Assassin

It is the season of early spring, and the light of dawn is faint. Jincheng Prefecture is located in the northwest, and at this hour, the earth remains chilled and damp.

At the corner of the crossroads, two parallel iron rails are laid upon the semi-old flagstone road, and a public carriage is running smoothly atop them. Because the rails reduce friction, two scrawny horses pull a carriage nearly three times the standard length without the slightest effort, their nostrils puffing out plumes of white mist.

Even though this emerging type of double-decker passenger vehicle is patronized by respectable figures—as common cattle and horses are rarely seen on such transport—respectability still has its tiers. If one is willing to pay an extra copper coin, one can sit more respectably in the lower cabin.

Chen Wu, however, is not that respectable. He only paid the five copper coins for a standard respectable fare, which only entitles him to a seat on the roof, squeezed in among other respectable people, breathing in the dust kicked up from the street.

He cannot be like the more respectable people inside the cabin, shielded from the morning chill of Jincheng Prefecture, quietly unfolding a newspaper to read in detail and pretend to care about the great affairs of the world.

It is not that Chen Wu cannot afford that extra copper coin; it is simply that he has no mood for thoughts of respectability right now. His mind is filled with only two words.

Murder!

The person to be killed is Qiao Weisheng, the head proprietor of Zhong'an Bank. Three days from now, this old proprietor Qiao must die, or else it will be Chen Wu's turn to die.

It is not that Chen Wu has some irreconcilable blood feud with this old proprietor Qiao that necessitates his death. Three days ago, he did not even know such a person as old proprietor Qiao existed in this world, because Chen Wu has only been transmigrated here for exactly three days.

As for why he transmigrated, to be honest, Chen Wu himself has no idea.

He only remembers that the night before, he was playing a piece of trash game called the next-generation wuxia masterpiece "Shunhuonuan," and when he woke up the next day, he had arrived in this strange world with a strange identity—"Assassin."

To call it strange, first of all, the history of this world is far too distorted; the current imperial court is actually the Great Shun Dynasty!

After the Great Shun founder Li Zicheng entered Beijing, he did indeed suffer the defeat at Shanhai Pass and retreated all the way to his death at Jiugong Mountain in Xiangyang. As a recent 985 university graduate, it is impossible for Chen Wu not to be familiar with this stretch of history.

But then...

The Great Shun actually turned the tables!

Li Guo, who was originally enfeoffed as the Duke of Xingguo by the Southern Ming, was seemingly possessed by a transmigrator predecessor. With foresight during the Battle of Jingzhou, he completely abandoned those pig-teammate allies of the Southern Ming, surrounded the city to strike at reinforcements, and beheaded the Manchu Qing general Lekedehun, sweeping away the decline in a single battle.

Afterward, it was as if he had activated a cheat code: he recovered Jingzhou, conquered Shanxi, and eventually pacified the world. The Shun Dynasty has been firmly established for over one hundred and fifty years since.

By sixty years ago, when the fifth emperor of Great Shun, Li Si, was on the throne, he exerted the remaining strength of five generations, sending his great army across the northern deserts, pacifying the Western Regions, annihilating the Dzungar Khanate at the Tianshan Mountains, and commanding fleets that traversed the four oceans, protecting the Tianzhu region and driving the European states back to the lands of the Arabs.

From east of the Cape of Good Hope in Africa to west of the Great Canal in America, all were covered by the rites and laws of Great Shun, known as the era of supreme prosperity.

Beyond history, what is even stranger is that this world actually possesses martial arts!

Feeling the lively true qi within his dantian and the Hand Shaoyang Triple Burner meridian, Chen Wu involuntarily adopted the stance of the "Heavy Weight" technique to offset the jolting of the carriage's second level.

Come to think of it, Chen Wu had considered using light-body techniques to run here directly; after all, five copper coins are enough to buy a good meal. But after much deliberation, he decided it was better to save his true qi—who knows what accidents might occur during the assassination.

He has arrived!

Seeing the signboard of the Zhong'an Bank headquarters in Jincheng Prefecture from afar, Chen Wu knows this assassination is imminent. Despite having made mental preparations countless times, now that he is truly face-to-face with it, Chen Wu still feels a panic in his heart.

Although he inherited the martial arts and partial memories of the body's original owner, three days ago he hadn't even killed a chicken, yet now he must kill a man.

And he must kill him in full view of the public!

According to his handler, the employer paid double the price for this specific requirement. Otherwise, sneaking into the Qiao residence at night to send the old master off in a "happy funeral" would have been the safest method.

"Xiguan Station has arrived, passengers please disembark!"

