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Edited by: Michyrr

A Daoist nun sat in one sedan chair, a horsetail whisk in the crook of her left arm.

This horsetail whisk had clearly been repaired within the last two years, as it looked very new.

The Daoist nun did not appear very old, but she still gave off an old and lifeless aura. Moreover, she also had a strange and detestable temperament.

Wang Po hated her. If not for her husband, he would have cut off one of her arms two years ago.

Of course, other than people like Wang Po, no one dared to show the slightest hatred toward this Daoist nun.

Because this Daoist nun had a ruthless temper, because this Daoist nun was called Wuqiong Bi, one of last generation’s Storms of the Eight Directions, an expert of the Divine Domain.

The other sedan chair was empty.

The person who had been sitting here was currently standing at Wang Po’s side.

This was a very fat middle-aged man. He was dressed in a yellow gown, his corpulent flesh drooping from his belt, making him seem rather comical.

But in the same way, no one dared to jeer at him.

Because he was the Prince of Xiang, the most powerful prince of the Great Zhou Imperial Court, supported by countless soldiers and ministers.

And not too long ago, he finally broke through that threshold and became the first member of the Chen Imperial clan among Emperor Xian’s descendants to become a true expert of the Divine Domain.

The above matter was only known by a scant few people at present.

Only when he traveled from the capital to Wenshui City, rode a sedan chair to Chicken Crow Mountain, stood at Wang Po’s side, and gazed at the beautiful landscape before him did a few more people find out.

Wang Po said, "I’m surprised."

The Prince of Xiang sighed, "I’m also surprised."

......

......

The snowstorm engulfed Wenshui City, and it also engulfed the ancestral hall.

The black roof was piled with snow, rendering it a pleasant white. The white walls did not become whiter. On the contrary, the light in the courtyard reflecting off the snow made them seem grayer.

As the snowstorm paused and continued, intensified and eased, the light from the sky continuously changed, dimming and brightening.

In this fluctuation of light, many figures appeared in the storm.

The assassins were dressed in white, with masks over their faces. Like the snowstorm, they also exuded a chill. It was very difficult for anyone to notice them.

The moment they appeared, Tang Thirty-Six noticed them, but this was because they didn’t care that he noticed.

Tang Thirty-Six narrowed his eyes.

The cold wind brushed against his face. Though it was unable to cool him, it did cause his hair, which was oily and filthy from lack of washing, to waft up.

He didn’t like this feeling, because the scene was not beautiful enough, nor was the smell very pleasant.

He gazed at the white-clothed assassins in the courtyard of the ancestral hall and scratched his head. "All of you fighting just me? That’s too unfair."

The assassins naturally would not reply. They expressionlessly stared at him.

Tang Thirty-Six raised his head to the old Guardian.

He was sitting on the prayer mat while the old Guardian stood at his side. If he wanted to get a clear view of the old Guardian’s face, he needed to raise his head very high.

One could say that he was a lot like a duck stretching out its neck to be slaughtered, but one could also say that he was a proud swan.

Yes, no matter how chilling or frightening the Qi of these assassins who had sneaked into the ancestral hall under the cover of the snowstorm, none of them were a match for the old Guardian.

But these assassins clearly did not care, and their gazes were always fixed on Tang Thirty-Six. Thus, there could be only one explanation.

Where did the Tang Second Master’s confidence to kill Tang Thirty-Six come from?

The old Guardian that had remained in the ancestral hall was one of his men.

The old Guardian said, "My apologies, Young Master."

Tang Thirty-Six smiled and replied, "Apologize to your mother."

The old Guardian raised his right hand and brought it down on Tang Thirty-Six’s head.

The snowstorm suddenly intensified and the candles in the depths of the ancestral hall guttered, the ones at the very front immediately extinguishing. Ten-some memorial tablets dropped from the shelf and shattered on the floor.

Tang Thirty-Six moved.

The prayer mat beneath him scattered into pieces, a clearly toxic smoke rising up from it.

He scrambled across the floor, making his way towards the snow-filled courtyard.

