Chapter 19 - Cultivators and Spiritual Pressure

The rain fell in a fine, ceaseless drizzle. A curtain of grey blurred the line between heaven and earth. Within a narrow alley, raindrops splashed violently against the blue stone pavement, sending up high sprays of water.

Beneath a paper umbrella, Yi Yue stood still, a hint of astonishment etched across her foxlike features. Beside her, Ni Yu's eyes widened slightly, her lips forming a round "O" as she stared at the handsome man before them—draped in a coir raincoat and wearing a bamboo hat.

That man... how dare he speak so brazenly?

The Young Master was notorious for his pettiness. This fellow... he was surely courting death!

Lu Fan narrowed his eyes. Rain traced the edge of his oiled-paper umbrella like strings of crystal beads. Through the hazy veil of water, Han Lianxiao's gentle smile became a blurred, almost ghostly illusion in Lu Fan's eyes.

And then Lu Fan chuckled, lightly clapping his hands.

"Indeed, I'm nothing more than a crippled scholar, skilled only in composing poetry and idling amidst flowers and willows."

"It is quite the extravagance to expect your grace to show me any courtesy."

His words made Han Lianxiao raise an eyebrow slightly.

It was said that the son of Lu Changkong was cruel and irritable due to his disabled legs. But now... perhaps the rumors were unfounded. Look at this temperament—how agreeable.

"If Young Master Lu is so self-aware, then kindly step aside," Han Lianxiao said softly, twirling the wooden flute in his hand with a warm smile. Yet by the time his sentence ended, a chilling edge had crept into his tone.

Nie Changqing trembled as he rose to his feet. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, his face pale from the rain.

"Young Master Lu… thank you for coming to my aid."

"However, this is a personal vendetta of mine. Intervening in this matter will bring you no benefit."

"All I ask is that you take my son and leave. He is but an innocent child."

Nie Changqing's voice quivered with emotion.

Lu Fan leaned back in his wheelchair, resting his chin on one hand while gently tapping the damp woolen blanket draped over his lap.

The alley was narrow and oppressive, much like the overcast sky.

"Junior Brother Nie, that puts Young Master Lu in a difficult position," Han Lianxiao said, flicking rain off his flute with a smile. "His Lordship's command was for me to retrieve both you and your son—especially your son, for whom His Lordship holds great concern."

Though his words were light and smiling, they brimmed with an undeniable dominance.

Nie Changqing flushed with anger, glaring at Han Lianxiao.

So that's why he's here—for Nie Shuang.

Smack.

Suddenly, Lu Fan slammed his palm on the wheelchair's armrest.

In the rain-filled alley, it echoed like thunder.

Ni Yu flinched. Yi Yue's heart clenched. And at the front, Ning Zhao's dragonfly-wing sword rose ever so slightly. Qi and blood surged, spiritual energy roiled. Her gauze robes fluttered, long dark hair dancing wildly.

Lu Fan slowly raised a hand, brushing the corner of his eye.

"A father's love, so deep and moving—it reminds me of my own gentle old father waiting at home for me to return for dinner."

"The tree desires stillness, but the wind does not cease; the son wishes to provide, but the parents are no more."

He lowered his head, sorrow clouding his gaze.

Then he raised his eyes toward Han Lianxiao.

"I nearly forgot to ask which faction you belong to. In North Luo City, who dares deny me face?"

His voice drifted through the narrow, suffocating alley.

Han Lianxiao's brows furrowed. Staring at Lu Fan, he couldn't explain why, but the air in the alley suddenly felt laced with tension.

Under Lu Fan's gaze, an unexpected chill crept into his heart. He gripped his flute tighter, the coldness within evaporating as if scorched by fire.

"A verse from 'Tide Ballad.' Han Lianxiao, ninth of the Daoist School."

"I hail from the Hundred Schools of Thought—Daoist Sect."

Smack!

Before Han Lianxiao could finish his words, Lu Fan slammed his palm once again on the wheelchair.

"Damn!"

"You should've said so earlier!"

"With that dog-like appearance of yours, I thought you were one of the Imperial Capital's Gold and Silver Confucian Guards sent to harm Old Nie. Scared me half to death!"

"Daoist Sect? What nonsense. In North Luo City, you think you're qualified to slight me?"

Lu Fan leaned back in the wheelchair, eyeing Han Lianxiao with a mocking smirk.

The atmosphere grew still.