The double-decker carriage slowly decelerated and stopped. The driver stepped off first, standing by the carriage door with lowered eyes and a submissive expression, calling out to remind the passengers that they had reached their stop.

Though Chen Wu felt panicked inside, he did not hesitate on the surface. He walked down slowly, took out the ticket he had bought before boarding, and handed it to the conductor waiting at the door.

Next, Chen Wu slipped a delicate silver pocket watch from his breast pocket and lightly clicked the mechanism. The cover, engraved with cloud patterns, flipped open under the tension of the spring, revealing the dial and hands.

Three quarters past the hour of Chen; it is not late!

This was Chen Wu's first time riding such a strange-looking carriage, and he had been terrified it would be late. Fortunately, everything was normal. If he were in his previous life, Chen Wu would definitely have given it a five-star review.

"Newspaper—get your newspaper—rebellion of the textile workers in Northern Tianzhu, the Protectorate strikes with an iron fist!"

A burst of shouting from a newsboy interrupted Chen Wu's thoughts. Chen Wu's heart stirred, and he reached out to stop the boy.

"Give me a newspaper," Chen Wu paused, "the one with news about Tianzhu, the cheapest kind!"

"The Jincheng Industry Promotion Gazette, two copper coins."

Chen Wu nodded, fished out two ten-wen copper coins bearing the Dezhang reign title to give to the newsboy, and took the newspaper, which reeked heavily of printer's ink.

Don't let the name Jincheng Industry Promotion Gazette fool you; it sounds high-end, but in reality, it just leeches off the fame of the major national paper, the Industry Promotion Gazette, relying on printing gossip and salacious novels to attract readers.

The paper quality is inferior, and the ink is of the lowest grade; the smell is pungent, and the moment one touches it with a finger, the ink stains the skin.

However, its strength lies in its low price and popular content, which is why it sells well in Jincheng Prefecture despite the disdain of various pedantic scholars. Chen Wu has only been in this world for three days, and he has already seen this Jincheng Industry Promotion Gazette in the hands of different people on various occasions.

Now that Chen Wu has bought a copy, it is not because he wants to critique the vulgar content within, but simply to use the paper to mask his movements. There is still a quarter of an hour until the assassination; if he just stood there looking around, it would only invite suspicion.

Chen Wu unfolded the newspaper, carefully pinching the edges, only to see the most prominent headline in the center of the page reading, "Secret History of the Pseudo-Qing Harem—The Legend of Dayu'er."

The popularity is so high that the news of the Tianzhu Protectorate, at the invitation of local kings, suppressing the textile worker rebellion in Northern Tianzhu, has been pushed to a corner.

While pretending to critique the vulgar novel written by some impoverished scholar, Chen Wu divided his five senses and six consciousnesses to keep watch on the carriages approaching Zhong'an Bank.

According to reliable intelligence, during this period, at exactly the hour of Si every day, the old proprietor Qiao would inevitably appear at this Jincheng branch, and this has been going on for over half a month.

He wonders how an old proprietor Qiao, a man from Shanxi who conducts business across the world, could be so interested in this branch in Jincheng, Gansu.

The carriage is here!

It is exactly as described in the intelligence. As soon as it appeared at the street corner, it headed straight for Zhong'an Bank. With a shout from the driver, the carriage stopped steadily in front of the bank, coming to a halt less than ten meters away from Chen Wu.

While pretending to read the paper just now, Chen Wu had already adjusted his position. He is now waiting like a rabbit by the main entrance of Zhong'an Bank, never expecting the rabbit to be so cooperative.

Seeing the carriage from the intelligence report come to a steady halt, and several men dressed as servants open the doors, Chen Wu felt a surge of energy; he knew the main target had arrived.

The internal energy in his dantian began to boil, coursing through his limbs and bones. Chen Wu used his left hand to hold up a newspaper for cover, while his right hand reached into his pocket. He first wiped the sweat from his palm onto his clothes, then gripped his weapon tightly—a revolver invented in the second year of the Dezhang era.

What era was this? Who still played around with traditional assassination techniques? Within seven paces, a gun was both faster and more accurate.

Besides, Chen Wu had only transmigrated here less than three days ago; he hadn't even had time to familiarize himself with the martial arts of this body. Expecting him to kill someone with kung fu was truly asking too much—a six-shot revolver was far more practical.

Chen Wu used the newspaper to mask his movements, shifting the muzzle inside his pocket, waiting only for Old Master Qiao to step out before pulling the trigger.

That pitch-black carriage door occupied the entirety of Chen Wu's focus. In the space of a breath, the clamor of the street seemed to fall silent. In less than a heartbeat, a figure appeared at the carriage entrance.

