Today Thousand Channels Market gathered many people—not just locals from Thousand Channels, but also competing teams from neighboring Hong Fu County, merchant caravans from other counties and states, and wandering cultivators who had come to see the festivities.

Painters had dedicated tables and chairs, occupying positions with the best views.

Young women waving flowers and colorful ribbons squeezed to the front of the crowd, competing for a glimpse of the Celestial Official.

Elderly people and women carrying children mostly stayed in the back, where the crowd was thinner.

Magnificent, tall carriages, simple donkey carts, and ox carts for transporting vegetables and grain were tethered to posts at the roadside. Some people lifted carriage curtains to peek out, while others stood on vehicles to look around.

Disciples from the hunting teams stationed on rooftops looked down—the entire Thousand Channels Market resembled a colorful, content-rich stew pot, but everything was exposed in the clear winter sunlight.

Broad daylight, a sea of people.

When the blade light flashed, people thought it was a scheduled impromptu performance, a blade dance similar to the dragon and lion dances.

While everyone was stunned, Wei Ping flew toward the blade light.

He didn’t draw his sword to engage; instead, he unleashed eighteen frost talismans at once.

The assassin instantly froze into an ice figure, maintaining the blade-drawing posture.

Wei Ping, still shaken, thought “This is bad,” as he watched the assassin who resembled Lin Fei Yuan emit white smoke, turning into a fluttering human-shaped paper cutout in the blink of an eye, spontaneously combusting until nothing remained but a layer of flowery clothes collapsed on the ground.

“It’s a projection technique! There’s more than just Lin Fei Yuan!”

Lin Fei Yuan only knew blades and swords, not Daoist arts.

Another blade light flashed behind Wei Ping, and he turned hastily to parry.

Simultaneously, an eerie whistle sounded from somewhere unknown.

Horses by the roadside neighed in fright, rearing up on their hind legs. Dozens ran amok, crashing wildly, collapsing buildings and raising dust.

Cries of alarm, shouts, and wails erupted all at once as the crowd fled in panic, the scene instantly chaotic.

Carriages overturned, horses neighed, fruits flew about, fireworks exploded, and flames billowed.

Horses trampled people, carriages struck people, and people pushed people.

Zhou Xiao Yun cried hoarsely: “Protect Senior Brother Song—”

Song Qian Ji stood with his hands behind his back, unmoved as a mountain: “Go clear the area.”

His voice wasn’t loud, but it was extremely authoritative, brooking no argument.

Zhou Xiao Yun gritted her teeth and shouted: “Guard team, follow me to clear the area!”

The guards turned and dispersed into the sea of people, restraining the crazed horses, carrying fainting elders, and rescuing crying children from under horses’ hooves.

The protective formation activated, a gentle golden light covering Thousand Channels Market, reducing the force of all collisions.

Outer disciples from windows and rooftops descended from the sky, extinguishing fires and destroying the paper figures causing havoc in the crowd.

The guard team and city defense team quickly organized, and order was restored to the scene. It was as if they had rehearsed many times, as people evacuated anxiously but orderly under their protection.

A startled horse standing ten feet tall, with blood-red eyes, charged toward Song Qian Ji while pulling a carriage.

As the carriage driver drew his sword, a peddler carrying a shoulder pole, a wealthy merchant covering his head while fleeing, and a woman lifting her skirt all moved simultaneously. The panicked expressions vanished from their faces as they attacked in unison, sealing off the Celestial Official’s escape routes from front, back, left, and right.

Wei Ping looked back, his eyes almost bursting from their sockets.

Who said assassinations must occur on dark, windy nights with no witnesses?

Lin Fei Yuan had deliberately led Wei Ping to believe there was only one assassin.

But an assassination is never a contest between just two people. Both sides employ all their techniques—strength, speed, supernatural abilities, tricks—sparing nothing.

Song Qian Ji had no protection on all sides, only enemies.

A cruel smile flashed in the eyes of all four attackers, but suddenly a golden light flashed before them, like a blade edge piercing through the air.

The four bodies were penetrated by the golden light, blood splashing in all directions.

The warhorse collapsed, the carriage compartment smashed violently to the ground, and from inside came an anguished cry, then silence.

