Chapter 20: I Came Myself

According to the intelligence, the third chief, Huang Bingcheng, had the habit of eating a late-night snack every evening. At this moment, the bandit delivering his refreshments had already been subdued by Ning Xiu. The bandit glanced at the blade pressed against his throat, utterly terrified but not daring to make a sound. Finally, at Ning Xiu’s signal, he stepped forward and knocked on the door with a series of heavy thuds.

“Who is it?” came a clear male voice from inside.

“Third Chief, it’s me.”

Recognizing the familiar voice, the door creaked open. A young man with a beard poked his head out. Upon seeing the bandit who delivered the food, he was about to speak, but his expression suddenly changed dramatically.

He tried to retreat quickly, but Ning Xiu was faster. With a single stride, Ning Xiu closed the distance, raised a leg, and kicked him to the ground. Huang Bingcheng had no time to react before the curved blade in Ning Xiu’s hand was pointed at him.

Another bandit, seeing the situation, tried to escape. He barely managed two steps before he could move no further. Looking down in horror, he saw a dagger had pierced his chest at some unknown moment. Blood gushed from the gaping wound.

“Third Chief of Blackwind Stronghold?” Ning Xiu tilted his head slightly as he spoke. The voice that came through the demon mask was strangely magnetic, as if drifting from the underworld.

Huang Bingcheng forced himself to remain calm. “I am,” he replied.

Countless schemes raced through his mind as he struggled to devise a plan to escape death.

Ning Xiu looked at him and said, “No need to waste your efforts. You’re indeed clever; you noticed something was wrong from the subtle shift in that man’s expression. But your skills are sorely lacking—you haven’t even cultivated internal energy.”

Huang Bingcheng had taken up the path of the outlaw late in life, long past the prime years for martial training, and thus never achieved much. That was why almost no one had ever seen him fight. His rise to power was built entirely on his endless cunning.

A scholar lacking the strength to bind a chicken, but deadly because of his mind.

Having his thoughts laid bare, Huang Bingcheng’s face darkened. He forced a smile. “Isn’t that better? My lack of strength makes me easy to control, and my intelligence makes communication easier. Spare me, and I can be of great help to you.”

Huang Bingcheng knew of the ghost-faced swordsman’s deeds, but he didn’t believe in the existence of chivalrous heroes who right wrongs with the sword. In his eyes, Ning Xiu must have been acting for some profit.

Since it was for profit, there was room for negotiation.

“Unfortunately, the people I trust least are clever ones. The clever are often full of lies. Besides, there’s a whole group of fools waiting for me to question—why trouble myself with you?” Ning Xiu’s lips curled into a slight smile.

“I can help you deal with Feng Chu. He’s already at the pinnacle of the Second Grade Realm; you’re no match for him,” Huang Bingcheng blurted out, desperate to survive—even if it meant betraying his benefactor without hesitation.

Had it not been for Feng Chu bringing him to the stronghold, this failed scholar would likely have died of poverty and hunger long ago.

Ning Xiu remained silent.

As Huang Bingcheng looked at the demon mask, just as he began to feel a sliver of hope, the blood-red curved blade flashed.

A crimson arc sliced through his throat, severing his windpipe.

Clutching his neck in agony, Huang Bingcheng’s whole body convulsed, but the pain did not last long. Soon, he was still.

Ning Xiu dragged both bodies into the room, closed the door, and approached Huang Bingcheng’s desk.

There, a book lay open. Flipping through its pages, Ning Xiu saw records of people—all of them women.

He frowned and continued reading. Wu Wan’er’s name appeared among them.

“Born in a yin year, yin month…” Ning Xiu rhythmically tapped his right index finger twice on the desk, murmuring softly.

If his suspicions were correct, the women listed in the book had likely met a grim fate.

The only question remaining was why they were seeking so many women born under such specific astrological signs. In hindsight, he should have spared Huang Bingcheng’s life for questioning. Fortunately, Feng Chu was still around.

…

In the deepest part of Blackwind Stronghold, Feng Chu’s residence stood.

According to the black-faced bandit’s account, Feng Chu was currently in seclusion, guarded by four of his trusted men.

They took turns, two on watch while two rested, ensuring there would be no lapse.

Hidden in the shadows, Ning Xiu waited for the perfect moment, aiming to finish things quickly.

Channeling the Nine Yang True Qi, Ning Xiu shot forward like an arrow toward the two patrolling guards.

They barely had time to react before Ning Xiu was upon them.

At the brink of life and death, they instinctively tried to draw their blades, but before they could unsheath them, two flashes of blood-red light appeared.

Both bandits fell heavily to the ground. The steel blades, drawn barely three inches, would never see the light of day.

“Who’s there?!”

A sharp shout rang out from inside the house, and the door slammed open.

Ning Xiu knew the commotion would never escape the ears of a Second Grade master like Feng Chu.

A gust of wind swept past as Feng Chu’s towering figure appeared at the threshold.

In the dim moonlight, he saw the gruesome ghost mask staring directly at him. A hoarse, low voice followed:

“I hear your leader is searching for me everywhere—so I came myself.”

It was his first time seeing this ghostly visage, yet he knew the man before him all too well.

Feng Chu glanced at the curved blade in Ning Xiu’s hand—the deep groove along its edge was now a dark, bloody red.

He had thought he understood the ghost-faced swordsman well enough, but now, as Ning Xiu stood before him, his heart sank.

Feng Chu of Blackwind Stronghold was a name known throughout the martial world—feared in the southern rivers. Yet, for this man to come straight to his door meant only two possibilities.

The first: the opponent was a reckless novice, ignorant of the world. But could a novice, alone, have destroyed seventeen strongholds in just over a month—including their own second chief, the One-Eyed Dragon?

So, in Feng Chu’s mind, there was only one explanation: Ning Xiu had absolute confidence in his own martial prowess.

“To come at this very moment…” Feng Chu cursed under his breath, drawing his signature Wild Goose Blade.

Unlike the ostentatious gold-backed broadsword wielded by the One-Eyed Dragon, the Wild Goose Blade was far more restrained—truly a killer’s weapon, in Ning Xiu’s eyes, just like his own blood-hued curved blade.

As Feng Chu drew his weapon, Ning Xiu was already in motion.

He knew Feng Chu would be a formidable foe, so he held nothing back, launching a preemptive attack.

A crimson arc of blade light erupted, the rolling brilliance of the blade instantly enveloping Feng Chu.