The people of the laborer camp all bedded down on the open ground within the pass — conditions were limited, so there were no tents or anything of the sort.

Following the rule that each group of a hundred had its own rest area, every unit had its own designated sleeping zone, to prevent confusion.

The farmer-brother’s unit of a hundred was not particularly close to the Tyrant Blade’s unit — there was a gap of roughly two hundred zhang between them.

The Tyrant Blade rose soundlessly, making sure not to make the slightest noise as he left his unit’s position, then moved forward through the dark.

As a professional assassin, he was accustomed to moving through darkness, skirting the light.

As he walked, he thought it through. If he killed the man right there among the hundred-man unit, someone might notice and start raising an alarm — and he’d be trapped in an inescapable position all over again.

So he thought of a plan: simply go over and wake the annoying man up. The man would have no reason to suspect him. Lead him to somewhere with no one around, and then strike.

With that settled, the Tyrant Blade made up his mind.

He soon reached the spot where the farmer-brother was sleeping. Using the light of a torch, he found the man, crouched beside him, and gave him a light tap.

The man stirred awake, bleary-eyed. The moment he opened his eyes and saw the Tyrant Blade, he broke into a smile.

“Hey — little brother, what brings you over? Something the matter?”

He asked.

The Tyrant Blade lowered his voice and said: “I need to relieve myself, but I’m a bit scared to go alone. Come with me.”

The farmer-brother laughed: “Big strapping fellow like you, afraid to go to the privy at night?”

The Tyrant Blade put on an embarrassed smile and said: “I know how I look, but I’m not all that brave. Come with me — it’s as good an excuse as any to spend a bit of time together. If it were just a quick one, I wouldn’t bother you. I’d just feel awkward calling anyone else.”

The farmer-brother readily nodded: “Sure, I’ll go with you.”

He got up, and the two of them crept away quietly, both careful not to wake the people sleeping around them.

Like this, they reached a more out-of-the-way spot. The farmer-brother pointed toward a corner: “Over there — it’s out of the way. Go ahead.”

The Tyrant Blade looked around to make sure no one was nearby, then put on an awkward expression and said: “Actually, would you mind going over first to check? I’m genuinely a bit afraid — go take a look to make sure there’s nothing there, and then I’ll go.”

The farmer-brother mocked him a little, then said: “Fine, I’ll go check. Come with me.”

He stepped forward. The small blade in the Tyrant Blade’s sleeve slid down into his palm. He gripped it, then drove it toward the farmer-brother’s neck — fast, clean, and precise, his left hand reaching forward to cover the man’s mouth, his right hand driving the small blade to sever the farmer-brother’s artery.

But in that instant, he froze.

He found that his neck had gone cold.

He looked down instinctively, and saw a black, sharp, slender object — he had no idea when it had gotten there — already pressing against his neck.

Looking again, the thing was gripped in the farmer-brother’s hand, extended backward without the man even turning around — aimed directly at the Tyrant Blade’s throat.

“Hmm…”

The farmer-brother let out a quiet sigh: “Why couldn’t you just keep your patience?”

The Tyrant Blade froze, then immediately pulled back sharply to break free of that object.

But the moment he began to retreat, he sensed something wrong behind him. He spun around, and saw an old man standing not far away — he had no idea whatsoever when the old man had appeared.

That old man who looked delightfully harmless — and absolutely maddening — turned around, looked at the Tyrant Blade, and smiled: “I was originally thinking of keeping you around a little longer.”

The Tyrant Blade demanded in fury: “What do you mean by that?!”

The farmer-brother smiled and said: “It must be said — you really are a fine hard worker. You’ve got real strength in you, and these past days you’ve been devoted and earnest in your service to the great defense of Dragon Head Pass. On behalf of the General, I thank you for your contributions.”

Those words fanned the Tyrant Blade’s fury into a full blaze. He leveled his small blade at the farmer-brother: “Who exactly are you?!”

The farmer-brother raised his iron spike and asked: “Recognize this?”

The Tyrant Blade looked it over carefully, and suddenly it came to him — among the Ning Army, there was a special unit known as the Tingwei Army. The Tingwei of that unit were described as people like demons, and the weapon they were known for was a long, sharp iron spike.

The farmer-brother smiled and said: “If you had kept your cover up, I would have kept mine. Wouldn’t the two of us working away together cheerfully for Dragon Head Pass have been just fine?”

The Tyrant Blade, in a surge of fury, leapt up and charged straight at the farmer-brother.

He held himself in high regard. He did not believe there were many people in this world who were a match for him — after all, he was ranked third on the Clouded Mist Chart’s list of killers.

Every target he had set out to kill, to this day, had been killed. Not one exception.

As for some supposed Tingwei Army, he didn’t care. Now that the situation had been blown open, kill this man and get away — that was all there was to it.

If he couldn’t leave through the gate, he’d simply head deeper into Jizhou, and look for a chance to make it back to Yanzhou later.

He moved with extraordinary speed, closing on the farmer-brother in an instant — yet he saw that man still smiling easily, as if the Tyrant Blade posed no threat at all.

That only fueled his rage further.

