Among the bandits,

Zhang Dachui clutched a small flag dusted with dirt.

Embroidered with gold thread, it bore a claw mark—a symbol known to all in the northern lands.

This was “King Chuang’s” flag.

Below the claw hung a tiny arrow, unique to Zhang Dachui’s troop.

“Boss, what do we do? Those pullers might’ve figured out our ‘Wildcat’ identity!” Luo Er, dragging a massive spiked mace, grumbled.

Their troop’s nickname was the Wildcats.

At his second-in-command’s words, Zhang Dachui shot him a sidelong glance—this bastard Luo Er, always pushing for a hard charge, probably has some deal with Ma Liu Rickshaw Yard.

Years ago, under Marshal Cao, would Luo Er have dared speak to him like this?

Since joining “King Chuang,” they’d been stuck in the bitter cold of the Three Strongholds and Nine Territories, barely scraping by. Any loot went straight to the “public vault.”

Now, the Wildcats were in dire straits, with only a few gunpowder rifles left. Many brothers were clamoring to ditch King Chuang and join Marshal Zhang in Forty-Nine City for better days.

Zhang Dachui, grateful for the she-devil’s shelter in hard times, hadn’t made up his mind.

That’s why he’d risked everything to raid this ore route—he’d learned under Marshal Cao that these routes were the lifeblood of the embassy district’s elites.

But what choice did he have? Without some profit for his men, even he, Zhang Dachui, couldn’t hold the line.

In these bleak times, he saw the disloyalty in his men but let it slide for the bigger picture.

Luo Er was right, though.

That flag in the man’s hand might’ve exposed their roots.

Better safe than sorry.

Zhang Dachui gritted his teeth. “Damn it, if that guy came down that path, we can sneak up it too!”

“Luo Er, you lead the charge!”

Luo Er froze, but seeing Zhang Dachui’s sly look, his heart quivered.

“Fine, I, Luo Er, will take this hill for you, Boss!” he growled, accepting.

A promise was ironclad—face mattered in the jianghu. Showing fear would ruin his standing in the Wildcats.

Luo Er’s spiked mace slammed into the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust.

A mournful horn sounded,

and a killing aura swept the air.

Every bandit knew—it was time to fight for their lives.

But on the slope, tensions were already sky-high.

Jin Fugui gripped his long blade, eyes bloodshot, glaring at Xiangzi. “Xiangzi, you killed my brother!”

Xiangzi’s eyes narrowed, a smirk curling his lips. “Jin Fugui… Skinny Monkey was clearly the bandits’ inside man. Tell me, how did I kill him?”

“Did I force him to betray us?”

“Or did I shoot him dead?”

With each word, Xiangzi stepped closer, his chest nearly touching Jin Fugui’s blade.

“The bandits killed Skinny Monkey, yet you blame me instead of them?”

“If you hadn’t fought hard earlier, you think I wouldn’t spear you right now for drawing on me?”

Uncle Jie, gripping his long spear beside Xiangzi, smirked at Jin Fugui—one swing from him, and Jie would slit his throat first.

Though unclear on the details, many pullers rallied behind Xiangzi, indignant.

At Xiangzi’s words, Jin Fugui’s hand trembled, his gaze drifting down the slope.

In the swirling dust, Skinny Monkey’s body was trampled into a bloody mess.

A muddy tear slid from his eye.

Yeah, my dumb brother died by the bandits’ hands!

“Heh…” Jin Fugui’s lips twisted into a wretched smile, his voice breaking. “Xiangzi, you’re right. A debt’s a debt.”

“Today, we deal with these bandits. Our grudge waits for another day!”

Xiangzi’s eyes narrowed. “Anytime.”

Jin Fugui sheathed his blade and walked off,

his hunched figure like a lone wolf in the wild.

Just then, Wen San ran up, shouting, “Xiangzi, Xiangzi, they’re attacking up that path!”

Xiangzi’s body jolted—the big fish took the bait!

But this fish was bigger than he’d expected.

On the path,

Luo Er, mace in hand, navigated the narrow slope.

Thanks to the refugees stripping the trees bare, the bald path was easier to tread.

“Second Brother, with so few of us, can we hold?” a panting blade-wielding man asked behind him.

“Yeah, Second Brother, why’s it always us stuck with the frontline work?”

Others grumbled too.

Luo Er’s cold glance silenced them.

They were his trusted men, and he needed them now, so he soothed, “Boss said if we pull this off, each gets half a cart of five-colored ore!”

“Besides, these pullers are trash—no ranked martial artists. What’s to fear?”

He’d gotten the details from Fat Fan days ago.

Without Liu Tang, who could stop his early ninth-rank skills?

As for the yard’s guards who’d broken the Blood Energy Barrier? Not worth mentioning!

Even together, they couldn’t withstand one swing of his mace!

The path of martial arts was grueling.

Nine ranks, four barriers—each a chasm!

Entry—Minor Completion—Major Completion—Perfection.

Even a single stage difference within a rank was vast!

Otherwise, why, despite bringing the most men, was he stuck as second-in-command in the Wildcats?

An early ninth-rank against a minor completion ninth-rank—of course the latter’s the boss!

Luo Er barked, “Move it! Mess this up, and I’ll skin you!”

His words cut off as rustling came from above.

Several pullers pushed rocks down the slope.

“Damn it!” Luo Er swung his mace.

The massive head shattered the rocks into dust.

In the chaotic haze, the pullers screamed and fled.

Wen San’s wail was the loudest.

My god, this isn’t a man—he’s a monster, fiercer than Xing Daorong or Pan Feng from the tales!