In the darkness of the night, Liu, who should have been dead, suddenly stirred, standing upright.

The broken copper dagger in his hand slashed, leaving a thin line of blood across the young guard’s neck.

Caught off guard, the young guard flinched, swinging his long blade, adding another wound to Liu’s chest.

But that was all he could manage.

Clutching his neck, blood gushing, his eyes filled with shock—how could this old man, stabbed through the chest, still be alive?

Everyone underestimated Liu. This man, who clawed his way from the depths of the mines to control half the southern city, possessed a tenacity beyond ordinary men.

But Liu wasn’t Xiangzi, lacking that once-proven, forever-proven ability. Gravely wounded, his precision was gone.

At seventy, no matter how many precious elixirs had tempered his skin and bones, his blood energy waned.

Worse, Shi Cheng’s earlier palm strike had left him near death.

Rising suddenly to kill a Blood Energy Barrier guard was Liu’s limit!

—

Seeing the half-dagger in Liu’s hand, the guard called Old Zhang trembled, his hands flashing with cold light as two eight-cut knives appeared.

These knives were peculiar—narrow blades, sharp tips, perfect for close combat, their curved handles ideal against slender weapons like Liu’s dagger.

As a ninth-rank beginner martial artist, Old Zhang moved swiftly, closing in on Liu in a blink.

Had he struck earlier, he might have saved the young guard.

But he aimed his knives—at Liu’s back.

Better sacrifice a partner than let this old dog escape!

Otherwise, Master Cheng would flay him alive!

Compared to that, the young guard, his partner for years, was expendable.

—

Swish, swish.

The crisp sound of slicing air rang out as the eight-cut knives danced like the wind. Without much movement from Old Zhang, Liu’s back was already a mess of blood and flesh.

The southern city’s legendary rickshaw boss howled, turning to thrust his dagger, only for it to be caught and twisted by the knives, flying away with a clang.

Watching from the locust tree, Xiangzi froze—he hadn’t expected Old Zhang, with his honest face, to have such precise knife work!

Truly masterful.

With that thought, Xiangzi smiled faintly, his body easing slightly.

The branch trembled, leaves rustling, as a shadow drifted onto the rooftop and into Baiyun Street.

With a flick of his wrist, two short spears joined into a long spear.

Its tip gleamed blindingly, shimmering under the moonlight.

Boosted by the [Rickshaw Puller] skill, Xiangzi’s steps were light as dust, swift as lightning, like a ghost.

—

Liu stumbled, face pale as paper, gray hair fluttering in the wind, his bloodied face mad with desperation.

Old Zhang’s knife work was skilled, his youth and strength overwhelming.

His eight-cut knives targeted Liu’s wrists and forearms, striking joints with precision.

Soon, Liu was a blood-soaked figure.

All Liu had was his elixir-tempered skin and bones. A ninth-rank beginner at his peak, now crippled by Shi Cheng’s strike, he was no match for Zhang.

An eight-cut knife flashed, slicing a gaping wound across Liu’s neck—a fatal blow.

But Old Zhang was cautious, raising his left knife to plunge into Liu’s heart.

At that moment, a great spear tore through the night breeze, aiming for his back.

The spear move seemed light, silent at first, but as it closed in, its ferocity exploded.

The Collapsing Fist technique, taught by Lin Junqing, applied to spearwork, unleashed a surge of wild power.

In Xiangzi’s dantian, three pillars of blood energy spun furiously—spear ahead, man behind, tracing a razor-sharp line in the dim moonlight.

This wasn’t to save Liu but to strike while Old Zhang’s breath hadn’t yet faltered.

—

Hearing the gust behind him, Old Zhang sensed danger, panic rising.

He forcibly retracted his knife, but the momentum in his chest couldn’t be stifled.

Facing the ferocious spear, he barely turned, raising his eight-cut knives at an odd angle to block—a technique unique to the eight-cut knives: Spear-Disarming Art.

But this time, the usually foolproof move failed.

Old Zhang twisted his wrists, yet the spear only trembled slightly.

Seeing the stranger’s face clear in the moonlight, Old Zhang’s heart filled with dread—where did this expert with such robust blood energy come from?

He had no time for shock.

With a thud, the spear pierced his chest.

Xiangzi pressed down, sending Old Zhang flying, crashing to the ground with a muffled groan.

—

Xiangzi withdrew the spear, stunned.

That easy? He hadn’t even used his prepared follow-ups, and the man was down?

The spear hung inverted, blood dripping from the tip, tracing a faint line on the dirt.

The middle-aged guard’s face held unmasked terror—how could this seventeen- or eighteen-year-old giant have such ferocious blood energy?

A martial hall disciple, perhaps?

The thought crushed Old Zhang’s will to resist.

Xiangzi eyed the gaping hole in his chest, sighing. “I don’t get you ranked martial artists. How do you train to be this tough?”

The guard tried to speak, eyes sharpening, raising his knife only to let it fall limply.

The spear flashed, landing in Old Zhang’s chest, shattering his heart.

Xiangzi watched a moment, nodding in satisfaction—now he’s dead for sure.

But looking at the fear-stricken face, he sighed with a twinge of regret. This guy probably didn’t even know why he died.

If Wen San were here, he’d have gloated before finishing him.

Raising his head to the crescent moon, Xiangzi whispered, “Brother Wen, rest easy.”

“I, Xiangzi, have avenged you.”

—

Xiangzi approached Liu, who lay slumped, clutching his shattered chest, blood pouring from his mouth.

In the darkness, the stranger’s face grew clear.

The southern city’s old lean tiger’s dim eyes widened in shock—he never imagined the giant who felled a ninth-rank beginner with one spear was… him?

Xiangzi clasped his fists lightly. “Fourth Master… long time no see.”

Liu’s eyes brimmed with astonishment.

Struggling to sit up, a strange light flickered in his gaze. “Xiangzi… you’re alive? What about Tang?”

Xiangzi said nothing, staring at the neck wound—the gash from the eight-cut knife was too deep, blood gushing, draining Liu’s life.

Surprisingly, Xiangzi felt calm, no surge of vengeance fulfilled.

In a way, Liu’s death had little to do with him.

Just dogs biting dogs between him and the Li family.

Blood soaked Liu’s robes, his eyes growing dull, pupils clouding with gray-white.

Liu’s life was ticking down.

Like a stray dog, he dragged himself across the ground, trying to stand, but collapsed to his knees.

A crimson trail stained the yellow earth, his sapphire-blue vest caked with blood and dust, far from the festive air of the morning’s congratulations.

Xiangzi looked down, his face devoid of joy or sorrow.

With his last breath, Liu raised his head, voice trembling. “Xiangzi, where’s Tang?”

Unlike the calculating Liu of old, his aged face was now etched with desperation.

No longer the Qingfeng Street rickshaw boss who rose from blood, he seemed a pitiful, lonely old dog.

Xiangzi never thought he’d see Liu like this.

They say a dying man’s words are true.

In his final moments, this unyielding tiger didn’t ask about Girl Hu or beg for rescue, only about the adopted son he’d raised.

Was it a deathbed epiphany, a plea for pity, or genuine care? Xiangzi didn’t care to know.

He spoke softly, “You don’t deserve to know.”

The words struck Liu like a hammer.

His strength drained, he collapsed with a thud.

Before him was a pristine crescent moon.

Its light bathed him.

This old lean tiger, who rose from a miner to rule half the southern city, ruthless all his life, curled his lips into a smile in his final moment.

A smile bitter, complex, yet somehow relieved.

Then, he closed his eyes forever.