On the rooftop, Ji Chen’s legs went weak, his hands holding the formation disk trembling violently, his face as white as paper: “That was close, so close… four Golden Core cultivators…”

His killing formation could only be used once. When the chaos erupted, he knew he had to kill the strongest, most deeply hidden assassins at the most opportune moment.

The bustling market of moments ago was instantly strewn with debris, rolling with smoke and dust.

The paper figures burned to ashes, and most of the crowd retreated, clearing the street. Wei Ping rushed toward Song Qian Ji at his fastest speed.

It seemed the danger had passed, they had weathered this crisis.

But someone was faster than Wei Ping, Ji Chen, and the entire guard team.

Unexpectedly, the carriage that had fallen at Song Qian Ji’s feet exploded, and a blade light shot out.

The blade light illuminated Song Qian Ji’s face.

Reflecting the sunlight, it was quite dazzling.

“Senior Brother Song!” Countless screams rang out almost simultaneously.

The blade’s powerful energy formed a barrier screen, enveloping Song Qian Ji.

It blew through Song Qian Ji’s black hair and brushed his cheeks, causing a slight itch. He blinked as if the blade light hurt his eyes.

The blade was wide and long—a blade that had killed countless Yuan Ying cultivators, capable of cleaving a small mountain in half with one strike.

Song Qian Ji merely extended one hand, his wide sleeve billowing in the forceful energy like a flower in the wind.

Even at this final moment, Lin Fei Yuan maintained his expressionless calm.

Creating chaos in a busy market, killing amid the confusion.

Deliberately in broad daylight, deliberately before countless eyes.

Drugged horses, paper figure techniques, the carriage driver, peddler, wealthy merchant, and woman—swift and interlocking like rabbits and falcons.

Unfortunately, Song Qian Ji unhesitatingly ordered the area cleared, ending the chaos too quickly; otherwise, they would have had more advantage.

But no one would remain vigilant toward a carriage compartment that had already emitted an anguished cry. No matter how cautious Song Qian Ji was, he would instinctively assume an innocent commoner had been injured inside.

When Lin Fei Yuan formulated the plan, someone had asked if all this was necessary.

Wasn’t it just killing a low-cultivation Celestial Official with powerful backers?

Song Qian Ji appeared to be someone who needed protection, was skilled in farming, and was fond of plants. No one had personally seen him in action.

Lin Fei Yuan wasn’t fooled by these surface appearances. He firmly believed that anyone who could earn so much respect and admiration couldn’t rely solely on virtue or kindness.

Or rather, he simply didn’t believe in concepts like “virtue,” “gratitude,” or “winning people over with virtue.”

The weaker Song Qian Ji appeared the more vigilant Lin Fei Yuan became.

If Song Qian Ji opened a treasure box and hurled a Spring Mountain at him, how would he respond?

What if he used the Seven Fatal Zither? Or the Dragon-Slaying Formation?

No matter which sage’s legacy he used, it would inevitably create enormous commotion, earth-shattering if deployed on a plain or among the clouds—a killing move.

But Thousand Channels Market was filled with tall buildings and surging crowds. Once the assassination began, people and horses would be thrown into disarray, making powerful divine abilities difficult to use, actually restricting movement.

Lin Fei Yuan poured all his spiritual energy into his strongest blade strike. Though the blade was wide, it was swift enough.

Winds surged, clouds gathered, sand flew, and stones rolled.

Song Qian Ji’s hand was empty as he extended it.

With a slight movement of two fingers, he flicked the blade with his bare hand.

“Zheng—”

The sound of metal striking stone rang out.

In an instant, a cold sensation penetrated from the blade throughout the assassin’s limbs, rendering him immobile.

Lin Fei Yuan saw a light brighter than the sun and felt the shadow of death and great terror.

The blade broke in the middle, and the bones in his right hand, from fingertips to wrist, shattered inch by inch.

Song Qian Ji had only flicked a single drop of water.

Before leaving this morning, to suppress his cultivation realm, he had compressed the saturated spiritual energy in his meridians a hundredfold, condensing it into water.

“I hope nothing happens today, otherwise…” Looking at the assassin’s horrified, disbelieving eyes, he completed the second half of the sentence in his mind:

“It’s his bad luck.”

With his life-bound blade destroyed, Lin Fei Yuan spat blood and fled.

Wei Ping flew over: “Song Qian Ji!”

He forgot to call him “sir” or “senior brother.”