Nie Changqing stared in disbelief at Lu Fan.

Was he truly unaware of Han Lianxiao's identity? Or was he feigning ignorance? Either way… this man's tendency to bully the weak and fear the strong felt almost too convincing.

Yi Yue's lips curved in a slight smile. Ni Yu rolled her eyes. As expected, the young master remained the same.

Ning Zhao slowly raised her sword, raindrops trailing from its tip, pointed directly at Han Lianxiao.

Han Lianxiao's gentle smile faded.

He stared at Lu Fan, clearly unable to comprehend the audacity—the sheer arrogance.

How could he be so insolent? Was it because of that newly initiated grandmaster maid?

"Young Master Lu, what is the meaning of this?" Han Lianxiao's voice turned frosty, laced with anger.

"So noisy," Lu Fan waved his hand dismissively.

"Sister Ning, take care of him."

Hummm—

As Lu Fan's words fell, sword song erupted.

Ning Zhao moved. Two threads of spiritual energy surged within her Qi Core, blazing like a furnace.

The rain itself seemed cleaved apart.

Sword light flashed like lightning in the dark, striking directly at Han Lianxiao.

Rain poured from his hat as he stared straight at Lu Fan, ignoring the oncoming blade.

"A grandmaster for a maid… Lu Changkong's methods are indeed extraordinary."

"This maid has some skill. Beneath North Luo City, her sword suppresses four grandmasters..."

Han Lianxiao's gloom lifted, and he smiled again, as if basking in spring sunlight.

He slowly raised the flute in his hand.

"Young Master Lu… you are no grandmaster. You likely lack a true understanding of a grandmaster's power, especially one from the Hundred Schools. Their mysteries and might are beyond your comprehension."

"This maid, while strange in her qi and blood, is far from being your shield of arrogance."

Crack.

Han Lianxiao flicked his flute—

It met Ning Zhao's sword.

In the next instant, Ning Zhao's eyes contracted in alarm.

The flute split, revealing countless intertwining wooden threads that wrapped around her sword, binding her joints, rendering her completely immobile.

Her umbrella fell, and rain drenched her body.

"In terms of combat experience, this grandmaster maid of yours... is sorely lacking."

Han Lianxiao spoke coolly.

He clasped his hands behind his back, ignoring the bound Ning Zhao.

As a first-resonance grandmaster, she would find it nearly impossible to escape the mechanical flute-lock, specially crafted by the Mechanics School.

His foot stepped forward, splashing water nearly two feet high.

His gaze locked onto Lu Fan as he strode forward—aloof, detached, like a divine judge poised to decide life and death.

Nie Changqing raised his butcher's knife in desperation.

But Han Lianxiao's qi and blood pulsed. With a casual palm, he sent the blade flying.

Nie Changqing crumpled to the ground like a broken doll, his tendons cut, qi and blood sealed.

Once a master of the blade, now less than a second-rate warrior—not even worth Han Lianxiao's attention.

He walked and laughed.

"A heavy rain, a narrow alley, a night for killing."

"Heaven's timing, the land's advantage, and human alignment."

"With such perfect conditions, to not kill you would be a crime against heaven itself."

His voice turned ever more sinister, until it brimmed with murderous intent.

"Allow me to reintroduce myself—Han Lianxiao of the Daoist Sect, a grandmaster of the fifth resonance."

Boom!

Han Lianxiao suddenly stomped down.

Water exploded upward in a seven-foot arc, like a torrential downpour.

Yi Yue's face paled. She grabbed her whip and stepped protectively in front of Lu Fan.

But Han Lianxiao's palm struck—

It struck the rain itself.

Countless droplets lashed out, smashing Yi Yue backward, blood spilling from her lips.

Having resolved to kill Lu Fan, Han Lianxiao no longer hesitated.

He was a man of the Jianghu, and Lu Fan—the son of North Luo's city lord—was a man of the court.

To strike was to sever all retreat. No trace, no witness could remain.

Though the Grand Zhou was in chaos, the Confucian National Preceptor still held power. The threat over the Hundred Schools still loomed.

"Die."

Han Lianxiao gazed at the red-lipped, porcelain-faced youth seated in a wheelchair.

To him, Lu Fan was pitiful—crippled, helpless before death, unable even to flee in fear.

From deep in his throat, Han Lianxiao let out a low roar.

His palm shattered the falling rain—fingers poised like blades—about to carve through Lu Fan's life...