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

Chapter 146 Ending

That strike was the fastest strike the Ancient Master had ever witnessed in his life. It wasn't fast in terms of speed, but in terms of decisiveness. From drawing the sword to striking, there was no hesitation, no doubt, as if his body already knew how to deliver the blow and was simply waiting for the right moment.

He hadn't expected that Tie Fusheng could remain so calm in such a state of extreme grief.

An assassin's misjudgment always comes at the cost of his life.

The blade sliced ​​across the throat of the ancient building owner.

Both men collapsed simultaneously. The Ancient Lord lay in a pool of blood, staring at the hazy sky above, making hoarse sounds as if trying to say something, but unable to utter a word. Tie Fusheng lay prone on the ground, a sword embedded in his back, blood gushing from the wound, staining the entire ground crimson.

He struggled to lift his head and glanced into the eyes of the old man. There was no fear, no regret, only something indescribable in those eyes.

It seemed like a sense of relief.

For an assassin, dying by the blade is perhaps the best ending.

The old master is dead. Tie Fu is alive, but the sword wound on his back has damaged his spine and meridians, almost severing his possibility of advancing further.

He went from a genius swordsman who had the potential to reach the peak of the seventh realm to a "madman" who was stuck at the peak of the seventh realm for his entire life.

He didn't regret it. He knew the old master didn't regret it either. Because it was what an assassin should do—if you're on the list, I'll kill you. If I can kill you, you die; if I can't, I die.

Simple and clean, no need for calculation, no need for weighing options, no need to consider anyone's opinion.

That is the dignity of a martial artist.

The man in white stood in the square, looking at Tie Fusheng, and suddenly felt his face burning. He remembered the words his master, the Ancient Master, had entrusted to him before his death: "The rules of the Unforgivable Pavilion are the rules of assassins, not the rules of killers. Don't get them backwards." He had never understood these words. Now he did. The "rules" his master spoke of weren't about not being able to back out of a job once accepted; they meant that once someone was on the list, they had to kill, and if they couldn't, they deserved to die.

A killer is a knife in someone else's hand; an assassin is a sword in their own heart. Over the years, he's built the Unforgiven Tower into a thriving business, attracting more and more assassins. But he's lost what his master left him: the spirit of the assassin.

Tie Fusheng's blade slashed down again. This time he held nothing back, unleashing his full power. The blade whistled through the air, causing the entire plaza to tremble. A crack appeared in the bluestone pavement, stretching from Tie Fusheng's feet all the way to the white-robed man, as if from an earthquake.

The man in white did not meet the attack head-on. He retreated, very quickly, but Tie Fusheng's blade was even faster. The blade chased after him like a persistent infection, impossible to shake off. His lightness skill was the best in the Wushe Tower, but Tie Fusheng's blade seemed to have eyes; wherever he retreated, the blade followed.

The thirty-seventh strike. The white-clad man's short sword finally gave way. Tie Fusheng's blade struck the short sword, breaking it in two, but the momentum of the strike remained undiminished, heading straight for the white-clad man's chest.

The white-clad man's pupils constricted sharply. He wanted to retreat, but there was no way. Behind him stood the stone tablet inscribed with the words "No Pardon." A three-hundred-year-old tablet, the symbol of the No Pardon Pavilion. There was nowhere to retreat.

Tie Fusheng's blade stopped three inches from the white-clad man's chest. The internal force on the blade was still surging, like a ferocious beast chained up, ready to break free and pounce on its prey at any moment.

The man in white stood there, staring at the blade so close to his face, his forehead covered in sweat. His hands trembled, not from fear, but from the aftereffects of Tie Fusheng's attack that had shattered his inner strength. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but his throat was so dry it felt like it had been rubbed with sandpaper, and he couldn't utter a single word.

Tie Fusheng looked at him, his eyes devoid of murderous intent or mockery, only a deep, heavy weariness. This weariness wasn't physical; it seeped from his very bones, like someone who had walked too far and finally stopped, only to find they could no longer go on.

"Old man," Tie Fusheng spoke, his voice terribly hoarse, "do you know the difference between you and your master?"

The man in white did not speak.

"Your master was an assassin. You weren't." Tie Fusheng sheathed his sword, took two steps back, and slung the blade over his shoulder. "Your master killed for the sake of rules. You kill for business."

He looked into the white-clad man's eyes: "An assassin kills with a knife in their heart. A killer kills with a knife in their hand. Your knife is too far from your heart."

Tie Fusheng turned around and walked down the mountain. After a few steps, he suddenly stopped and said something without turning his head.

"You have to remove Sun Fan's name from the list, whether you like it or not. It's not because of me, it's because of your master. He's watching you from below, watching you turn Wushe Tower into this mess. Do you think he'll be happy?"

After saying that, he started walking down the mountain without looking back. His figure grew increasingly blurry and fainter in the morning mist, until it finally disappeared completely into the fog of the mountain path.

The man in white stood motionless before the stone tablet. He lowered his head, looking at the two broken swords in his hand. His face, pale, weary, and unfamiliar, was reflected in the blades. He stared at it for a long time, then suddenly felt that the face looked familiar. It wasn't his own face; it was someone else's.

Master.

He remembered his master's eyes before he died. No fear, no regret, only acceptance. For an assassin, dying by the blade was the best ending. And what about him? What was he, a "killer" who wouldn't even dare to draw a knife?

The man in white threw the broken sword to the ground, turned around, and looked at the stone tablet behind him. The tablet was inscribed with two characters, "No Pardon," in powerful strokes, carved by his master. He reached out and touched the two characters; his fingertips brushed against the cold stone surface, and suddenly felt the characters were burning hot.

It burned his fingertips.

At the foot of Wushelou Mountain, when Tie Fusheng stepped out of the mountain gate, it was already broad daylight. Most of the morning mist had dissipated, and sunlight shone through the clouds, illuminating the blue stone steps in the mountains with a golden glow. He stood at the mountain gate, looking up at the sun in the sky, squinting, the sunlight stinging his eyes.

He pulled the crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and read it again. Sun Fan. First-year student at the Dark Martial Arts Academy. Bounty: Five million. Status: In progress.

He folded the paper, put it back in his pocket, then took out his phone from his other pocket and sent Lu Chen a message: "The matter is settled."

Lu Chen's reply came quickly, consisting of only two words: "Received."

Tie Fusheng stared at the two words for a while, smiled, put away his phone, shouldered his knife, and walked down the mountain path. He hadn't gone far when he suddenly stopped, looking down at his chest. There was an old wound there, left by the ancient lord's sword. The wound had long since healed, but the scar remained, like a centipede crawling across his heart, quite unsightly. But over the years, he had grown accustomed to it.

He recalled the Ancient Master's eyes before his death. Not hatred, not resentment, but a sense of relief. He hadn't understood before, but now he did. The Ancient Master had lived a life too burdensome. He upheld the three-hundred-year-old rules of the Unforgivable Pavilion, killing those who deserved to die, letting those who deserved to die die. Like a taut string, stretched taut its entire life, it finally snapped. Snapped, and it was loose. Loose, and it was liberated.

Tie Fusheng looked up at the sun in the sky and suddenly laughed. "Old man, you wait down there. After I've cleaned up this mess, I'll come find you for a drink."

He strode forward and never looked back.

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