Song Qian Ji’s combat power was incredibly strong—unreasonably, unbelievably strong, beyond everyone’s expectations.

He hadn’t anticipated, and the assassin certainly hadn’t anticipated, that with the subsequent lockdown and search, Lin Fei Yuan couldn’t escape far…

“Watch out!” A great force rushed toward him, and in an instant, he was pulled behind Song Qian Ji.

Only when the sword tip pierced Song Qian Ji’s body and hot blood splashed onto Wei Ping’s face did he realize what had happened.

An assassin would not have only one life-bound magical weapon.

Who would have thought that Lin Fei Yuan, though severely injured, would dare to feign escape and thrust a sword backward?

But he aimed at Wei Ping.

This sword moved without sound, without leaking spiritual energy, without the sound of cutting wind.

The sword’s body was pitch black, not showing a hint of light even under the fierce midday sun.

Overt blade, hidden sword.

Blood drops rolled down from Wei Ping’s cheeks and brow.

He heard Song Qian Ji’s muffled groan and saw the blood-stained back shielding him. At that moment, he felt a chill throughout his body, his pupils dilating.

Song Qian Ji had been stabbed.

It turned out that in this assassination, the final link was himself.

Lin Fei Yuan’s life-bound sword was broken by Song Qian Ji, his body flying backward, crashing through the high platform.

The guard team rushed in from all directions.

Ji Chen, red-eyed, pressed his sword against the assassin’s neck.

The assassin, lying on the ground vomiting blood, was angrily surrounded by countless blades and swords. Yet he raised his eyes toward Song Qian Ji with a complex gaze.

As if asking why he had shown mercy, willing to be injured rather than take an enemy’s life.

“Don’t act.” Song Qian Ji said, pulling back the crazed Wei Ping with one hand.

This sword strike shouldn’t have hurt him.

Though the assassin had techniques to disguise his appearance when Song Qian Ji recognized the sword, a flash of realization struck his mind, and he hastily withdrew, changing his move.

It was Lin Fei Yuan’s “Dark Sword.” He didn’t want to kill this person.

Wei Ping’s face was deathly pale, his entire body trembling: “You, you’re all right?!”

Song Qian Ji was unconcerned: “Just a flesh wound.”

Under the nourishment of the Undying Spring, his body didn’t even bleed anymore.

Song Qian Ji walked toward Lin Fei Yuan: “Take him back to Song Academy.”

If anger could kill, Lin Fei Yuan and his accomplices would have died ten thousand times over, rather than being pressed down like dead dogs.

Lin Fei Yuan, his voice hoarse, stared at Song Qian Ji: “The victor becomes the king, the loser a bandit. If you want to kill me, kill me; if you want to behead me, do it…”

Both his arms were broken, and his internal organs were severely injured. Each word caused fresh blood to flow from his mouth and nose, but he still raised his head with a cold smile: “Why put on this act?”

A familiar gaze, a familiar expression.

Song Qian Ji frowned slightly, then turned and walked away: “Treat his wounds.”

“Senior Brother Song, this person…” Wei Ping caught up but was interrupted.

Song Qian Ji ignored him, striding forward and shouting:

“Whoever wants to kill me, come with your sword yourself. I’ll be waiting—”

The wound on his shoulder burst open, fresh blood flowing down, dripping onto the bluestone slabs.

His voice echoed through the devastated long street, beyond Thousand Channels Market, even further away.

Wei Ping had never seen Song Qian Ji speak loudly.

Ji Chen, Zhou Xiao Yun, Xu Kan Shan, Qiu Da Cheng, and even every outer disciple, had never seen Song Qian Ji like this. Whether answering questions, drawing talismans, playing chess, or farming, he had always been gentle, his eyes often filled with smiles.

The long street was silent, with only Song Qian Ji’s stern shout resonating like thunder.

Everyone was stunned. Who was he talking to?

Why was he calm and steady when fighting, showing restraint and measured actions, but now suddenly angry?

“Boom!”

True thunder cracked.

The daylight suddenly dimmed, the spiritual energy in heaven and earth became chaotic, and tribulation clouds gathered.

With Song Qian Ji’s emotions stirred, his aura shot skyward, his cultivation level no longer suppressed.

Purple lightning like a long dragon traversed through the rolling black clouds.

The lightning tribulation had arrived!