Chapter 51

[Extra chapter added; future updates will be three per day]

After eating the fried rice noodles, Jiang Xia and Wang Teng returned to the Night Watcher branch and had someone deliver the crocodile parcel back to Wenda Academy.

In the meeting room of the Night Watcher branch, the lights were dimmed low.

Su Changfeng pushed a stack of documents in front of the two, his fingertip resting on a faded photograph.

“This is the auction house under Yang’s Group. On the surface, it’s legitimate, but it hides something far more sinister.”

“According to our intel, Yang’s Group’s auction house hosts an underground auction every Wednesday night, selling nothing but forbidden items.”

“Yang Zhibiao usually bids on the artifacts himself, transferring them from his left hand to his right to legalize them.”

Su Changfeng’s voice grew grave. “Your mission is to disguise yourselves, infiltrate, map out the layout and identify the buyers. Wait for the signal before acting in unison.”

“At that time, Lin Man and her team will assist Itachi.”

Wang Teng flipped through the documents, rubbing his chin, then suddenly laughed out loud.

“Itachi want me to play the bodyguard of a nouveau riche? Fine. This gold chain prop is heavy enough.”

Jiang Xia formed hand seals and used a transformation technique to assume the appearance of a refined scholar.

In the evening, Jiang Xia changed into a suit, applied some Stancon, adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses on his nose—perfectly embodying the image of a cultured degenerate.

Wang Teng also made a simple disguise: he wore a garish shirt, hung a fake gold chain around his neck, and carried a bulging leather briefcase.

He trailed behind Jiang Xia, loudly pointing out street food stalls every few steps.

“Keep it down,” Jiang Xia tapped his arm with a fan, his gaze sweeping over the attendant in a mandarin jacket by the auction house entrance.

The man’s sleeve revealed half a tattoo—the exact one described in the dossier as Yang Zhibiao’s personal bodyguard.

The attendant sized them up, asked no questions, and merely opened the back door with a bow. “Gentlemen, please come in.”

Behind the door was a narrow staircase. After descending over ten steps, the space opened up abruptly.

The basement had been converted into a circular auction hall: a central auction platform, semi-enclosed VIP booths surrounding it, and several sharp-eyed Grand Martial Artists standing guard in the corners.

The two took seats near the back, in ordinary chairs. Wang Teng pretended to play with his phone, actually activating a micro-camera to transmit the scene back to the Night Watcher branch.

Not long after, the auctioneer tapped his wooden hammer, and the room fell instantly silent.

The first item was a small bronze tripod, its base engraved with twisted runes. Wang Teng leaned close to Jiang Xia and muttered under his breath.

“This is a sacrificial tripod from the Cult of the Demonic God. How dare they put it up for auction?”

Jiang Xia said nothing, his gaze fixed on the VIP booths on the second floor.

There sat a man in a black suit, his profile sharply defined—it was Yang Zhibiao. Beside him sat a figure in a red robe, face masked, a long sword at his waist gleaming with cold light.

Auction items followed one after another, the atmosphere growing increasingly heated. Until the auctioneer lifted a brocade box, opened it to reveal a glistening feather, and raised his voice.

“A Kunpeng feather! Starting bid: one million!”

Yang Zhibiao in the VIP booth immediately raised his paddle: “One point five million.”

The crowd stirred, but no one dared to bid higher.

Just as the auctioneer was about to bring down his hammer, Jiang Xia spoke in a voice only the two of them could hear: “Send the signal.”

Wang Teng tapped his phone once—the Night Watcher branch’s action signal flared to life instantly.

Almost simultaneously, the iron door to the basement was kicked open. Black-uniformed Night Watcher operatives stormed in, laser rifles trained on the guards.

“Don’t move!”

Lin Man’s voice echoed through the auction hall. Chaos erupted. Several buyers attempting to resist were bound tightly by laser-released ropes.

Wang Teng flicked a talisman, striking the chest of a charging guard, grinning. “I’ve been waiting to take Itachi down!”

