Mastering the Sword Manual, sweeping across the globe

The command was clear, but surprisingly, it made no mention of "tracking" or, more frighteningly, "interception."

The two fast-paced students and the hanger-on all secretly breathed a sigh of relief.

Although they didn't know the details, not having to immediately confront the "target" who could leisurely stroll around carrying hundreds of kilograms of mineral water was clearly more to their liking.

The tension eased, and at least for now, the danger seemed to have temporarily passed.

The target had left, but the cleaning staff who had witnessed the "ordination ceremony" and many others who had come but hadn't seen the whole thing were still gathered nearby and hadn't dispersed immediately.

Those who came later were especially eager to know the details, constantly asking the eyewitnesses.

"Old Wang, what exactly happened? Did they really put that ring on that guy's finger?"

"Where did it get on? On your finger? My God...it's all bloody!"

"That guy... the one handing out money, who exactly is he? Isn't he afraid?"

The coworker was initially a little scared when asked, but after being pressed several times, and surrounded by his usual comrades who had weathered storms together, his suppressed emotions came to the fore, and he inevitably embellished his description with great enthusiasm.

"Absolutely! You didn't see it, that guy's face was as white as if it had been plastered with whitewash!"

"A finger? Hey, it's the thumb! It was forced in! The skin was torn off, and you could see the bone!"

"What's his background? I think he's a jinx sent down by the heavens! He's here to deal with these bloodthirsty bastards who don't spit out the bones!"

At the most exciting part, the audience gasped softly, their faces displaying a complex mix of emotions: some delighted, some horrified, and some deeply puzzled.

But in any case, a secret excitement of "witnessing the evildoers suffer their just deserts" quietly flowed through the crowd.

There's no need to spout any nonsense about class conflict; the two simplest joys in life—being lucky yourself or seeing others suffer misfortune—are enough to bring a rare touch of happiness to this dull morning.

Until that blue and white official vehicle silently glided onto the sidewalk in front of "Liu's Old Steamed Buns" shop.

"Shh-"

"The officials have arrived."

"Let's disperse, let's disperse..."

The lively, hushed discussion seemed to be choked, instantly dropping eight octaves, leaving only indistinct mutterings and exchanges of glances.

The crowd began to shift uneasily, with some people lowering their heads, pretending to tidy up tools or clothes, and quietly moving outwards.

Old Chen, the older member of the fast track team, got out of the car with Xiao Zhao, the younger member, and his hanger-on.

None of the three wore hats, trying to make their posture appear less intimidating.

They were well aware of what had just happened—the official vehicles had been there for several minutes—but procedures had to be followed.

Old Chen glanced at the rapidly cooling scene and walked towards the nearest sanitation worker, a middle-aged man who looked honest and unassuming, still clutching two hundred yuan in his hand that he hadn't had time to put away.

"Hello, sir," Old Chen began, his tone calm. "Excuse me, what just happened here? How did that person on the ground get injured?"

The coworker who was asked the question visibly stiffened. He glanced quickly at the man in the jacket on the ground, then at Old Chen, before lowering his head and staring at the toe of his canvas shoes. His lips moved a few times, and his voice was so soft it was like a mosquito's hum: "I...I don't know. Sir, I just arrived."

"Just arrived?" Xiao Zhao next to him immediately frowned. He pointed to the cleaning tricycle parked across the street. "You've been standing here for at least five minutes."

The coworker lowered his head even further and remained silent, simply clutching the banknotes tightly.

Old Chen raised his hand, subtly stopping Xiao Zhao who was about to ask more questions, and slowly shook his head.

He walked over to another older, worried-looking craftsman.

"Master, what did you see? Would you mind telling us?"

The old master raised his cloudy eyes to look at Old Chen, then quickly looked away, his chapped lips uttering three words: "I don't know."

After saying that, he turned around and walked away, dragging the broom along.

"Hey, Master..." Xiao Zhao wanted to call out to him again.

Old Chen raised his hand again to stop them, his gaze sweeping to the side.

"Don't ask me, I didn't see anything." The worker on the side immediately turned the tricycle around: "Ask someone else."

"I...I have to go back to work." A female worker muttered softly, picking up her dustpan. "If I neglect my cleaning duties and it affects the superiors' inspection, I can't take responsibility."

As if receiving some silent signal, the gathered crowd began to disperse rapidly.

