Chapter 73: The Sea Wind Is Ruthless, Divining the White Horse

Night deepened in the top floor of Shienian Hotel.

Nearly twenty people gathered in the conference room; on the oval table lay their weapons and magical artifacts, each brought by their owners.

“Have we truly found traces of Nie Longding?”

“That old bastard finally couldn’t escape our pursuit.”

“Don’t fight me for it—I want his skull cap. Whether turned into an artifact or kept as a trophy, it’s too meaningful.”

The group chattered among themselves, yet when inspecting their weapons, each became utterly serious, none slacking.

Scarface, cigarette dangling from his lips, scanned the room and asked.

“Where’s Su Ha?”

A fat chef beside him, peeling off his cook’s uniform to slip on a bulletproof vest, replied, “I can’t reach him on the phone.”

Scarface pulled out his own phone and dialed a number.

His usual phone had likely been damaged in a magical duel; now he used the backup line. It rang for a long while—no one answered.

Xiao Qin said, “Could he really have gone to blow up a casino?”

“Here? He couldn’t get that much explosives.”

Scarface replied, pulled up Li Kang and A Luo’s numbers, and dialed both—no answer from either.

The chef said, “They haven’t returned in years. Our drills for coordinated attacks never counted on them anyway. Let them stay away.”

Someone nearby chuckled, “If they don’t come, they’ll be the ones regretting it later.”

“After roaming outside for a few years, they’ve gotten arrogant. Hmph—if we all teamed up against those three, we could kill them three times over in ten minutes.”

Scarface said nothing, then dialed the backup number again.

“Looks like we can’t reach them.”

Scarface stood up. “Old Tiger still has his might—you all know well that tonight’s mission will likely bring deaths. We don’t know how many of us will return alive.”

The chef slammed the table, his face muscles twitching, teeth clenched.

“Boss, no need to say more—I’ve long wanted to kill that old bastard. I only regret never having had the chance before.”

Faces around the room showed varied expressions, yet all carried the same killing intent.

The conference room lights flickered; cracks spiderwebbed across the crystal chandelier.

In the flickering light and shadow, everyone had risen, weapons in hand.

“Good!”

Scarface’s single eye glowed brighter than the unstable lights. “Tomorrow, Nie Longding may be anywhere. Tonight, we move!”

“Tonight, we move!”

The full moon hung high.

Waves crashed violently against the cliffs at the island’s edge, foam like shattered jade and swirling snow, making the rocks below appear even darker.

On this low cliff stood a small church, its history stretching over two hundred years.

The church had two buildings; the cross atop the rear roof bore the marks of time, one corner missing.

Around the church stood several tents, as if set up by young campers, each dressed differently.

Some wore cowboy attire, others sported sportswear, some donned leather jackets.

But anyone with sharp experience could tell.

Whenever these people moved, they subtly guarded the church—they were likely elite bodyguards, dressed this way to avoid drawing attention.

Suddenly, a muffled gunshot, silenced, rang out from the woods.

The tents were instantly pierced; bodies inside burst into sprays of blood, staining the fabric.

Most of the bodyguards outside were felled, their wounds gushing thick blood, soaking their clothes.

Only two or three reacted in time, dashing into the church for cover.

As the church door opened, rows of pews were exposed under the moonlight.

An elderly man in a white suit sat in the front row, facing the cross on the altar, as if savoring rare peace.

Bullets tore through the pew backs, sending wood splinters flying.

The man in the suit had at least seven bullet holes in his body.

Other rounds struck the ground and walls around him—some sparked, others embedded in wood.

Though called random gunfire, if one froze the impact points at that instant, one would see a pattern of exquisite geometric beauty.

Like a meticulously woven fishing net, with several key nodes, the rest of the bullet holes arranged between them, forming a net.

Within fifteen meters of the man in the white suit, every spot was lethal.

This was a specialized shooting technique used by the world’s top elite soldiers against masters.

