Chapter 49

Wan Hong's death was like piercing the seemingly calm window paper of Luo Bay County.

The next day, the atmosphere in this place turned strange.

Third day, it was so oppressive that people could barely breathe.

Fourth day, fear, as if they had contracted a plague.

Fifth day, it spread wildly among the big and small families.

Sixth day, especially those who had seen the Wan family's power and often tripped up the Wang family, or simply cut off contact, each one wilted like frost‑struck eggplants, listless, constantly anxious, fearing the Wang family would settle scores later.

Speaking of this person, his face changes faster than flipping a page. Just two days ago he had his nose in the air, thinking the Wang family was a ruined household about to collapse.

And the result? Wan Hong, a Body Refining Ninth Layer Peak, was literally killed by the old Wang family head.

The news spread like it had grown legs across the whole county; those who usually considered themselves respectable now had not a shred of dignity left.

From the moment the sun rose, the front gate of the Wang family old residence was bustling beyond measure.

It wasn't the noisy clamor of gongs and drums, but a suppressed voice, a somewhat fawning whisper.

The Li family head, who usually counted as a notable figure in the county, now bowed his waist, holding an exquisite box, sweat beading on his forehead.

The Zhao family head, usually at odds with the Li family, now stood properly in line behind them, holding something even larger than the Li family's offering.

Each of them, who normally had some standing, now resembled children queuing at a primary school gate for candy, eyes fixed on the Wang family's tightly shut door, hoping to catch a glimpse of "Old Demon Wang"... cough, misspoken, they meant the Wang family head.

The gifts they brought were truly plentiful, said to be all manner of things considered courteous.

What rare spiritual medicines, said to be several hundred years old; what box after box of spiritual grain, piled up like small hills; and some medicinal herbs that looked ancient, their scent alone indicating they were not ordinary.

Even some small families, to show sincerity, brought out rubbings of their inherited cultivation techniques—of course, only the most basic basics, but it was still a heartfelt gesture.

Moreover, several pieces of cherished low‑grade spirit stones were produced—things usually guarded tighter than one's lifeblood—now being handed out as if they were worthless.

Their purpose was the same: to apologize, to show goodwill, hoping the Wang family would lift a noble hand, that the elders would not hold the juniors' faults against them, and let bygones be bygones.

However, the Wang family's gate remained utterly unmoved.

It stayed tightly shut, no matter how much the outsiders shouted themselves hoarse or stood until their legs went numb—there was not the slightest reaction.

As for Old Master Wang Shan? He was seriously wounded, both arms twisted oddly, his internal organs shaken, and he was currently holed up in the house nursing his injuries—where would he have the leisure to attend to these wall‑grass?

Furthermore, he had more important matters:

To tally the spoils of war and comfort the clansmen.

He was busy doing that.

Wang Zhitao, following his father's orders, merely sent a few young Wang family members out, expressionlessly collecting the gifts one by one and registering them.

Once finished, that was it—he didn't utter a single unnecessary word, let alone invite anyone in for a cup of tea.

As for giving a definite answer? Don't even think about it.

Accepting your gift does not mean we forgive you; refusing your gift is even worse, indicating you aren't even qualified to give gifts.

The Wang family's attitude—silent, taking the gifts yet giving no sign—left the heads of families waiting outside feeling even more uncertain.

It was like a cat's scratch, irritating the heart and lungs.

What exactly does the Wang family want? Are they planning to settle scores later?

Or to kill a chicken to scare the monkeys? Or just to toy with them?

We can't figure it out! The more we can't guess, the more frightened we become; the more frightened, the lower we stoop, and the heavier the gifts we send.

It's like a competition, fearing that if we send too little, the Wang family will bear a grudge.

Among the multitude of families scared witless, only knowing how to bow and scrape while sending gifts, the Shangguan family stood out as somewhat different.

The Shangguan family head came in person, presenting a gift just as valuable, but his demeanor was far less abject.

He didn't just grovel apologetically; instead, he first expressed admiration for the Wang family's pyrrhic victory, especially highlighting Old Master Wang Shan's methods, speaking with genuine sincerity.

Then he shifted the conversation, tactfully suggesting that he hoped for deeper cooperation with the Wang family in the future—such as intelligence sharing, resource exchange, and so on.

You see, that is the bearing of a great family: knowing that relying solely on gifts isn't enough, one must discuss cooperation and offer value.

As for the Shangguan family, Old Master Wang Shan did give them some face.

He had Wang Zhitao come out to receive them, thanked the Shangguan family head for the gift, and indicated that the cooperation matter could be discussed in detail once his injuries healed.

This differential treatment was clearly seen by the heads of families waiting outside; they understood it as clearly as a mirror.

Hey, it seems the Wang family isn't unreasonable, but the precondition is that you didn't previously push things to the extreme.

If you merely didn't help? That's easily said.

If you previously kicked someone when they were down? Hehe, then just wait.

Now look inside the Wang family; the atmosphere is also quite complicated.

The surviving clansmen, seeing the courtyard piled with gifts like small hills, and hearing the formerly high‑and‑mighty family heads outside whining and begging in low voices, felt a surge of mixed emotions.

Yesterday they were still wandering before the gates of death, clansmen's blood spilled on the spot—that despair was truly etched into the bone.

Today? It's just because the family head, the old man, held firm and even slew that immortal old fool of the Wan family, and these usual dog‑eyed, low‑looking fellows have been frightened into this state?

They paid a painful price, but they also finally straightened their backs, feeling an unprecedented dignity and pride.

However, this sense of pride was quickly diluted by sorrow.

Wang Shan ordered a careful tally of casualties.

This battle, the Wang family indeed won a pyrrhic victory.

Although the core disciples, under focused protection, suffered relatively minor losses—Wang Zhitao was seriously injured but at least his life was spared.

But the collateral branches and those manor guards lost nearly twenty; many more were wounded, not a few missing arms or legs. Each casualty list sent up made Wang Shan's heart sink a notch. These were Wang family people.

Wang Shan didn't waste words; on the spot he announced his decision.

All fallen clansmen will be compensated according to the family's highest standard; their dependents will thereafter be supported by the family, guaranteed food and clothing. All injured clansmen will be given priority access to medicinal pills, with the family sparing no effort to heal them.

When this decision was announced, the previously suppressed grief gained a hint of warmth. Having undergone the baptism of blood and fire, the Wang family, from top to bottom, experienced unprecedented unity.

Wang Zhitao supported his father, looking at his father's pale face and that arm which looked awkward from any angle, and couldn't help but ask again: "Father, your wound…"

Wang Shan waved his hand that could still barely move, interrupting him.

"He won't die." He didn't look at Wang Zhize, his eyes fixed on a direction—that was the direction of Heitu City, where the Wan Family Main House is located.