The workers either walked briskly with their heads down, rode their bicycles away, or turned their backs to concentrate on cleaning up a fallen leaf that had long since been cleaned.

The lively scene of people listening to the story just moments ago vanished completely within two or three minutes.

Only the jacketed man on the ground, twitching occasionally, remained, silently recounting the unusual events that had transpired here.

Looking at the street that had suddenly become empty, and then at the figures that were quickly disappearing into the distance, Xiao Zhao's young face was filled with confusion. He couldn't help but whisper to Lao Chen, "Master, what... what's going on?"

Xiao Zhao has been in the industry for quite some time and has handled all sorts of incidents. He has seen people who are unreasonable and argumentative, people who cry and wail, and people who remain silent and resistant. But today, almost everyone was unanimously and decisively saying "I don't know" and "I didn't see it," and "Ask someone else." This is truly unprecedented.

These low-level laborers, who usually seem the most easy to talk to and the most timid, have now built an invisible wall.

Old Chen didn't answer immediately. He squinted at the orange-yellow figures that quickly disappeared into the street corners and alleys. His face was expressionless, but something complex flashed deep in his eyes.

He patted Xiao Zhao on the shoulder, without explaining, but just gestured towards the steamed bun shop with his lip: "Come on, let's go ask the shopkeeper."

The three of them walked to the entrance of the steamed bun shop.

The roller shutter door was pulled down more than halfway, leaving only a gap of less than half a meter. The lights were still on inside, and you could see the proprietress frantically tidying up the counter.

Old Chen bent down and raised his voice towards the inside: "Boss, we're from the express shift, we'd like to understand the situation..."

Before he could finish speaking, an even more urgent noise came from inside, and then the roller shutter door was pulled all the way down with a "whoosh," sealing it tightly.

A sliver of light shone through the crack in the door, illuminating the tips of Old Chen's shoes.

Then, a somewhat muffled voice came from inside the door: "Sir, I'm so sorry! We're completely sold out of steamed buns today, not a single one left! Please come back another day!"

The steamed bun shop owner wasn't lying—the large group of cleaning staff who gathered earlier all received a windfall of two hundred yuan. Putting aside other luxuries, a few hot meat buns were always enough to celebrate.

One basket after another, the ingredients prepared by the shop for the morning market were indeed snapped up.

Old Chen straightened up, exchanged a glance with Xiao Zhao, and both saw helplessness in each other's eyes.

Back at the official car, looking at the now quiet street and the tightly closed roller shutter door, Xiao Zhao's doubts deepened: "Master, this...this...today..."

"Probably because they think we're standing in the wrong place."

"what?"

"It's nothing..." Old Chen took out his cigarette case, put one in his mouth, but didn't light it.

"Why do you care so much?" Old Chen's gaze fell on the convulsing figure curled up not far away, and his words, like smoke, drifted out from between his teeth: "Isn't the biggest victim still lying here?"

A dozen minutes later, the sharp sound of police sirens grew louder as they approached.

Several blue and white police cars, a crime scene investigation vehicle with prominent markings, and an ambulance arrived one after another at the intersection of Zhongshan Road and Biange Lane.

More professional people took over.

They wore different uniforms or casual clothes, and carried more sophisticated and professional equipment.

Someone quickly set up a cordon, sealing off the area where the man in the jacket was and the vicinity of the folding table; forensic doctors and emergency personnel stepped forward to check on the injured, their movements swift but their expressions grave; technicians began taking photos from multiple angles, measuring, and extracting bloodstains and any other possible traces from the ground; while several others split up to try to contact the scattered witnesses who had not yet completely moved away and were still peering out from the alleyway or behind the trees.

Old Chen, Little Zhao, and that hanger-on were not wasted either.

The officer in charge glanced at them, then looked at the analysis information displayed on his duty device—the trajectory quickly pieced together by the Form Analysis and Rumor Detection teams based on surrounding surveillance footage. He briefly instructed them: "You three, follow the direction of departure of the target as initially determined, scan again, and see if there are any missed clues. Pay attention to shops along the way and possible witnesses."

"Yes!"

This task is quite simple.

The three got into the car as instructed and, following the directions updated from time to time on the internal communication channel, slowly drove off along the deduced route of the "target".