Jiang Xia moved straight toward the VIP booths on the second floor. Behind his gold-rimmed glasses, his pupils glowed red—the illusion of Tsukuyomi instantly enveloped Yang Zhibiao’s bodyguard.

Three Grand Martial Artist-level experts froze in place, their eyes glazed and vacant.

But just as Jiang Xia reached for Yang Zhibiao, the masked figure suddenly raised his hand and hurled a talisman. It exploded midair into a thick black mist, blinding everyone.

“Go!” Yang Zhibiao’s voice came from within the fog. Jiang Xia swept the mist aside—only to see a hidden passage opening beneath the VIP booth’s floor.

Yang Zhibiao had vanished into it. Only the masked figure remained at the passage’s entrance, gripping a short dagger radiating dark energy.

“Itachi think Itachi can stop me?” The masked man’s voice was hoarse. He slashed the dagger, sending a streak of black energy slicing through the air.

Jiang Xia activated Shinra Tensei, launching two kunai straight at the masked man’s chest.

The masked man grunted, spun, and leapt into the passage. The stone slab sealing the entrance snapped shut instantly, seamless, leaving no trace.

“Damn it, he got away!” Wang Teng rushed forward and kicked the stone slab—winced in pain, teeth gritted.

Lin Man ordered her team to inspect the scene. All auction items were seized, over twenty buyers and guards arrested—but the most critical target, Yang Zhibiao, had escaped.

Jiang Xia crouched before the stone slab, sensing the spiritual energy residue, then spoke suddenly.

“This passage has spatial energy fluctuations. I don’t know exactly where it leads, but as long as he doesn’t leave Linjiang, he won’t get away.”

Wang Teng immediately pulled out his phone: “I’ll contact the second squad—seal off Yang’s Group now!”

Lin Man walked over, gazing at the scattered forbidden items, frowning and sighing. “Yang Zhibiao hid too well. We didn’t catch him this time. Next time, we’ll need to be even more careful.”

Jiang Xia stood, removed his gold-rimmed glasses, and his eyes turned cold as the transformation technique dissolved.

“He won’t leave. Yang’s Group is the result of half his life’s work. He won’t abandon it. As long as he’s still in Linjiang, we’ll find him.”

Wang Teng clapped his shoulder and shook the newly seized evil eye pendant in his hand.

“Alright, next time we’ll just burn down his nest! By the way, how was my nouveau riche act? Did I nail it?”

Jiang Xia glanced at the crooked gold chain around his neck and smirked faintly. “Fine. But your chain’s about to slide down to your chest.”

In the dormitory of Mado University, Yang Wei was stuffing a manual titled “Control of Fire Elemental Abilities” into his backpack.

His phone vibrated. His fingers paused. The moment he answered, a frantic voice came through.

“Young Master, Chairman Yang… has vanished. The Group is in chaos. Itachi must return immediately.”

Yang Wei stood motionless, phone in hand.

Half an hour later, a black sedan pulled up beneath the dormitory.

Yang Wei stepped into the backseat, tugged at his school uniform collar, and stared out the window at the speeding street scenes—his eyes no longer held the arrogance of a high school student.

Early the next morning, in the top-floor conference room of Yang’s Group, the atmosphere was heavy.

Directors whispered around the long table until the door opened and Yang Wei walked in, dressed in a black suit.

He sat at the head of the table, tapped the surface lightly with his fingers, his voice quiet but carrying undeniable authority.

“Uncles, I’ve heard about my father’s disappearance. From today, I assume full control of Yang’s Group.”

Zhang Cheng, a shareholder seated at the end, was the first to challenge him: “Young Master, Itachi’re only a freshman. How can Itachi possibly manage such a massive enterprise? Let’s discuss this further.”

No sooner had he spoken than Yang Wei raised his gaze to him. A dark flame ignited in his palm. Simultaneously, his secretary slapped a photograph onto Zhang Cheng’s table.

“Uncle Zhang, your son’s still in elementary school, isn’t he? Better keep a close eye on him. Linjiang isn’t safe these days.”

Zhang Cheng picked up the photo. On it, his son held hands with a red-robed masked figure. His face turned instantly ashen, and he collapsed into his chair.