Chapter 450

As night fell, Chen Guanlou returned home.

The squad members gathered at his house to continue night patrol tonight.

He said no words to boost morale; he simply ordered everyone to take up their weapons, drew his standard-issue waist blade, and whispered, "Let's go."

The night patrol began.

He would keep an eye on Qi Wuxiu's side—help if he could. Quitting his Embroidered Uniform Guard post? What difference did it make? These days, unless you ate from the state's bowl, you had to cling to powerful clans. Both were serving as dogs; Chen Guanlou figured, under the current situation, serving the court was more profitable. At least you could slack off without pay cuts, and the bosses above your head weren't so numerous.

Night had fallen; the air was cold. All around was silent.

With tensions high, every household had shut their doors tight and gone to bed early. Perhaps they hadn't slept—perhaps they were all straining their ears for sounds outside. But none dared make a noise, fearing to draw the enemy's attention.

Around a corner, four figures appeared—four men blocking the path.

Chen Guanlou raised an eyebrow slightly, studying them by the torchlight.

One of them asked, "You're Chen Guanlou?"

"I am. Who are you?"

"The ones who'll take your life."

Chen Guanlou smiled faintly. His squad members were tense; he gestured for them all to fall back, telling them not to worry.

"Last time I heard such arrogance, who was it? Doesn't matter—whoever it was, the grass on his grave is already shoulder-high. Come at me all at once."

"How utterly audacious!"

"A young man who doesn't act reckless is no true youth. I've got no other talent—just a loud mouth."

"I hope your cultivation matches your mouth."

Chen Guanlou smiled tightly. "These days, everyone loves to blabber before killing? If it were me, I'd just kill you outright."

The moment he spoke the word "kill," a blade's flash lit the night.

Swish!

Is it raining?

The squad members looked up—the moonlight was hazy.

They touched their cheeks—sticky, thick with the stench of blood.

It's raining! A rain of blood.

Chen Guanlou sheathed his blade and told his squad, "Drag the bodies aside—don't block the road."

"You killed them already?"

"Mm. Killed." Chen Guanlou spoke casually.

"I thought they looked strong."

"Strong? I didn't feel anything." Chen Guanlou felt a quiet loneliness—true masters are always alone. How dare a mere fifth- or fourth-rank warrior boast before him? Annoying.

"Boss Chen, what rank are you exactly?"

Chen Guanlou looked at the curious gaze and smiled softly. "Rank doesn't matter."

"What does?"

"The ability to kill."

"Boss, let me wipe your blade!" A sycophantic squad member edged close.

Chen Guanlou: …

The blade did need cleaning. The court-issued blade was mediocre. Not like his custom-made greatsword, forged with hundreds of taels of silver—its blade had drunk blood and absorbed blood-spirit. Drawn, it killed without fail.

The blade was wiped clean.

The corpses were dragged to the roadside.

The patrol continued.

That night, Chen Guanlou encountered several groups of warriors sent expressly to kill him—all fearless fools. Even as they died, their eyes held disbelief.

Until the fifth watch, in the dark before dawn, he finally met a warrior worthy of being called an opponent.

He dismissed his squad. Among true masters, collateral damage is unavoidable; bystanders should clear out immediately.

Rooftops, moonlight, cold wind—a perfect night for stealing kisses and secrets.

If only there were a pretty girl to warm his bed, it would've been a peaceful night.

Chen Guanlou studied his opponent. "Jiang Tu has some ability—he managed to hire an eighth-rank warrior to kill me. I never imagined a lowly soldier like me would draw such attention."

"Jiang Tu didn't hire me. I merely wanted to see what kind of man could kill dozens of warriors in one night."

"Now that you've seen me, how? Satisfied?"

"There's something strange about you."

Chen Guanlou's expression turned grave. The last person who said that to him was a Grandmaster—one he couldn't even block a single strike from.

The man stepped forward.

Chen Guanlou stepped back decisively.

He was no longer the naive boy he once was. He knew many ways to conceal true cultivation—even the meridians. Through arts, through pills, through cultivation methods…

The higher one's cultivation, the more one hides. The more one wishes to blend in like an ordinary man.

You see an eighth-rank warrior—does that mean he truly is one?

Don't trust your eyes too easily.

Seeing is not believing.

"Who doesn't have something strange about them? These days, who dares be arrogant without a bit of fortune?" Chen Guanlou spoke half-truth, half-lie.

He had no fortune—he had awakened his past-life wisdom, along with the Fruit of Immortality. It was barely a fortune, but unlike ordinary ones.

Ordinary fortune meant falling off a cliff, stumbling into a cave, finding an ancient master's secret manual, cultivating divine arts, achieving mastery, returning to the martial world, slaughtering all before him.

"Smooth talker!"

"Can't help it—professional habit. Deal with criminals every day; if your tongue isn't sharp, you'll be driven mad. Are you here to kill me?"

"That depends on your performance."

"How have I performed?"

"Arrogant. Clueless about death."

"You're sure you weren't hired by Jiang Tu?"

"What is Jiang Tu?"

The tone—hmm!

He criticized Chen Guanlou's arrogance, yet his own tone was even bolder. At least Chen Guanlou had never openly called Jiang Tu "what is Jiang Tu?"

"Good. If you weren't hired by Jiang Tu, that's fine."

Chen Guanlou grew more certain—the man was no mere eighth-rank. Whether a Grandmaster, he couldn't say. Such arrogance—ninth-rank wouldn't be excessive.

Below Grandmaster, ninth-rank ruled the land; all martial artists owed them respect.

Chen Guanlou wasn't sure if he could withstand a ninth-rank warrior—he'd never fought one. His self-assessment came only from battles with other warriors.

Why wait for another day? Tonight would be the perfect night for a fierce, unrestrained battle.

Others called him arrogant—perhaps he truly was.

But he moved first!

Swish!

Blade drawn, all-out strike.

Air compressed, solidified, then exploded—raising a tidal wave.

Boom!

The moonlight above was beautiful—the Thunder God and Lightning Mother were resting.

Yet the ground erupted into a deep crater; the rooftop was ripped off, walls collapsed.

The once-solid house was now a ruin of broken walls, as if struck by a tornado.

Chen Guanlou sprinted toward the city outskirts.

His opponent chased without pause.

Chen Guanlou ran at his fastest speed, glancing back—the man clung to him like a shadow.

Damn it—he'd stepped on iron.

Confirmed: he wasn't eighth-rank. Not a Grandmaster, but ninth-rank peak.

Too bad his greatsword wasn't with him. The court-issued waist blade had turned to ash in half a clash. He had to endure it bare-handed.

He should be able to hold out.

He laughed aloud.

Dead branches and leaves on the trees became blades, lashing behind him—all blocked by a mere sweep of the man's sleeve.

"Master, your technique is devastating! Then try this one—can you block it?"

Before the words finished, the river's waters surged into the night sky, cleaving heaven and earth in two. Water was wielded as a blade, qi condensed into swords—the pinnacle of martial arts, allowing no margin for error.