Chapter 675: Ten Thousand as Burial Companions!

Qiao Zhenyu stands there, his gaze level at Zhongcun Jiben's squinting eyes, without retreating, without dodging.

He can feel that invisible pressure pressing like tide from the opponent's body, squeezing his chest little by little, making each breath heavier than usual.

Yet he remains upright, his dark‑red military uniform glinting steady under the afternoon sun, like a flag planted in the wind.

He does not answer Zhongcun Jiben immediately, but turns his head slightly, his eyes passing over the few Ying Kingdom attendants in white samurai robes, landing on the figure in a dark‑green official robe at the main seat.

Du Jianchuan's hand holding the teacup is steady, his smile still appropriate, but his gaze flickers ever so slightly the instant it meets Qiao Zhenyu's.

Qiao Zhenyu speaks, his voice not loud, yet every word is clearly delivered into each person's ear in the main hall.

"Governor Du, is this also your intention?"

The main hall falls silent for a moment.

The Tianzhou officials seated on the chairs at both sides all turn their gazes toward Du Jianchuan.

They were summoned by Du Jianchuan, ostensibly to receive the Ying Kingdom delegation, but everyone can see this is a staged performance.

Only now the script seems to have a problem; Qiao Zhenyu did not follow the expected path, but kicked the ball back to Du Jianchuan's feet.

Du Jianchuan's smile stiffens for an instant, but quickly returns to normal.

His fingers lightly rub the rim of the teacup, his mind racing.

Of course he knows why Zhongcun Jiben is here; the old Sword Saint's grandson died in Tianzhou, and he crossed the sea himself—he could not be here just for tea and chat.

He originally thought Qiao Zhenyu would panic, lose composure, bow before this Half-step Martial Ancestor, and then he could neatly wrap up the matter under the pretext of proper handling.

But he did not expect Qiao Zhenyu to lay the matter bare, asking the governor directly, in front of so many officials, what his attitude truly is.

Du Jianchuan curses inwardly, yet his face still bears that perfectly timed smile.

He sets down the teacup, clears his throat dryly, and says in an evasive tone.

"Sword Saint Nakamura is certainly not acting without purpose. Commander Qiao, you should give Sword Saint Nakamura an answer."

After saying this, he even feels a pang of guilt.

The words are ambiguous, but spoken in this setting, everyone can hear his little ulterior motive.

Qiao Zhenyu looks at him, his mouth corners slowly curve, revealing a smile tinged with cold.

He says nothing more, merely shifts his gaze from Du Jianchuan back to Zhongcun Jiben. He is completely disappointed in Du Jianchuan.

Previously he only thought this man was calculating and manipulative, but at least he had a governor's bottom line. Now he sees clearly that Du Jianchuan has no bottom line.

In the face of profit and self‑preservation, he can betray anyone, even Tianzhou's dignity.

Qiao Zhenyu draws a deep breath, suppresses the surging emotion, and his voice regains its steady, firm tone.

"Since Sword Saint Nakamura demands an answer, I shall give one."

"Two nations' martial contests have a hundred‑year history; it has long been stipulated that on the arena, life and death are irrelevant. Zhongcun died at the hands of Old Master Lu, who is a Tianzhou hero. He stepped onto the arena honorably and won the match honorably; this is the answer I give to you, Sword Saint Nakamura."

The air in the main hall seems compressed for a moment.

Those Ying Kingdom attendants in white samurai robes simultaneously press their hands to the hilts at their waists, their gazes becoming razor‑sharp, like a pack of enraged hounds.

But Zhongcun Jiben lifts his hand, restraining them.

He stands there, silent for a long while.

Those squinting eyes slowly open, revealing beneath them cloudy yet strikingly sharp pupils.

His gaze falls on Qiao Zhenyu; that look is like an invisible sword slicing across Qiao Zhenyu's brow.

The Tianzhou officials in the main hall involuntarily hunch their necks; some feel a cold sweat rise on their backs.

Then Zhongcun Jiben smiles.

The laugh is small, hoarse as sandpaper rubbing metal.

After laughing, his voice drops several tones lower than before, each word bearing an indescribable force, pressing on every person's chest.

"Is this the answer you, General Qiao, give me? Hahaha, fine! It's been ages since I last unsheathed my sword; now even cats and dogs dare to grin at me."

His gaze sweeps the officials in the main hall, passes over Jiang Feng, who still sits quietly at the side chair sipping tea, and finally lands again on Qiao Zhenyu.

His voice deepens further, bearing a chill like deep‑winter ice that seeps to the bone.

"So it is. You have your rules; I have my rules."

He steps forward half a step.

In that half‑step, an invisible aura bursts from his body, as if a seal were being broken.

The aura is not flamboyant, it does not stir a gale nor shatter porcelain, but when it settles on each person in the main hall, everyone feels their breath suddenly grasped, tightening for an instant.

Zhongcun Jiben's voice is neither high nor low, bearing a cold, declarative indifference.

"My rule is: if Tianzhou does not hand over the murderer of my grandson, I will take ten thousand of Tianzhou to be buried with my grandson. How does that sound?"

The main hall falls into a death‑like silence.

Du Jianchuan sits on the main seat, the muscles on his face twitching slightly; his mouth opens as if to speak, but seeing Zhongcun Jiben's expression, he swallows the words, lifts the now‑cold teacup again, and pretends nothing was heard.

Qiao Zhenyu stands there, watching Zhongcun Jiben's fully opened eyes, silent for a few breaths. His fist tightens slightly at his side, then relaxes.

His voice remains even, but now carries a barely perceptible weight.

"Does Sword Saint Nakamura intend to go to war with Tianzhou?"

Zhongcun Jiben gives no reply.

He merely narrows his eyes again, the cold, sharp light once more covered by his lids, like a sword sheathed.

He turns toward the doorway, his steps neither fast nor slow, wooden clogs striking the Green Stone Slab with a crisp sound. The two white‑samurai attendants follow silently behind him, like twin shadows.

When he reaches the doorway, his voice drifts from his back.

"Three days. After three days, I will await your answer at the Tianzhou Martial Arena."

"Wait…"

At that moment, Jiang Feng speaks up.