Scarface’s group had paid dearly to train for over half a year, refining this coordination through their martial reflexes, eyesight, and wrist strength.

For a martial artist to escape this lethal zone in an instant—or find even a sliver of safety within it—was no easy feat.

For a sorcerer to conjure illusions, the gap between true and false form rarely exceeded fifteen meters—they couldn’t escape.

From the moment they moved, Scarface’s group held their breath.

The sorcerer’s sole task was to blur the enemy’s sense of impending danger.

At this moment, their bullet-net had sunk deep into the church.

The next second, the man in the white suit on the pew toppled forward, blood gushing from his body, pooling on the floor.

Did we succeed?!

Everyone saw the scene—but no one spoke.

Had they finally succeeded, after years of obsession and hatred?

This was indeed their ultimate, meticulously planned strike.

But had they truly succeeded?

Even Scarface found it hard to believe.

Nie Longding was dead—dead here, beneath the cross.

The cross inside the church still bore bullet holes.

Scarface’s gaze unconsciously turned to the cross atop the rear roof.

That ancient, weathered cross, its corner missing, twisted.

It became an elderly man with silver hair, wearing a white suit and gold-rimmed glasses.

“Above!!”

Scarface’s pupils contracted; his gun barrel rose.

But in that instant, only two blood-spraying wrists remained.

His own hands, still tightly gripping the gun, fell with it to the ground.

Xiao Qin’s scream echoed.

As Scarface turned, he saw his comrades’ wrists severed.

Nearly twenty people’s blood sprayed into the air—something invisible, even without wind…

A fleeting, spinning silhouette emerged from the blood!

Playing cards! Invisible playing cards!

The colorless cards spun at blinding speed, then slashed across their calves, severing their Achilles tendons during their agony.

Scarface’s comrades collapsed like dried reeds.

The man in the white suit on the roof pressed a sandalwood staff with his right hand and raised his left.

The transparent cards in midair returned one by one to his palm, emitting faint, rasping sounds.

“Nie Longding!”

Scarface, barely holding on, looked up and roared, “You knew we were coming?!”

“I’ve long noticed a force hunting me—you’re all remnants of old grudges from the underworld.”

Nie Longding smiled. “I thought it unnecessary to meet you. I had better offerings. But now I see—I must use you.”

“The view from the roof is excellent. A decoy to unsettle you, then capture you all alive—it’s worth it.”

Scarface didn’t hear the rest.

He had already passed out.

By dawn, no bodies or bloodstains remained around the remote church.

The old church, long neglected, tilted by sea winds, finally collapsed under its own weight, tumbling down the cliff.

No one outside the participants would ever know what happened here.

“What a peaceful day.”

Office building, Macau Special Capture Division.

Division Chief Shen Yuntai, gazing out the floor-to-ceiling window on the top floor, sighed contentedly.

Shen Yuntai was fifty, dressed in a woman’s suit; her smiling wrinkles, streaks of white at her temples, and hairpin gave her an elegant air despite her age.

A cup of black tea on her desk, perfectly warm, she lifted and sipped.

“Our city is better—nothing like Hong Kong’s chaos.”

She had just returned from assisting in Hong Kong, less than three days ago, and now found everything about her own city perfect.

“Chief!”

A muscular young man knocked and delivered a file.

“Last night, Fang Jun and a temporary consultant from the mainland were attacked by unknown assailants. Consultant Chu wiped them all out.”

The Technology Department repaired several attackers’ phones and found that these individuals likely belonged to an organization deliberately seeking revenge against Mr. Nie Longding.

Shen Yuntai was unconcerned.

“Nie Longding had too many enemies in his youth; retaliation is normal. But that old devil is too cunning—we’ve never caught him with his pants down.”

“Check if anyone else in this gang has a criminal record. If they do, arrest them. If not, give them a warning.”

The young man said: “This procedure is familiar to the Operations Team—they’ve already sent people to handle it.”

