Chapter 18 – The Ninth of Dao Sect

Rain drizzled incessantly, striking the ground with splashes rising nearly two feet high. Nie Changqing gripped his butcher's knife, his eyes bloodshot. Rain streamed down his cheeks in crooked trails like earthworms, slithering to his chin. He looked mad, unwilling, steeped in murderous intent.

What was destined to come had finally arrived—five years of hiding, all for naught. The gleam of cold steel flashed like lightning, slashing through the downpour with a trembling hum, seeming to split each raindrop in twain, even silencing the roar of the storm.

Footsteps struck rapidly. With a guttural roar, Nie Changqing drew a cruel arc through the rain with his blade. Two assassins burst forth, their blood erupting so violently it blew apart the rain around them.

Clang!Steel clashed against steel—white blades collided with the butcher's knife. Three figures scraped across the flooded alley, splashing water several feet high. Crimson blood, mingled with rain, stained the cobbled path but was soon washed away.

A deep wound, bone-deep, tore from Nie Changqing's shoulder to his abdomen. Blood gushed from the gap. Yet one assassin had already fallen—his torso severed, blood splattering as he crashed to the ground. The other turned, stepping through the water to attack once more.

Nie Changqing's grip began to tremble.In the distance, Nie Shuang had disobeyed his father's command. After a few steps, he looked back—just in time to see his father cleave a man in two with the butcher's knife.

So this wasn't just a knife for pigs—it was a blade for killing men.

Nie Changqing's coarse robe was soaked red. For young Nie Shuang, it was the first time his soul was shaken. He was still just a child, frozen beneath the rain, wailing in terror and grief, his cries hoarse and heart-rending. But Nie Changqing could no longer afford to care. If these assassins lived, he and his son would not.

The butcher's knife danced—a blur of savage, desperate arcs. Though seemingly wild, its trajectory concealed a hidden pattern. The remaining assassin stumbled back under the ferocious onslaught.

At the alley's end, the lone figure in a straw cape and bamboo hat finally moved.He took a step forward and drew a wooden flute.

A haunting melody drifted forth, rising above the torrential rain, echoing through the alley.

Splurt.Nie Changqing's butcher's knife pierced through the assassin's back, blood splattering.

Swaying, he stood firm, blade in hand, staring at the slowly approaching figure. Rain dripped from his chin, and his expression brimmed with defiance.

"One tune—Ballad of the Tides. Han Lianxiao, the Ninth of Dao Sect," Nie Changqing said through the curtain of rain.

Rain poured unceasingly.Clad in straw and cloaked in mist, Han Lianxiao walked slowly, yet before long, he was already in front of Nie Changqing.

As the tune ended, the man beneath the bamboo hat revealed a strikingly handsome face, fringed with damp hair.

"Dao Sect's Tenth Blade, still as resplendent as ever," he remarked."Even with your tendons severed, you easily slew two elite warriors. Junior brother Nie, you've earned my admiration."

Raising the flute, he pressed it against the butcher's knife. An overwhelming force surged forth, driving the blade into Nie Changqing's own chest. Though his words were praise, his tone dripped with mockery.

"Had my tendons remained intact, I'd need but one strike to kill you," Nie Changqing growled, coughing blood. It ran down the flute as he glared at Han Lianxiao.

Han Lianxiao frowned at the sight of blood on his flute."Take Shuang and return with me. Bow to the Venerable One, admit your wrongs—you may yet cling to life."

"It's been five years. My answer remains the same... I did no wrong," Nie Changqing snarled, veins bulging in his neck.

"Then I'll have to carry your corpse back to settle accounts," Han Lianxiao sighed.

In the next instant, blood surged within him, his body beneath the cape trembling with energy. Five explosions echoed. The wooden flute, still pressed against the butcher's knife, erupted with force.

Nie Changqing felt his very soul shatter. He spat blood and was sent flying, tumbling several meters before landing on one knee. His knife plunged into the wet stone, screeching as it scraped, halting his retreat.

He rose again, trembling, wiping the blood-soaked rain from his face. He held fast to the knife.

Nie Shuang's bamboo hat had slipped askew. He stood alone beneath the rain, his frail frame trembling under the downpour. He sobbed so hard his voice broke.

Beneath his hat, Han Lianxiao's handsome features were cold and merciless. He raised his flute and tossed it gently into the air.

Then—He struck it with a palm.

The flute spun at high speed, flinging rain aside, forming a watery dragon.

Shing!From the spinning flute, sharp blades extended like a meat grinder, spiraling toward Nie Changqing.

With his tendons severed, fallen from his former peak, he had no hope of stopping it.

Suddenly—Han Lianxiao's brow twitched.

Just as the bladed flute was about to shred Nie Changqing, a translucent sword, thin as a cicada's wing, pierced the rain.

Clang!The flute was knocked away, spinning backward before landing in Han Lianxiao's hand, the blades retracted.

Beside Nie Changqing now stood a stunning woman in a flowing silk gown, one hand holding a paper umbrella, the other gripping the delicate sword.

"To slay someone in Beiluo City, and one favored by me no less..."

"Tsk, tsk..."

"You truly think nothing of me, the Young Lord of this city," she said, her tone drowsy, tinged with amusement.

Wooden wheels rolled through the rain with a splash. Han Lianxiao frowned and looked forward.

There, in the misty alley, a fair-faced youth with crimson lips arrived in a wheelchair, flanked by two maids holding oiled-paper umbrellas. In the torrential downpour, it was like a casual outing.

The wheelchair stopped beside Nie Shuang, whose wails had finally ceased.

Lu Fan turned and looked at the child, his lips curling.

"Little one, aren't you happy to see big brother?" Lu Fan asked.

Nie Shuang's eyes were red and swollen. He sobbed, dazed and unsure.He croaked back in a soft, childish voice, "Y-Yes…"

Lu Fan raised a brow, clearly amused."How happy, then?"

Nie Shuang: "..."He froze.

Lu Fan chuckled."If I save your father, would that make you happy?"

This time, Nie Shuang understood. He dropped to his knees with a splash, slamming his head against the rain-soaked ground. His bamboo hat collapsed flat.

"Please, my lord, save my father!" he begged, his hoarse voice choked with tears.

Lu Fan nodded slightly from his wheelchair. Then, he looked toward Han Lianxiao.

"You heard him. I gave my word to the boy… so how about granting me this favor?" Lu Fan said with a faint smile.

Han Lianxiao held his flute, fingers brushing his fringe as he cast a sidelong glance. His lips curled."So it's the Young Lord of Beiluo."His voice was gentle.

Lu Fan smiled. Han Lianxiao smiled too. The two men locked eyes, their expressions as if meeting an old friend.

Then Han Lianxiao's magnetic voice lingered in the alley like an old friend's greeting."If your father, Lu Changkong, were here… perhaps I might grant that favor.""But Young Lord Lu… I'm afraid you don't quite warrant the price."