Chapter 258

The Grand Tutor was knocked out and taken away, yet not killed on the spot—strange.

Guard Cui took several slashes, blood flowing like a river, fury exploding; he chased after them, disregarding his own life.

"Follow them, quick, quick, quick!" Chen Guanlou led the jailers out of the Tianlaomiao.

Jail Cheng Niu saw only rolling dust, swallowed a mouthful of grit, his face as if the sky had fallen and the earth cracked—"What do we do now, what do we do now! My head is surely forfeit! Hurry, hurry, go summon Vice Minister Sun—tell him the Grand Tutor has been kidnapped!"

"Split up and search."

Chen Guanlou parted from the jailers, changed his appearance and gear, and followed the trail all the way outside the city.

"Friend, please stop!"

Chen Guanlou stood atop the tree canopy, looking down at the black-clad man ahead—the unconscious Grand Tutor slung over his shoulder.

"Who are you?" The black-clad man went on high alert.

"Bored, just came to watch the show. In broad daylight, dressed all in black, casually dragging a hostage out of the city—impressive!"

More than impressive—without inside help, this would've been impossible.

This is the capital, beneath the Son of Heaven's feet—do you really think the city gate troops are decorations?

Even if the Great Qian Dynasty is rotten, the capital still retains basic defensive strength.

The black-clad man's eyes darted nervously; he couldn't gauge Chen Guanlou's depth, unsure whether he was a powerful outsider or a local strongman. If local, why had he never heard of this man? If an outsider, where did he get the nerve to track him—didn't he fear death? He knew the waters ran deep, yet still dared to wade in.

"Get out of my way—or die!" The black-clad man suddenly threatened.

Chen Guanlou sneered. He was playing the role of a weathered desert swordsman; for this man to threaten him—what was there to hesitate over?

He didn't draw his blade. In his eyes, all things under heaven and earth could become blades. He snapped off a branch, executed the simplest sword technique, striking straight for the vital point.

A killing blow—but it suddenly veered mid-air.

Chen Guanlou leapt backward, retreating at top speed, barely landing on the canopy. The fragile branches dragged his body, swaying in midair.

Such a sharp sword technique—if he hadn't reacted fast enough, he'd already been split in two. Yet the blade still grazed his temple; a strand of hair fell to the ground.

An old man appeared vaguely in the forest's shadows, leaves obscuring his face.

Recalling that sword strike—it was certainly eighth rank or higher, possibly ninth.

Chen Guanlou's heart jolted. He'd only come to watch the show—why had he drawn the attention of a supreme expert? He didn't want in anymore—could he just leave?

"To escape my blade alive—you're impressive."

"Master is truly remarkable. You appeared without sound or sign; had it not been for that sword, I'd have died never knowing you were there."

High-rank martialists could easily conceal their aura. He'd genuinely not sensed anyone in the woods.

This was a profound lesson.

He couldn't discern the old man's true depth—only roughly estimate: ninth rank, surely, but likely not yet at the peak of full mastery.

Thank heaven—he wasn't a Grandmaster.

Otherwise, he'd be dead today.

Look at how they broke the jail—they knew Tianlaomiao had no elite guards, only Guard Cui, and he was only fifth rank. The black-clad men sent were roughly equal to Cui, and with numbers overwhelmed the Crown Prince's guards, slaughtering them to the last man. Cui himself is now barely clinging to life.

Had he not intervened, the black-clad man would've already escaped with the Grand Tutor.

The sudden appearance of the old man was clearly to counter unexpected interference like him.

"You should've died just now. No one escapes my blade."

The old man's arrogance made Chen Guanlou's blood boil.

"I'm out. I'm done!" He decided instantly—if he couldn't win, he wouldn't fight.

"Come when you please, leave when you please—you think this is children's play?"

Before the words finished, the blade struck again.

Chen Guanlou cursed inwardly, "Bring me my blade!"

Let him see true swordsmanship!

The clash of blade and sword swept over the black-clad man's head—but the target was the unconscious Grand Tutor.

Kill the Grand Tutor!

"How dare you!" The old man roared. With the Grand Tutor in hand, no one could dare kill him. The blade veered mid-strike, redirecting to block and save.

Chen Guanlou acted instantly—turned and fled, escaping at unprecedented speed.

"Little thief!" The old man realized he'd been tricked—earlier that slash was clearly a feint, a decoy to create an opening for escape.

The old man furiously chased after him.

Chen Guanlou's stolen flower-thief agility, augmented by the Sheng Tian Lu, made him untouchable—no one on earth could catch him.

Plop!

Ahead lay the Tongtong River—he leapt decisively into the raging current.

The water erased all traces, all aura. Even a ninth-rank martialist standing on the bank couldn't find him.

Chen Guanlou held his breath, sinking deep into the riverbed, drifting downstream with the current.

The old man stood on the bank, enraged—he slashed downward, cleaving the river in two. Fish and shrimp surged upward, floating belly-up on the surface.

That strike, delivered with full power, had already alerted nearby capital garrison troops.

The old man didn't want to provoke the military. Though furious, he chose to retreat decisively.

Chen Guanlou drifted for half an hour, then slowly surfaced, revealing just his head.

It was winter—the water was icy—but he felt no cold.

He only felt relief—relief that he'd lived, that he'd chosen to flee rather than stand against a ninth-rank martialist.

He cursed a fool—he was cursing himself.

He knew the Grand Tutor's case ran deep, but never imagined it would draw a ninth-rank martialist to intercept the black-clad man.

A ninth-rank martialist as a hired thug—think of it. The mastermind behind this must be of immense status. Guess the highest circles—you're certain the culprit lies among them.

Ninth-rank martialists are exceedingly rare—who in the world could command one as a thug?

This spectacle isn't worth joining. I'm done.

After climbing ashore, he didn't return to Tianlaomiao. Instead, he spent the night at a brothel, arriving at dawn reeking of perfume and powder.

Jail Cheng Niu saw him, smelled his scent—"Y-you—you—"

He stammered "you" three times—furious beyond words.

Chen Guanlou cried out, wounded and sincere: "My lord, how long do we have to live? Before we die, at least live a little—no regrets."

That made perfect sense!

It perfectly explained his absence for a full day and night. Everyone assumed he thought he'd die—he wanted to live freely before the end. What's wrong with that?

Nothing at all!

Jail Cheng Niu had no retort.

"Not necessarily dead."

Finally, he spat out those words.

Chen Guanlou's eyes lit up—"Is Vice Minister Sun protecting us?"

"This matter runs deep—I don't know the details. Yesterday, Guard Cui chased out, and you followed right after—what happened after that?"

"We lost them. Your Excellency knows—we jailers are ordinary men, we can't catch martialists. I don't know how Guard Cui is—saw him badly wounded, bleeding everywhere, still chasing so fiercely."

"Don't worry—he won't die. But his career is over."