Chapter 548: The Death of Zhang Xilin

Crack.

While Zhang Chulan was hesitating, Feng Baobao had already opened the villa’s front door.

Cough.

As soon as Zhang Chulan stepped inside, he was choked by thick dust.

With each step he took, he left footprints on the floor, every sole pattern clearly visible.

“How long has this place been unused?”

“Oh, the last time we used it for training was three years ago.”

Feng Baobao answered without the slightest change in expression.

Zhang Jie also found the environment unpleasant, and with a light wave of his hand, a gentle breeze appeared.

It drifted softly through the living room, bathroom, study, and every other room, sweeping away all the dust.

Finally, it condensed into a dust ball the size of a soccer ball and dropped into the trash bin.

“Jiege is awesome! Jiege is mighty!”

Zhang Chulan cheered, thrilled to think he’d been spared from a grueling cleaning duty.

After all, among the three present, he was the lowest in status and power.

If cleaning duty didn’t fall to him, who else could it possibly fall to?

“But the environment here is actually quite good.”

After carefully examining the now-clean space, Zhang Chulan was surprised.

Compared to its exterior’s Syrian-warzone and haunted-house aesthetic, the interior, though sparsely furnished,

contained nothing beyond basic living necessities—but at least it was tolerable to look at.

The plain cement floors and walls now looked perfectly acceptable.

“Alright, Chulan, you’ll train here. I’m leaving now.”

Zhang Jie took a quick look around and prepared to depart.

Zhang Chulan looked startled: “Jiege, aren’t you staying here?”

Zhang Jie glanced at Zhang Chulan: “You’re the one training for the Luotian Da Jiao.

I don’t need to train, so there’s no reason for me to stay long.”

“Right.”

Zhang Chulan couldn’t help but smile bitterly.

Compared to him, a weakling frantically scrambling for last-minute training, Zhang Jie—a true master brimming with confidence—had no need for grueling self-discipline.

“Baobao-jie.”

Zhang Chulan turned to look at Feng Baobao.

If Zhang Jie was leaving, Feng Baobao would probably leave too—soon he’d be alone here.

“Zhang Chulan, I’ll stay here to train you!”

Feng Baobao showed no intention of leaving, speaking with firm resolve.

“Baobao-jie...”

Zhang Chulan’s expression softened with emotion.

Although Baobao-jie had deceived him by pretending to be his half-sister and nearly dug up his grandfather’s grave,

he knew she was, beneath her cold exterior, a warm-hearted soul...

“Baobao-jie, you take good care of training Zhang Chulan.”

Zhang Jie couldn’t agree more.

Though Feng Baobao was simple-minded and naive, possessing a pure heart,

after years as a temporary worker in the North China Region, her combat skills were formidable,

making her perfectly suited to train Zhang Chulan, a novice with little battlefield experience.

Besides, if he didn’t leave, how would Feng Baobao hand over Zhang Chulan’s grandfather’s inheritance?

With these thoughts, Zhang Jie mounted his vehicle and drove off.

At night, Feng Baobao called Zhang Chulan.

“Zhang Chulan, I have something to tell you.”

“Baobao-jie, go ahead.”

Zhang Chulan sat obediently across from Feng Baobao.

“I’m going to tell you something—don’t get worked up.”

Feng Baobao gave him a warning.

“Okay.”

Zhang Chulan readily agreed.

Over the years, he’d endured plenty of shocking events—he’d developed a strong heart.

“Your grandfather was killed by me.”

Feng Baobao stated the fact calmly.

“That’s not...”

Zhang Chulan reflexively tried to play it cool, but immediately realized this was no ordinary matter:

“Wait—you said my grandfather was killed by you?!”

“Yes.”

Feng Baobao gave a slight nod to confirm.

“My grandfather was killed by you?!!”

A rage, indescribable yet like a volcanic eruption, surged from his chest.

Zhang Chulan’s eyes turned blood-red; veins bulged on his forehead like writhing earthworms.

In that moment, every gentle word, every caring gesture his grandfather Zhang Xilin had ever shown him flashed through his mind.

He never imagined his grandfather hadn’t died of old age,

but had been murdered—and the murderer stood right before him.

‘Kill! Kill her to avenge Grandpa!’

A fierce impulse drove him to kill the girl before him, to avenge his grandfather.

Blood must be repaid with blood!

“Wait—could there be some hidden reason behind this?”

With immense willpower, Zhang Chulan suppressed his rising fury, clinging to the last thread of clarity.

If there were no hidden reason, Feng Baobao had no need to tell him the truth;

she could have kept it hidden forever.

“That happened many years ago...”

Feng Baobao ignored Zhang Chulan’s palpable killing intent and fury,

hugged her knees, stared blankly, and slipped into memory:

“At the time, our company’s intelligence division discovered that Yi people across the country were mysteriously converging on the North China Region.

At that time, Gouwaizi—oh, that’s Xu San and Xu Si’s father—

Xu Xiang, head of the North China Region, took me along to investigate.

Even though we set out immediately after receiving the report, we were still too late.

Along the way, we only saw the corpses of the Yi people—all of them murdered.”

Zhang Chulan felt his throat dry up, and asked hoarsely:

“Was it my grandfather who killed those Yi people?”

“Yes.”

Feng Baobao continued staring blankly out the window: “Myself and Gouwaizi tracked them down, and finally, in a secluded forest,

we found the man who had killed the Yi people—it was your grandfather, Zhang Xilin.”

“Your grandfather was incredibly strong. These Yi people were all senior elders from prestigious sects,

yet your grandfather killed them all by himself.”

“What does that have to do with you killing my grandfather?”

Though Feng Baobao was praising his grandfather’s strength, Zhang Chulan grew increasingly agitated—he couldn’t bear to listen.

He only wanted to know why she had killed his grandfather!

Facing Zhang Chulan’s accusation, Feng Baobao showed no anger, her tone as flat and unchanging as ever:

“Your grandfather was powerful, but the Yi people who came to hunt him weren’t weak.

Each of them was a senior elder from a prestigious sect. Your grandfather killed them,

but he himself was gravely wounded by their final, desperate counterattacks.”

“Did my grandfather beg you to end his suffering?”

A faint smile appeared on Zhang Chulan’s face.

It was a smile—yet held not a trace of warmth, only the chill of ancient ice.

Requesting someone to deliver the final blow was common among soldiers who suffered irreparable wounds on the battlefield,

It was the final choice he made to spare himself the torment of excruciating pain.

But he did not believe it—how resilient his grandfather’s spirit had been,

how could he possibly beg someone, let alone a complete stranger, to end his life?