The wheels rolled over the wet streets, the morning light had fully spread, and the city's hustle and bustle was truly beginning to awaken.

They soon learned that after the "target" left with the water, he didn't go far, but turned directly into a nearby street lined with breakfast stalls.

The owner of the xiaolongbao shop recalled: "He put down a bottle of water and said that if he saw a street sweeper, someone getting off the night shift, or a student, he would let them take a bottle to drink, and it would be free."

The man frying dough sticks pointed to the plastic bags next to his stall: "They gave me a pack, and I gave it to a few parents who were dropping off their children."

Along the way, I asked around and found that soy milk stalls, glutinous rice restaurants, and jianbing (Chinese crepe) carts all had water and the same request.

Passing by yet another red bean bun stall, the hanger-on couldn't help but mutter under his breath, "He gives you one and you're already handing it out? Everyone else has free water to drink, who's going to buy your soy milk?"

"Yes, yes, you're right," the stall owner replied with a smile.

The three walked away and returned to their official car. The old woman's voice, not too loud, drifted over: "...Who do you think you are?"

--------

As dawn broke, Zhang Qiliang was already standing on the rooftop of another tall building.

This is the office building district of the provincial capital, surrounded by mostly twenty or thirty-story glass boxes.

The building below is about 25 stories high, and inside there are many signs for "technology companies" and "data services".

The rooftop was empty, the wind was strong, and the hazy outline of the city could be seen in the distance from the railing.

Zhang Qiliang leaned against the cement railing and closed his eyes.

Downstairs, phone calls, voice messages, and conversations between colleagues flowed like countless invisible streams.

With a quick scan, Zhang Qiliang found his target—a debt collection company on the 18th floor with lax network security and data packets flying around haphazardly.

This is the one.

They've got too much trouble already, so this little bit won't make a difference.

Zhang Qiliang didn't even need to specifically look for a network port.

In the corner of the rooftop, there is a metal door to an equipment room, through which you can vaguely glimpse the indicator lights of a network switch flashing.

As mentioned earlier, Zhang Qiliang is a programmer. He already had some technical skills, and now, after several phases of physical and mental development, he is even more adept at doing many things.

A few minutes later, the connection was established.

The IP address indicates it belongs to the debt collection company, and the bandwidth is sufficient.

Zhang Qiliang took out his phone from his pocket: Zhou Mingyuan's.

Zhang Qiliang opened the upload tool he had casually compiled the night before and dragged in a video file named "Zhou Mingyuan's Autobiography".

We selected several common video platforms and forums, both domestic and international, with titles that are straightforward and clear:

A self-narration by the head of the Urban Construction Department of a certain city in a certain province.

The progress bar has started moving.

33. Climbing the network cable

The debt collection company's performance is indeed quite good, and the internet speed is excellent.

Within ten minutes, the upload progress bars on several platforms had reached the end.

Zhang Qi turned on her phone screen and switched between several apps with great interest.

Taking such a risk to choose the "Tongda Sword Manual" and expecting huge future benefits and a visible leap in physical fitness is certainly gratifying.

But another, deeper level of pleasure, or rather, another core motivation that led him down this path—besides the pure joy brought by the "unobstructed mind" itself, it was naturally the simple recognition and resonance he gained while practicing this "unobstructed mind."

He opened TikTok first.

With the largest user base, feedback comes in the fastest.

The video has only been posted for a few minutes, but there are already some scattered comments and bullet screen messages:

"What is this? A new short drama about anti-corruption? The scenes are so realistic..."

"47 minutes??? Is this progress bar for real? Which short drama production company is this generous (doge)?"

"Anti-corruption documentary? This doesn't look like an official interrogation. The setting... This isn't how the censorate operates, is it?"

"Am I the only one who noticed that woman wrapped in a bath towel and shivering in the background? The actress's acting is pretty good..."

Zhang Qiliang switched to Kuaishou.

The comments section here is consistently more down-to-earth and focuses more on the local market:

"Zhou Mingyuan? That name sounds familiar..."

"The head of the Urban Renewal Department of the Municipal Administration Bureau? The one in charge of manhole covers and streetlights? There's something to say about that!"

"The girl in the bath towel has a nice figure (wrong focus)"

"It doesn't feel like acting. Which production team is so brave as to use real names and positions?"

"I'll save this for later, and take a closer look when I finish making my instant noodles..."