He drove his blade straight for the farmer-brother’s throat. The farmer-brother’s iron spike was considerably longer than his small blade — when he came in close enough, the spike thrust forward to meet him, pointed at his heart. If the Tyrant Blade did not pull back, he might succeed in piercing the farmer-brother’s throat — but his own neck would also be pierced by the spike.

The Tyrant Blade stepped back. He seemed to be at the peak of fury, but that was merely the appearance he projected.

In the very instant before he was struck, he suddenly launched himself backward in a backward somersault — and in that same split second, his small blade slashed toward the old man behind him, aimed at his throat.

For a killer who ranked third on the Clouded Mist Chart, his apparent uncontrollable rage was nothing but a mask.

A qualified killer was one who, in any situation whatsoever, maintained absolute calm.

Even in the most dangerous moment, he had to make the clearest and most correct judgment. The old man behind him seemed mysterious — but in the moment of turning to look, the Tyrant Blade had already observed that the old man did not move quickly. He was tottering, frail — clearly aged beyond the point of being any real threat.

Power fears youth — that is a truth that has never changed.

Even if this old man had been formidable in his prime, at this age, when even his movements had grown slow and halting, what could he do no matter how skilled he once was?

So in that instant, the Tyrant Blade made his judgment: don’t bother with the Tingwei Army fighter — kill the old man, or seize him as a hostage and use him to escape.

But in the moment he spun and launched himself at the old man, he did not notice that the man with the iron spike smiled a peculiar smile.

Though even if he had seen it, he wouldn’t have cared.

He was the Tyrant Blade.

Everyone who heard that name would involuntarily picture a long, domineering blade in the hand of its bearer.

But the Tyrant Blade’s blade was the small blade in his hand — not even a foot in length.

The Tyrant Blade had towering confidence: in all this world, in any close-quarters fight, he could not lose to anyone.

The blade flashed like a streak of cold light, and in the blink of an eye it was at the old man’s throat.

Then the Tyrant Blade’s eyes went wide, and his entire body seized as if struck by lightning.

Because the old man raised his hand — and pinched his blade between two fingers.

Countless renowned fighters had died under that single strike of his, without even the chance to fight back.

And yet his small blade was pinched between the trembling fingers of that tottering old man, lodged there as if set in stone.

The Tyrant Blade reflexively yanked twice. It did not move in the slightest.

At this point, the farmer-brother behind him smiled and said: “You really are… a person who has an exceptional talent for bringing destruction upon yourself.”

He walked to a spot not far behind the Tyrant Blade, and said with a smile: “In a certain sense — do you know who the opponent you chose actually is? Without exaggerating too much: instead of going after someone who practices martial arts, you chose someone who cultivates immortality.”

The Tyrant Blade’s face had gone pale. He truly had not imagined that an old man who looked like the wind could blow him over — how could he possibly be this formidable?

And then—

With a snap, the old man’s two fingers applied force and broke the Tyrant Blade’s finely forged small blade in two.

In that instant the Tyrant Blade immediately darted to the side, making his escape at maximum speed.

But he had barely surged forward when a shadow flashed before his eyes — and when he looked again, that wretched old man was tottering in front of him once more.

Without any hesitation at all, the Tyrant Blade launched himself backward and charged off in another direction — but he had not gotten far when a shadow flashed, and the old man appeared in front of him again.

The old man seemed not to have changed his posture at all, standing there, the two broken halves of the small blade still pinched between his fingers.

Only now did the Tyrant Blade truly understand — he had indeed chosen the wrong opponent.

He spun again and charged at the man with the iron spike. If the old man was like a sorcerer, then better to pick a normal person to fight.

The farmer-brother saw the Tyrant Blade coming at him, raised his iron spike and pointed it forward, aimed at the Tyrant Blade’s chest… The Tyrant Blade, in the midst of his charge, suddenly stomped hard against the ground, launching a spray of earth and mud straight at the farmer-brother’s face.

And then…

The Tyrant Blade felt a tightening around his ankle, and found himself pitching forward involuntarily.

The old man had bent down and grabbed his ankle — it was completely unclear how he had gotten behind him, as if he’d simply taken a casual step, and arrived; simply bent down and reached out, and hoisted the Tyrant Blade upside down.

The old man, who looked as if he couldn’t possibly have much strength, swung the Tyrant Blade back and forth several times — as if tossing a noodle around…

After several swings, the old man still seemed somewhat dissatisfied.

“You — you’re no fun. Compared to my disciples, you’re not nearly resilient enough.”

The farmer-brother laughed, because he knew the old man was right. After those few swings, the Tyrant Blade’s legs had been broken in who knew how many places.

The old man gave a casual toss, flinging the Tyrant Blade down in front of the farmer-brother. As the Tyrant Blade struggled painfully to roll over, he found the iron spike already at his throat.

“Tingwei Army’s Senior Operative, Zaoyunjian — I look forward to your instruction.”

—

It had been just before Old Zhang Zhenren was about to leave Jizhou to head for Dragon Head Pass that he had forbidden his disciples from following him.

Shortly after he set out, Gao Xining called in the Tingwei Army’s people and instructed Zaoyunjian — no matter what happens, you must ensure the safety of Old Zhang Zhenren.

So when you think about it, the Tyrant Blade really was just unlucky.

He had truly… chosen the wrong opponent.