Chapter 23: Slander! He

Chen Guanlou slowly turned his head, a strange sense of unease rising in his chest.

Fear stems from the unknown.

Among the jailers, there were many rumors about the deepest cell, yet none could pinpoint the truth. He had secretly inquired about the case, but found nothing. It was said the man had been imprisoned for decades; the case files were likely lost.

He involuntarily swallowed hard. He should have left, yet some inexplicable force drove him toward the deepest cell.

“You…”

The prisoner, bound by iron chains, had wild hair and beard obscuring his face—but his eyes glowed unnaturally deep. Years of imprisonment had not shattered his mind; he still possessed reason and the wisdom of an adult.

Perhaps from long silence, his voice sounded like a rusted iron gate—each syllable scraped against his throat, hoarse and dull, fitting the cell’s gloom and leaving a chilling discomfort.

“You… have no martial vein. How can you cultivate internal martial arts?” The bearded prisoner could not fathom it. His eyes narrowed with suspicion as he scanned Chen Guanlou, then reached a firm conclusion: “You are strange.”

Chen Guanlou’s heart jolted—this prisoner was sharp.

He kept a stern face, refusing to admit he was strange, yet he did not rebuke the man. He could not gauge the prisoner’s origins or why he had been locked away in Tianlaomiao for so long, ignored by all outside. The world beyond seemed to have forgotten him; only the jailers of Cell Bing in Tianlaomiao still remembered his existence.

“Come closer. Let me see you.”

Chen Guanlou stood still. The bearded prisoner moved—he yanked his chains, lunged violently toward the bars, and suddenly burst into laughter.

Chen Guanlou was still wondering why he laughed when the prisoner suddenly attacked—his strike was lethal. Chen Guanlou nearly froze, but his reflexes saved him—he raised his staff in defense, using a killing technique from swordplay.

He poured all his strength into it, barely surviving three strikes before being forced to retreat repeatedly, dodging the bearded prisoner’s assault.

“Good! Good! Good! You have no martial vein, yet you survived three strikes against me—remarkable. You truly are strange.”

Chen Guanlou took a deep breath, suppressing his inner panic and shock.

Since beginning his martial training, those three strikes were his first real combat against another person. He now had a crude understanding of his own skill—he was nothing but trash before a true martial artist. It was utterly disheartening.

The bearded prisoner kept talking: “You have no martial vein, yet you cultivate an elite internal martial art, and you haven’t exploded. You stand before me alive and healthy—no injuries from cultivation. Strange! Extremely strange!”

Chen Guanlou’s heart skipped. “You can tell?”

“Hahaha… You’ve truly cultivated an elite internal martial art.”

“You tricked me.”

“Warfare delights in deception. Boy, what is your secret? No martial vein, yet you cultivate an elite internal art and live? You are the first. The only living first.”

Chen Guanlou fell silent for a moment, then bowed deeply, his tone reverent: “May I ask, Sir, what rank are you?”

The bearded prisoner chuckled. “When I first entered, I was fifth rank. Now? Roughly third rank.”

Chen Guanlou was stunned. He had survived three strikes against a third-rank master? This… could he boast? Was he truly a martial genius? Heaven had denied him a martial vein—clearly, it was blind.

“Are you shocked?” The bearded prisoner smiled faintly, having read Chen Guanlou’s thoughts. “The one who should be shocked is me. I failed to subdue a common martial artist with no martial vein in three strikes. A true disgrace.”

Chen Guanlou’s lip twitched. He chose not to argue. With a master, one must be courteous. “May I ask, Sir, can you see my true depth?”

This was what Chen Guanlou cared about most.

If a martial artist could easily see through him, he’d be as naked as a bare-assed child—transparent to all. The thought sent a chill down his spine.

The bearded prisoner clicked his tongue. “Your strangeness is undeniable. As for your depth… boy, what internal art are you cultivating? I cannot see through it. Strange! There are too many contradictions in you. What kind of art can conceal so completely?”

Hearing this, Chen Guanlou’s heart leapt with joy.

Whether because of the Longevity Fruit or the Sheng Tian Lu, as long as no one could see his true depth, he had room to show off. Hahaha…

Let him bask in it for now.

“If even a master of your caliber cannot see through it, my art must indeed be unique.”

“Boy, you have no martial vein yet you cultivate martial arts. Is your internal art specially crafted for ordinary people like you?”

Chen Guanlou smiled but said nothing.

He loved when others filled in the blanks. Self-delusion was the most potent weapon.

“No, no.” The bearded prisoner shook his head, rejecting his earlier guess. “If such an art existed for ordinary people, I would have heard of it. It’s impossible that you’re the only one to succeed. Ultimately, your ability to cultivate isn’t due to the art—it’s because you yourself are strange.”

Chen Guanlou’s face stiffened. This bearded man was sharp—he cut straight to the core.

But he had his advantage.

No matter how the man speculated, as long as Chen Guanlou refused to speak or admit anything, even if the guesses neared the truth, the real answer would remain hidden.

“Boy, what is your secret? Speak truthfully.”

Chen Guanlou chuckled. “Sir, don’t joke. I’m just an ordinary man—what secret could I have? If I truly had a secret, I wouldn’t be a jailer in Tianlaomiao.”

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’ve done here. You trade petty gains for others’ martial manuals. I imagine your harvest has been rich these days.”

Chen Guanlou was speechless, then straightened up, defiant: “It’s an open, mutual exchange—no coercion. How can you call it ‘tricking’? Sir, your words are too harsh.”

“Hmph! When you’re under someone’s roof, you bow your head. These prisoners, before your jailers, are lambs waiting to be slaughtered. Talking of ‘mutual consent’—it’s still oppression by power. Outside these walls, those manuals? Not even a glance would be allowed without gouging out your eyes.”

Chen Guanlou immediately retorted: “Sir, you’re wrong! Conditions now are not conditions then. Even without me, the prisoners here pay a terrible price just to survive. Trading with me gives them a better life—some dignity, at least. Besides, they can refuse. I never force them.”

His reputation was at stake—he had to defend himself. The prison’s harsh reality dictated this trade. How could this be called oppression?

Slander!

Pure, unadulterated slander!