One-Line Sky

The next day.

Wagon wheels rolled over crushed stone, producing a grating squeal that set one's teeth on edge.

The canyon called "One-Line Sky" lived up to its name—sheer cliffs on both sides, carved as if by blade and axe, thrusting straight into the clouds, leaving only a narrow passage. Looking up, the sky was reduced to a single thin, gray-white crack.

The biting mountain wind, squeezed by the canyon, turned into a shrill whistle howling past everyone's ears.

Chen Ping covered half his face with a gray cloth, revealing only a pair of eyes that seemed murky but were actually alert. He hunched his neck and trailed at the very back of the wagon train.

He wore an oversized, worn-out jacket that didn't fit, and carried a wooden staff in his hand, looking like a filler laborer.

This kind of terrain was a natural burial ground.

If he pushed a few rocks down from above, the people below would be turtles in a jar.

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than a dull rumble rolled from above, like thunder grinding across the ridge.

"Rockslide! Ambush!"

The escort ahead screamed in terror, followed instantly by the crash of boulders and the panicked neighing of horses.

Dust billowed, gravel flew, and the once orderly wagon train dissolved into chaos.

"Hold the line! Hold the damn line! If we lose the cargo, we're all eating wind!"

A sharp string of curses came from the side.

Chen Ping glanced over and saw his uncle Liu Sanjin, who usually bragged about how fierce he'd been back in the day, now slipping with astonishing agility under a cart piled with hay.

He curled into a ball, only his terrified face poking out, waving his tobacco pipe and yelling at a few young porters to charge forward.

"Useless bunch! Don't let the bandits near the medicine cart!"

The corner of Chen Ping's mouth twitched, but his feet quietly retreated half a step into the shadow of the cliff.

Through the dust, a dozen figures slid down ropes from the cliff face, each gripping a blade, faces twisted with menace.

Leading them was a bald brute, bare-chested, muscles knotted, wielding a Nine-Ring Ghost Head Blade—the iron rings on its spine clattering loudly.

"Tough nuts! All together now! Just that cart of medicine!"

The bald brute bellowed, kicked off the ground, and charged like a tiger descending a mountain, straight for the wagon in the center of the train, wrapped tightly in oilcloth.

Two escorts guarding the cart raised their broadswords and met him.

"Clang! Clang!"

Two sharp metallic clashes.

The Ghost Head Blade, heavy and powerful, snapped the escorts' broadswords clean in two. The bald brute twisted his wrist, and the blade traced a pale, deadly arc.

The two escorts clutched their spurting throats and crumpled softly to the ground.

"Hahaha! A bunch of weaklings!"

The bald brute laughed wildly, stepped over the bodies, and raised the Ghost Head Blade high, ready to chop the chains on the medicine cart.

The surrounding porters, already terrified by the brutal scene, scrambled backward, none daring to face him.

Chen Ping narrowed his eyes.

If this medicine was lost, the whole escort job was a bust. The meager pay was one thing, but the real loss was the little "reputation" he'd just built in the escort agency—without it, getting side jobs later would be nearly impossible.

Besides, this bald man was a trained fighter, with surging blood energy, but his steps were unsteady—he'd overexerted himself just now.

"Fortune favors the bold."

Chen Ping quietly gathered his breath, letting the Longevity of Pine and Crane circulate within him.

That warm current instantly flowed through his limbs and bones, making his once-stiff body feel featherlight.

He didn't act rashly like some hothead. Instead, using the chaotic crowd and dust as cover, he slipped like a gray mouse skimming the ground, silently closing in on the bald brute's flank.

At that moment, the bald man was fully focused on the chains before him, his Ghost Head Blade swinging down heavily.

"Clang!"

The chain snapped.

Right then, his old strength was spent, and new strength hadn't yet risen.

Now!

Chen Ping's cloth shoes silently crushed the gravel as his body exploded forward—no flashy moves. His right palm instantly swelled and turned dark blue, carrying a dull gust of wind, and slammed into the bald brute's back.

Perfected realm, Shattered Stone Palm.

This strike sought no external injury, only internal force.

The bald brute sensed the killing intent behind him, the hairs on his back standing on end. He instinctively tried to spin and swing his blade.

Too late.

"Thud."

A sound so dull it was like a heavy hammer striking rotten leather.

Then came a crisp "crack."

The Bald Brute's massive frame stiffened, his eyes bulging as a short, guttural "Huh-huh" escaped his throat. A torrent of black blood, mixed with shredded organs, sprayed out, staining the medicinal chest before him.

His spine was severed.

His heart was shattered.

Chen Ping struck true and didn't spare a glance. With a light tap of his toe, he used the recoil to spring backward swiftly.

As he retreated, his left hand swept across the Bald Brute's chest in one smooth motion.

A thin booklet landed in his palm. The rough texture steadied his heart.

