and steeper. Moss began to appear on the stone steps, the trees on both sides became denser, and the fog grew thicker.

Tie Fusheng walked at a moderate pace, his steps as steady as if he were walking on flat ground. After walking for about half an hour, he finally saw the outline of the pavilion on the mountaintop.

The three-story pavilion, with its upturned eaves and vermilion pillars appearing and disappearing in the mist, stands in front of a square paved with bluestone. In the very center of the square, a person stands.

The man was dressed in white, with white hair and a white beard. His face was thin and he looked to be in his seventies or eighties, but his back was ramrod straight, like a long spear stuck in the snow. His hands were very white, with long, slender fingers and distinct knuckles. He didn't look like an assassin, but more like a musician playing the zither. But Tie Fusheng knew that those hands had killed more people than he had ever seen.

Tie Fusheng stopped and gripped the knife tighter.

The man in white spoke: "Tie Fusheng, it's been many years." His voice was not loud, but it was very clear, as if it came from all directions at the same time, making it impossible to tell the direction.

Tie Fusheng looked at him, remained silent for a moment, and then said, "Old man, you're still alive."

The man in white laughed. "You're not dead yet, how could I dare to die?"

Tie Fusheng didn't want to waste words with him, so he pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. The paper was printed from the Martial Arts Association's intelligence system and contained only a few lines of text.

Sun Fan. First-year student at the Dark Martial Arts Academy. Bounty: 5 million. Status: In progress.

Tie Fusheng held up the paper and waved it in front of the man in white.

"Cancel the order." Just two simple words, nothing more.

The man in white looked at the paper, and the smile on his face slowly faded. He remained silent for a moment, then shook his head.

"Tie Fusheng. You know the rules of Wushelou. Once you accept an order, you can't back out."

Tie Fusheng folded the paper, put it in his pocket, then slung the knife over his shoulder and tilted his head to look at the man in white.

"Old man, you're forcing me to take action."

The man in white did not answer.