Vol. 2 - Ch. 51 - A Swift Resolution!

The moment those words were spoken, the surrounding refugees' eyes turned red as tears welled up uncontrollably.

One after another, they knelt to the ground and kowtowed to Zhang Maoxiang.

“Thank you, my lord! Justice lives in you!”

“Thank you, my lord!”

“...”

Their cries echoed in unison, powerful and overwhelming.

Zhang Maoxiang seemed genuinely moved by the sight before him. His own eyes reddened, and tears streamed down his face.

Standing to the side, Murong Longyuan remained silent, his gaze deep and unreadable.

Among the crowd, Sun Sheng and Qiong Aohai had also knelt, careful not to draw attention.

Both men clenched their jaws in fury.

This Zhang Maoxiang—what a performance.

He could rival the finest actors in the opera troupes.

Once the refugees had finished their kowtows, they rose in order, lining up quietly for porridge.

Under the porridge tent, the needy came forward one by one.

Zhang Maoxiang rolled up his sleeves and served them personally.

The gesture touched the refugees so deeply that many shed tears again.

They bowed repeatedly in thanks, clutching their wooden bowls, filled to the brim with thick porridge.

The rice grains had burst open—pearly and white.

With this bowl of porridge, they could survive a few more days.

As he ladled, Zhang Maoxiang called out, “From today on, at this hour, porridge will be distributed daily here in the east of the city!”

“There is no need to worry!”

He wore the expression of a benevolent father to his people, and his tone was full of heartfelt sincerity.

The refugees around him were filled with gratitude.

Soon, the line reached Sun Sheng.

Qiong Aohai glanced at him; Sun Sheng returned the look.

Their eyes met—and everything was understood.

Qiong Aohai gave a small nod.

With a burst of strength, he sprang from the line, feet pounding the earth, soaring more than ten zhang in an instant.

He landed in a clearing.

Removing the conical hat from his head, he turned to face Murong Longyuan and shouted, “Senior!”

Murong Longyuan, puffing on his dry tobacco pipe, instinctively turned toward the voice.

He saw Qiong Aohai, but his wrinkled, weathered face showed no emotion.

Only his eyes—deep, unreadable—rested steadily on the younger man.

Murong Longyuan brought the pipe to his lips and took a deep drag.

Then exhaled slowly.

The smoke drifted out, three feet long, like a flowing white ribbon.

Qiong Aohai’s sudden movement drew the attention of the crowd.

Then someone cried out in recognition, “That’s the bandit who killed Prefect Zheng!”

“I saw his face on the wanted posters!”

“What’s he doing here?!”

“Don’t tell me he’s here to assassinate Lord Zhang?!”

“Stop him—quickly!”

The twenty-something soldiers guarding Zhang Maoxiang rushed forward, their expressions tense as they fixed their eyes on Qiong Aohai.

Even Zhang Maoxiang couldn’t hide his surprise at seeing him.

He hadn’t expected Qiong Aohai to show up here.

Has this madman taken leave of his senses?

Murong Longyuan—the Iron Spear and one of Six Doors’ three great constables—was right here.

Was Qiong Aohai here to die?

Zhang Maoxiang’s gaze flickered.

He couldn’t figure out what Qiong Aohai was planning.

Drawing a deep breath, he waved his hand to dismiss the soldiers: “A petty thug. Not worth mentioning.”

“If he wants my head, let him have it.”

“Don’t block the porridge line! Step aside! Step aside!”

“These people are still hungry!”

With a cold snort, he returned to calmly ladling porridge.

The way he carried himself—composed, generous—was nothing short of majestic.

The soldiers and refugees all gazed at him with reverent admiration.

Sun Sheng was nearly gnashing his teeth.

Everything happening now had been orchestrated by the demonic cult, and Zhang Maoxiang was doing his best to cover up the flood incident.

And yet here he was, putting on a show—acting like a clean and righteous official.

Just how many faces did this man have?

Sun Sheng suppressed the fury burning in his chest.

He had to get closer—close enough to ensure the strike would not fail.

Qiong Aohai stood calmly in the clearing, eyes fixed on Murong Longyuan.

Murong Longyuan looked back, equally calm.

That made Qiong Aohai uneasy.

This wasn’t how he’d envisioned it—he thought Murong Longyuan would immediately pursue him upon seeing him.

Instead, an ominous feeling crept over him.

His eyes shifted subtly toward the porridge line.

Sun Sheng was now within three steps of Zhang Maoxiang.

Three steps!

To a martial artist, that was the distance between life and death.

Beneath the porridge tent—

Sun Sheng suddenly sprang into motion, roaring, “Corrupt dog! Die!”

The roar of a crashing tide erupted from his dantian, surging into both palms.

He struck with Raging Tide Palm, aiming straight for Zhang Maoxiang’s chest.

If this palm landed, Zhang Maoxiang would be dead for sure!

But—

Almost the exact moment Sun Sheng moved, Murong Longyuan flicked his pipe.

Whoosh—

A sharp whooshing tore through the air.

Before Sun Sheng’s strike could land, a chill ran down his spine.

A sense of impending death seized his heart.

Instinctively, he pulled his palm back and leapt backward more than ten feet.

BOOM!

The pipe struck the city wall behind him, embedding deep.

Around it, the gray wall cracked and shattered like tofu, fragments crumbling down.

Seeing that, Sun Sheng broke out in cold sweat.

If he hadn’t dodged just now, he’d already be dead.

So this… is the power of a first-rank master?

Silence fell over the scene.

Zhang Maoxiang’s legs gave way beneath him—he nearly collapsed.

Now he understood why Qiong Aohai had appeared so suddenly.

It was a diversion.

They’d come for his life!

The soldiers scrambled to form a protective circle again.

“Protect the Governor!”

“Protect the Governor!”

Their shouts rang out, echoed by the surrounding refugees.

Some even pulled off their grass shoes and hurled them at Sun Sheng, striking his head.

A few more rushed in front of Zhang Maoxiang, shielding him with their bodies, glaring at Sun Sheng with furious eyes.

To them, Sun Sheng was nothing more than a vile assassin trying to murder their beloved official.

Sun Sheng clenched his fists, heart raging.

That had been his one, perfect chance—and he’d blown it.

Seeing the failed strike, Qiong Aohai let out a quiet sigh.

Murong Longyuan hadn’t moved.

He stood there, gaze deep, and rasped, “This old man may be aged, but my mind is still sharp.”

“Qiong Aohai, come back with me.”

He turned his eyes to Sun Sheng. “You too.”

“I don’t care who’s backing you—attempting to assassinate a second-rank official is a grave crime.”

Dressed in a plain black robe, Murong Longyuan looked every bit a weathered old farmer.

But as he spoke, a powerful aura radiated from him.

Qiong Aohai exhaled slowly, resolve flashing in his eyes.

His body soared into the air, clothes snapping in the wind.

“Senior, you don’t understand.”

That was all he said.

Then, he unleashed the Raging Tide Palm, charging straight at Murong Longyuan.

The old man turned toward him again, eyes tired.

And faintly, Qiong Aohai thought he heard him sigh.

A moment later, the two clashed.

Murong Longyuan wielded no weapon—only bare hands.

In mere seconds, they exchanged several strikes.

Qiong Aohai was sent flying back several zhang, coughing up a mouthful of blood.

Murong Longyuan had used the most basic Mountain Splitting Palm, a common martial art known throughout the land.

Yet with his deep cultivation, even the simplest technique carried crushing power.

Qiong Aohai gasped, finally grasping the vast gulf between them.

His expression hardened, eyes burning with resolve. He shouted to Sun Sheng:

“End this, now!”

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