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

Chapter 145 The Previous Lord

He knew that Tie Fusheng was not the kind of person who could be intimidated.

Back when he was wanted by the Martial Alliance, besieged by major families, and considered a thorn in the side by the entire martial arts world, he never retreated an inch.

He has been retired from the spotlight for many years now, and his martial arts skills may not be as good as they used to be, but his character has never changed.

That was a madman, a man whose very bones were etched with madness.

"Tie Fusheng, it's not that I don't want to help you." The white-clad man's voice lowered. "Sun Fan's name is indeed on our list."

But let me tell you, this list wasn't something Wushelou took the initiative to accept. Someone forced the names on it with a condition we couldn't refuse.

Tie Fusheng's brow twitched slightly.

The man in white looked at him, remained silent for a moment, and then said something that made Tie Fusheng's heart sink.

"You know the rules of the Unforgivable Pavilion. Therefore, it cannot be withdrawn."

The two people stared at each other. The square fell silent, so quiet that you could hear the mist rising from the ground.

Tie Fusheng suddenly laughed.

The moment the smile vanished, the mad sword was already drawn.

The blade flashed like a bolt of lightning, slicing through the morning mist with a sharp whistling sound, heading straight for the white-clad man's chest. Tie Fusheng used only seventy percent of his strength in this strike; there was no crisp sound of weapons clashing, only a dull thud, like a heavy object hitting the ground.

That was the characteristic of his mad blade—unparalleled in its ferocity and unstoppable force. The instant the blade was unleashed, the internal energy imbued with it would...

A visible shockwave formed in the air, surging forward like ocean waves, overturning the bluestone ground, tearing apart the mist, and even causing the air to tremble.

The man in white didn't take the blow head-on. He sidestepped, dodging the blade. His right hand slid from his sleeve, revealing a short sword. The blade was narrow and thin, entirely black, and didn't reflect light, as if it had been cut from the night. The tip of the sword flicked out a flourish, aiming for Tie Fusheng's left rib.

Tie Fusheng neither dodged nor evaded, but instead, his blade flashed, sweeping horizontally towards the white-clad man's waist. This was his fighting style since his youth—trading injury for injury, life for life. If you stab me, I'll slash you; if you try to kill me, I'll take you down with me.

This fighting style is known in the martial arts world as "Mad Blade." It's not a particularly sophisticated technique, but it's perfectly suited to Tie Fusheng.

The man in white didn't want to fight him.

Sheathed his sword and retreated, having already retreated three zhang (approximately 10 meters) in the instant before Tie Fusheng's blade swept across him. His speed was astonishing; his footsteps made no sound at all.

The two men faced off again.

The man in white took a deep breath, his tone suddenly becoming harsh: "Tie Fusheng, do you think I wouldn't dare kill you?"

Tie Fusheng laughed, slung the knife over his shoulder, and tilted his head to look at him.

"Stop talking nonsense. If you could kill them, you would have done it already."

The man in white fell silent. He looked at Tie Fusheng's face, etched with the marks of time and sword wounds, at those cloudy yet still sharp eyes, and suddenly remembered something. Thirty years ago, this man was also a gold medalist on the Wushe Tower's list, with a bounty of eight million. Back then, he was a young man, wielding a wild sword, brimming with arrogance, rampaging through the martial world, offending too many people and too many forces. Someone offered a large sum of money to kill him, and Wushe Tower accepted the order. Bronze medalists, silver medalists, gold medalists—one after another came, one after another dying by his blade.

How many did he kill? Seven? Eight? No one remembers clearly. But Wushelou remembers one thing—the sect leader at that time was surnamed Gu, and he was the master of the man in white. A true assassin.

Assassin. This word has been overused in this day and age.

Everyone calls themselves an assassin, and everyone thinks they are an assassin.

But they don't understand. A killer and an assassin are different. A killer is someone else's knife, pointing and striking without asking why, without considering whether it's right or wrong, just carrying out the order.

Assassins are different. An assassin is the sword within their own heart.

He killed not because someone told him to, but because he felt it was the right thing to do. He killed not for money, but for the principles he believed in.

The old master was that kind of assassin. When he took over the Wushe Tower, the tower was already in complete chaos.

The top assassins relied on their seniority, the silver-ranked assassins schemed against each other, and the bronze-ranked assassins cheated and slept around. The entire organization was a mess and existed in name only.

The old building owner spent ten years killing some, driving others away, and promoting others, managing to prop up this crumbling edifice.

He set a rule for Wushe Tower: once an order was accepted, it couldn't be cancelled. It wasn't about the money, but about the prestigious reputation of this mountain. Centuries of trust couldn't be ruined in his hands. The old tower master was stubborn; once he made up his mind, nothing could change it.

So when Tie Fusheng's name appeared on the list, and one after another, the assassins of Wushelou died by his blade, the Ancient Lord did not withdraw the order. He personally came out of seclusion.

How does a true assassin kill? Not by charging head-on and hacking at you. That's recklessness, not an assassin. An assassin waits, waiting for the perfect opportunity.

Wait until you are most exhausted, until you are most relaxed, until your knife leaves your hand, until your heart is most chaotic. Then, strike a fatal blow.

The old building owner followed Tie Fusheng for three years.

In those three years, he witnessed Tie Fusheng kill people, drink alcohol, stare blankly at the moon, practice his sword in the pouring rain, and cry like a child while holding a dead brother.

After enduring for so long, that moment has finally arrived.

Tie Fusheng's brother died at the hands of another enemy. When Tie Fusheng rushed to collect the body, he knelt before the grave for an entire night.

That night, he neither drank nor practiced his swordplay, nor stared blankly at the moon. He simply knelt there, motionless. His sword was stuck in the soil before the grave, three feet from his hand. A swordsman, his sword three feet from his hand.

When people are in a state of extreme grief, their reactions become sluggish and they become numb to changes in the outside world.

Kneeling can be tiring.

This is the best opportunity.

The old master has made his move.

That sword strike was the most perfect one of his life. The timing, the angle, the force—everything was just right. The instant the sword tip pierced Tie Fusheng's back, he could even feel the smoothness of the blade cutting through muscle, avoiding ribs, and reaching his heart. But Tie Fusheng did not die.

It wasn't because the Ancient Master's sword was inaccurate—his sword was as accurate as could be. It was because, in the instant before the sword tip touched his heart, Tie Fusheng's body instinctively moved. It wasn't a dodge, but a muscle contraction, like the natural reaction of a snake being pricked by a needle. That instantaneous contraction caused the sword tip to deviate by half an inch. Half an inch is the distance between life and death.

Tie Fusheng pulled out the knife that was stuck in front of the grave.