"Bang—"

A thunderous roar erupted.

But it came from Chen Wu's left.

What was going on? Chen Wu's hand shook, he nearly dropped the newspaper, and he instinctively looked toward the sound.

He saw a man standing behind and to his side, dressed in short, rough clothes with a hemp cloth wrapped around his head like a laborer. The man held a Dezhang Year Two Model identical to Chen Wu's, pointing it straight at the carriage, white smoke still curling from the barrel.

Chen Wu's mind went blank for a moment before he reacted. Damn it, the old boss Qiao seems to have quite a few enemies! The situation is complicated; better lay low for now.

The pedestrians on the street reacted as well, the crowd erupting like water hitting hot oil. Those nearby, faces full of terror, scrambled away on all fours. Those further away, however, stretched their necks to look toward the source of the gunfire.

Chen Wu immediately hunched his body and retreated a few steps into the lobby of Zhong'an Bank. He didn't have time to admire the decor that made the place famous in Jincheng Prefecture; he simply poked his head out to observe in secret.

"Bang—" The first bullet seemed to have missed its mark, and then came another gunshot. Only then did Chen Wu clearly see what the people stepping out of the carriage looked like.

It wasn't one person stepping out, but two.

One was a thin, tall old man wearing a plain cotton shirt, layered with a silk-faced cotton vest. He wore a black, pointed six-panel hat with a high crown, topped with a piece of mutton-fat jade. His hair and beard were white, though a few strands of black remained at his temples. This was clearly Qiao Weisheng.

The other was a middle-aged man with a sturdy build. His robe was covered in patch upon patch, yet the sword in his hand was incredibly luxurious. The sharkskin scabbard was inlaid with various gemstones, each sharp-edged and glittering with precious light in the sun. Anyone with an eye for it would know that this gemstone cutting technique was the finest craftsmanship from the Western nations.

The man held the scabbard in his left hand and gripped the hilt with his right, shielding Qiao Weisheng. Even facing the muzzle of a gun, he showed no fear.

"Bang, bang, bang, bang—" Having missed two shots, the assassin seemed to grow anxious, firing the remaining four lead bullets in the cylinder in one go.

Qiao Weisheng remained motionless, while the middle-aged man merely touched his scabbard, looking pained.

Seeing this, Chen Wu gasped. The middle-aged man had clearly moved the scabbard with blinding speed to intercept those four lead bullets one by one. If Chen Wu didn't possess internal energy, he likely wouldn't have even seen the man's movement, perceiving only a blur.

What kind of peerless expert is this? Even if the revolvers of the Great Shun Dynasty are quite different from the ones in my past life—lacking metallic cartridges, suffering from poor airtightness, and having low power—they are still guns! To face a gun with bare flesh? With a monster like this around, who could possibly assassinate him?

For a moment, Chen Wu felt fortunate. Thank goodness someone else had taken the hit for him; otherwise, he would have surely rushed out and thrown his life away.

The Dezhang Year Two Model revolver, much like front-loading flintlocks, required the percussion cap, black powder, and lead bullet to be loaded into the cylinder one by one—an incredibly tedious process. Once the six shots were spent, Chen Wu knew the assassin had no time to reload.

The assassin realized he had hit a hard target, tossed the gun aside, and turned to flee.

The assassin's martial arts didn't seem weak either; his movement technique was quite agile, and in the blink of an eye, he was ready to scale the walls. Seeing this, the middle-aged man didn't even move, and Chen Wu assumed he had given up on the chase.

Unexpectedly, just as the assassin leaped to his highest point, a black shadow from the middle-aged man's hand shot out like an arrow released from a bow, piercing the air and heading straight for the assassin's back with a whistle like a heavy crossbow bolt.

Thwack—

The assassin hit an invisible wall of air and fell straight down from the sky, crashing onto the side of the street. Only then did Qiao Weisheng's servants seem to react, swarming forward in a scramble to capture the assassin.

Chen Wu felt his eyelids twitch violently at the sight. That black shadow was none other than the scabbard from the middle-aged man's hand.

He hadn't even seen the man move, yet the scabbard had acted as if it were alive, flying off the sword to strike the assassin down. If the scabbard hadn't failed to fly back, Chen Wu would have thought he had transmigrated into a xianxia world.

At this moment, most of the servants had gone to seize the assassin, leaving only that middle-aged man by Old Master Qiao's side. Yet, in Chen Wu's eyes, it felt as if a thousand troops stood between him and Qiao Weisheng.

A soul-searching question popped into Chen Wu's mind: should this assassination continue?

To be or not to be, that is the question.