It was obvious that the Tang clan had not laid down any defenses in the ancestral hall, but he had made preparations.

But he had not thought at the time that the person to kill would be a Guardian of the Tang clan.

The toxic smoke in the prayer mat was quite formidable, but could it possibly poison the Guardian?

The old Guardian had been one of the Longevity Sect’s first-generation elders. He had enormous reservoirs of true essence, and his cultivation was at the peak of Star Condensation, even already half a step into the Divine.

Let alone the fact that Tang Thirty-Six was only at the initial level of Star Condensation, even if he suddenly exploded with ten times his strength, how could he possibly block such a fierce blow?

And even if he scrambled towards the courtyard, how could possibly escape the range of the wind stirred by the palm?

The old Guardian’s palm descended like a mountain.

The snowstorm outside the ancestral hall seemed to be pulled by some invisible force. The winds stilled and the snow suddenly began to fall at a slower speed.

The old Guardian’s palm seemed about to strike Tang Thirty-Six’s head.

Suddenly, the snowstorm came back to life, and the snowflakes began to descend once more.

A sword glow flashed in the snowstorm.

This was an extremely bright sword glow, shining upon the courtyard’s winter plums, stools, and the eyes of the assassin.

This was also an incredibly gloomy sword glow, all of its Qi restrained. It was like it had been stained with a hundred-some days of fallen leaves and dust, in complete harmony with the ancestral hall.

Several snowflakes falling from the sky were suddenly stained red.

It was the red of blood.

An expression of disbelief appeared in the old Guardian’s eyes.

The palm stirred a howling wind.

The sword glow silently moved.

The candles of the ancestral hall were all extinguished.

The dense collection of memorial tablets fell over, one by one.

The beams and walls were covered in palm prints and sword slashes.

With a whoosh, the ancestral hall fell quiet once more.

The old Guardian stood on the stone steps in front of the ancestral hall.

His left palm had been run through by a sword, and had blood dripping from it.

The left side of his chest had also sustained a deep wound from which blood was trickling out.

His right palm was up against his opponent’s left palm.

His opponent was a man dressed in the garb of a servant.

This man was very ordinary, devoid of any unique characteristics.

For the past five years, this man had always drooped his shoulders, just like Wang Po waiting outside the city at Chicken Crow Mountain.

But today he could not, because his left arm, from wrist to shoulder, had been completely broken by the old Guardian’s palm.

Just who was this person that could fight the Tang clan’s old Guardian and end it with both sides suffering grievous wounds!

Even though it was a sneak attack, it was still very difficult to believe.

......

......

The old Guardian had a vague recollection of this person. He was the mute servant of the ancestral hall.

He naturally knew now that this person could not possibly be some ordinary mute servant.

Nor was he a Tang clan expert arranged by the Old Master, as he knew all of the Tang clan’s secrets.

So just who was this expert who feigned being mute and had swept the courtyard of the Tang clan’s ancestral hall for half a year?

Someone who could ambush an expert half a step into the Divine had to be a master assassin, and one of about the same level of cultivation.

Peak Star Condensation? There was only one assassin on the continent with this level of cultivation.

The old Guardian knew the assassin’s identity. His pupils constricted as he shouted, "Attack!"

This order was naturally for those white-clothed assassins.

But at this crucial moment, he forgot one very important matter.

The assassins lunged towards Tang Thirty-Six, their sword intents swift, forceful, and frightening. They were many times colder than the snow of midwinter, able to make one shudder in fear.

Countless chilling sword glows appeared in the drifting snowflakes, followed quickly by the sound of sharp edges stabbing into bodies and groans.

The blood spilled onto the snow of the courtyard was especially dazzling.

Several assassins lay collapsed in pools of blood, no longer breathing.

These assassins were all of very high level and were exceptionally alert. Yet they could never have imagined that they would be ambushed by their own companions.

A forceful and frightening sword intent enveloped the courtyard of the Tang clan’s ancestral hall.

The mute servant retreated to the courtyard.

The seven white-clothed assassins walked to his side.