A garden-like complex stood on East Market's bustling main street, where every inch of land was worth a fortune. It was quiet amid the hubbub, nestled in the heart of prosperity yet apart from the mortal world.
This was the headquarters of the Martial World Express. Its meteoric rise was astonishing, changing people's habits and broadening their horizons.
The vast majority of martial artists had no idea who truly owned the Martial World Express, nor could they investigate how it managed to send its papers across the land via Teleportation Arrays the instant they were published. Only a select few—those with overwhelming strength or far-reaching connections—knew the name Shang Jiuming. They knew he came from a fallen sect, had chanced upon an immortal's legacy, and had risen to prominence overnight. After that, his success had been so smooth as to beggar belief. There was much about him that remained a mystery.
On East Market's main street, the Faceless God Killer strolled casually, sometimes trying on theatrical masks, sometimes browsing the increasingly cheap goods from north and south. He was no different from an ordinary person.
He had been waiting here for three whole months, all for the chance to see Shang Jiuming. And he believed he could keep waiting.
Patience came naturally to him. He had once spent three years apprenticed to a master just to learn the sword, and once disguised himself as a beggar for nine whole months to kill a target. Sometimes, even he was moved by the depth of his patience.
In fact, he had caught sight of Shang Jiuming last month, but had chosen not to strike. The encounter had come too suddenly, and they had been too far apart. He had not had a chance to close the distance beforehand; if he had drawn