He tucked it into his bosom, ducked low, and melted back into the panicked crowd, once again the cowering menial.

"The Chief is dead!"

"Tough nut! Scatter!"

The remaining bandits saw their leader collapse and spew blood for no reason, terror-stricken. With a shout, they abandoned a few corpses and scrambled back up the mountain via their ropes.

The gorge fell silent again, leaving only the groans of the wounded and the snorts of horses.

The escorts exchanged bewildered glances, staring at the fallen Bald Brute with shock and suspicion in their eyes.

"This... which master struck?"

An old escort stepped forward to examine the body, drawing a sharp breath:

"Spine shattered inch by inch, heart meridians crushed, yet only a faint palm print on the surface. This is the work of an internal arts expert!"

Everyone speculated, eyes darting from one to another, but none suspected the youth crouched in a corner, "trembling" as he wiped dust from his face with his sleeve.

"Oh my mother, scared me half to death!"

Liu Sanjin finally crawled out from under the cart, brushed straw off his clothes, and sidled up to the corpse with a lingering fear. Then he puffed up his chest:

"See that? Karma! Who dares rob Weiyuan Escort Agency's cargo? Ask around first!"

He kicked the body, greedily patting it down, but only found a few loose silver pieces. He cursed under his breath:

"Broke bastard! Calls himself Chief, poorer than me!"

Chen Ping kept his head down, fingers hidden in his sleeve lightly tracing the booklet's edge. The corner of his mouth lifted, barely noticeable.

Light Body Movement Technique.

That was the real prize.

With this footwork, paired with his Longevity of Pine and Crane, he'd be unstoppable—whether fleeing or infiltrating.

By the time they returned to Qinghe County, dusk had fallen.

The setting sun bled red, staining the city walls crimson.

When the escort agency divvied up the shares, Chen Ping—only there to "fill numbers" and having "performed unremarkably" throughout—got a base pay of five hundred coppers.

Liu Sanjin even clapped him on the shoulder with false warmth:

"Brother Ping, don't complain. This trip was to show you the ropes. See your uncle here? I kept my cool just now, saved everyone's hides."

Chen Ping nodded and bowed with a look of "worship," took the coins, thanked him profusely, and left.

Leaving the agency, he found an empty alley, tucked the Light Body Movement Technique securely against his skin, bought two flatbreads, and headed toward Lin Manor.

As soon as he neared the street where Lin Manor stood, Chen Ping sensed something off.

At this hour, a few loafers would usually be squatting by the side gate, chatting, or a vendor hawking goods.

But today, the whole street was dead silent.

Lin Manor's main gate was shut tight, even the side door bolted. The lanterns hung at the entrance glowed, but their light was pallid.

"Trouble?"

His heart sank. He softened his steps, approached the corner door, and knocked three times lightly.

"Who is it?" Old Zhang's voice came, tense.

"Uncle Zhang, it's me, Chen Ping."

The door creaked open a crack. Old Zhang poked his head out, glanced around nervously, yanked Chen Ping inside, and quickly bolted the door.

"Brother Ping, you're back. Something's off in the manor today. First Madam threw a huge fit. Word is a distinguished guest from the Capital City has arrived. The master and Head Steward are tiptoeing around."

A guest from the Capital City?

Chen Ping frowned, thanked Old Zhang, and hurried toward the servants' quarters.

The waters in Lin Manor were getting murkier by the day.

Back in his small, solitary courtyard, he pushed open the door.

The room was pitch black, lit only by moonlight spilling through the window.

Chen Ping stood at the threshold, not lighting a lamp. His nose twitched first.

And... the earthy scent of mud scraped from shoe soles on the floor.

Someone had been here.

Chen Ping's heart skipped a beat. Every muscle in his body tensed, and his right hand instinctively reached for the dagger at his waist.

He scanned the room by moonlight.

The tables and chairs were neatly arranged—nothing seemed out of place on the surface.

But before he left, he had deliberately wedged a strand of hair between the bed leg and the floor.

Chen Ping walked to the bed and crouched down.

That strand of hair was gone.

Not only that—though the bedding had been smoothed out, the pillow was shifted half an inch from where he usually kept it.

Someone had searched his bed, and possibly even the hidden compartment beneath it.

Luckily, he carried all his valuables on him. The Shattered Stone Palm manual and the newly acquired Light Body Movement Technique were tucked inside his robes. The hidden compartment held only a few worn-out changes of clothes.

But who?

Had they uncovered the truth behind Wang Meng's disappearance?

Or was it just an ordinary thief?

Or perhaps it was the ripple effect of that so-called "distinguished guest from the Capital City"?

Chen Ping slowly straightened up. In the darkness, his gaze turned cold as a blade. The brief sense of relief he'd felt upon returning to a safe haven was gone.

This Lin Manor—he probably wouldn't be staying much longer.