“But the problem is, besides these three who returned from smuggling out of Southeast Asia, everyone else in the gang has legitimate identities. Yet when our people tried to contact them, none responded.”

Shen Yuntai perked up slightly: “When did this happen?”

“No more than twenty-four hours ago.”

The young man said, “Normally, it takes at least forty-eight hours before the Patrol Bureau logs the case, determines whether to consolidate investigations, collects basic information, and then passes it to us—this usually takes several days.”

“But given their identity as a revenge group and their majority status as cultivators, I think we should take direct control.”

Shen Yuntai thought for a minute: “Agreed.”

She approved the document, stamped it, sat back in her chair, and the lethargy of the past two days vanished.

“A revenge group, aware their covert identities might be exposed, is hiding? If so, that’s understandable…”

Shen Yuntai suddenly worried about another possibility.

If they didn’t know these people secretly sought revenge, they might guess nothing. But since they knew these were vengeful individuals, could Nie Longding have struck first?

Yet Nie Longding grew more composed with age, and in recent years had been extraordinarily placid—why would he suddenly act so ruthlessly? Wasn’t that unusual?

As a longtime division chief, she had always kept people like Nie Longding on her priority watchlist—never to be ignored.

Shen Yuntai pulled out her phone and called the chief in Hong Kong.

“Hello, Master Baima… No, no, no, I’m not that idle—I still want to travel to your place… Actually, I’d like you to come visit me.”

“Haha, alright, let’s be honest.”

Shen Yuntai said, “I’m worried something big might happen in the Macau region soon. You’re so good at divination—cast me a fortune.”

The voice on the phone was hoarse: “I’ve already confused myself trying to divine my own affairs.”

Shen Yuntai’s tone hardened slightly: “I helped you out just recently.”

Master Baima sighed: “Fine. Sending you a divination from afar won’t work. Give me a character yourself—I’ll interpret it for you.”

Shen Yuntai paused briefly, then said: “Then… Nie.”

“Nie—this character is good.”

Master Baima perked up: “You’re asking whether something big will happen soon?”

“The character Nie has ‘ear’ on top and ‘double’ below—it means that if someone is plotting a major event, no matter how carefully they plan, there will inevitably be blind spots, and the anomaly will be detected through two separate channels.”

Master Baima seemed to be writing the character on paper—she could hear the scratch of pen on paper—and his tone shifted.

“But since ‘ear’ is on top and ‘double’ below, those who sense the anomaly through both channels will always be one step behind the planner—you cannot stop this event before it begins.”

These words sounded far-fetched.

But Master Baima had long proven his divination abilities with countless facts.

In 1997, Baima rode his white horse into Hong Kong.

Given the complexity of the situation then, the Hong Kong Special Patrol Bureau had been formed within a month—and no one dared underestimate this monk who seemed utterly incapable of combat.

Shen Yuntai pressed: “Will we always be slower than the planner? Is there a way to break this?”

“Hmm… ‘Double’—in its oldest meaning, it refers to using one hand to catch two birds. But how can one hand hold two birds steadily? Better to catch only one.”

Master Baima said, “You have two leads—abandon the one that seems easier to trace. That path will cause you to miss your chance.”

“Focus on the other one.”

Shen Yuntai drank tea without expression.

Where were her two leads?

She had at most the very beginning of half a lead.

Her sense that something big was coming was merely a judgment based on experience, instinct, and duty.

“Master, where is my second lead?”

Master Baima was momentarily speechless.

“You don’t have a second one—don’t ask me.”

“I’m just a charlatan, not a god. If I could divine everything, no one would dare act. Sigh, I’m truly exhausted—I can barely keep my eyes open.”

“Be careful. Goodbye!”

The call ended.

Shen Yuntai put down her phone, lifted the teacup to her face, rested her elbows on the desk, and sat motionless for a long while.

“The second lead…”

(End of Chapter)