Xiangzi kept his head low, silently approaching Master Liu’s long table.

Before leaving the city, Uncle Jie had mentioned Master Liu would be at the gate, overseeing the refugees.

This was why Xiangzi risked hiding among them.

In this chaotic situation, he didn’t know what had happened in the city and trusted no one.

But Uncle Jie’s dying words urged him to find Master Liu.

Xiangzi didn’t trust Master Liu, but he trusted Uncle Jie.

If Uncle Jie had misjudged, Xiangzi would accept it.

—

His towering frame stood out starkly among the skeletal refugees.

Master Liu recognized him instantly.

His heart trembled, but he masked it with a stern face, barking, “You, big guy! What’re you standing there for? Get over here and draw!”

Xiangzi complied, supporting Liu Tang as they approached.

Master Liu’s gaze swept over—no third person.

His heart sank.

As he shook the lottery tube, his mind wavered. Unable to hold back, he whispered, “Where’s Ah Jie?”

Xiangzi kept his head down, eyes shadowed, and shook his head without a word.

Master Liu’s hand faltered, a short stick popping out.

Fumbling, he shoved it back, trembling fingers pulling two long sticks. His face was ashen.

Once Xiangzi and Liu Tang entered the city, Master Liu stood shakily, wordless.

His hand slipped, and he slumped back into his seat.

A subordinate rushed to help, noticing the bloodshot eyes.

Master Liu waved him off, muttering, “Watch this mess. Damn sandstorm’s too much!”

This veteran chief, known for his slick ways in South City’s police bureau, shuffled toward the gate, eyes red, shoulders hunched.

—

In South City, Xiangzi was cautious, avoiding rickshaws and alleys, blending into the crowd with his tattered clothes.

Unlike the bluestone-paved East and West Cities, South City’s streets were strewn with gravel and sand, dust swirling with every gust.

Xiangzi squinted, crouching at a corner to observe before helping Liu Tang up.

The uncovered sewers reeked, black water pooling above the ground.

The sour stench of sweat mixed with decay assaulted his nose.

This familiar smell stirred Xiangzi’s heart—just two days away from South City, yet it feels like another lifetime.

They’d left with a grand convoy.

Now, only he and Master Tang remained.

Suddenly, Liu Tang’s body went limp, collapsing.

If not for Xiangzi’s quick reflexes, this ninth-rank minor completion warrior would’ve fallen in South City’s streets.

After enduring the mining zone and a tense escape, this iron-willed man had held on silently until now, finally breaking.

Xiangzi’s heart sank at Liu Tang’s ghostly face—his wounds are worse than I thought.

With no time to hide, Xiangzi hoisted Liu Tang onto his back, whispering, “Master Tang, hold on a bit longer!”

He strode toward the east.

Perhaps jostled, Liu Tang’s eyes fluttered open, his voice faint. “Xiangzi… this isn’t the way to the yard.”

Sweat beaded on Xiangzi’s forehead. He replied softly, “Master Tang… I don’t think we can go back to the yard yet.”

Liu Tang froze, his purple lips twitching, but he said nothing, his expression dimming.

Xiangzi was sharp.

This big guy no longer trusts Fourth Master Liu!

At East City’s gate—

Clang, clang, clang!

Ding-a-ling, ding-a-ling!

“Newspapers! Two cents a copy!”

At the bustling intersection, a newsboy in a rough hemp shirt, a canvas bag slung across his chest, waved a stack of papers, shouting.

Suddenly—

A gust seemed to pass.

Clink! Three copper coins dropped into the box around his neck.

The boy blinked, rubbed his eyes, and scanned around, grinning as he pocketed the coins.

He didn’t notice a newspaper missing.

—

Running, Xiangzi skimmed the paper.

The bold headline mentioned five-colored ore, but the details were sparse.

It seemed simple: Ma Liu Rickshaw Yard, in audacious defiance, colluded with King Chuang to smuggle five-colored ore to the three strongholds and nine territories.

Thanks to the wise Marshal’s Mansion and police bureau, they intercepted Ma Liu’s smuggling convoy on White Cloud Street.

The yard was sealed the night before last, with hundreds of officers surrounding it.

Ma Liu himself was arrested.

His son-in-law, the deputy chief, quickly disavowed any connection, publicly cutting ties.

His charming concubine was promptly divorced.

The news was rough, but Xiangzi sensed something amiss.

Not a word mentioned Harmony Rickshaw Yard or the Li family mining zone!

The dozens of lives lost there were as if they’d never existed.

Then, a small line at the bottom caught his eye: the police chief personally met Liu Jinhua of Clearwind Street’s Harmony Rickshaw Yard, commending his contributions in the Ma Liu smuggling case.

Liu Jinhua—Fourth Master Liu’s full name!

Especially praised was Liu Jinhua’s loyalty, personally turning in his adopted son, Liu Hu, for colluding with Ma Liu—a righteous act earning widespread acclaim.

Xiangzi’s eyes narrowed, his steps quickening.

His fingers twitched, the newspaper exploding into fragments, scattering in the sandy wind.

One bite at a time for buns, one step at a time for matters.

The priority was saving Master Tang’s life.

—

East City, Baolin Martial Hall’s rear courtyard.

The deep estate was silent.

Dusk’s yellow glow filtered through dense elm leaves, casting dappled shadows.

Lin Junqing set his brush on the inkstone, frowning, a lingering gloom in his eyes.

He studied the rice paper, its chaotic strokes, and crumpled it abruptly.

Writing was a task his master had pressed on him years ago, saying a martial artist’s heart must be calm, or even great skill would falter.

Young and brash, Lin Junqing hadn’t cared.

After losing on the arena, lamed and demoted in realm, he picked up the brush.

Years of frustration and pain found solace in ink.

But today, his heart was restless, his strokes disordered.

His face tightened, gaze snapping to the window.

Without visible movement, his figure blurred into afterimages.

The next moment, the lean middle-aged warrior stood in the courtyard.

A knock—thud, thud, thud—sounded at the gate.