Guan Jinyue's Attack

Chen Guan’s finger hesitated on the screen. From the sound of it, White Tiger seemed to know Guan Jinyue quite well. This was far more than what could be gleaned from online information.

He debated whether to ask the next question. In the end, Chen Guan asked anyway.

[What level is her strength roughly?]

White Tiger’s answer was succinct. [Not sure. She hides it well. Ranks mean nothing to her.]

Chen Guan narrowed his eyes slightly beneath his mask. It matched his own judgment—Guan Jinyue’s strength was an uncertain variable. Even White Tiger didn’t know, and he’d even said it was meaningless.

Such a rare thing—there was actually something White Tiger didn’t know.

He didn’t press further about Guan Jinyue. Instead, he steered the conversation back to business.

[Wang Dan told me to escort a fifth-tier Jiaoshi demon core at four in the morning, from the transfer station to the South Harbor Warehouse Zone 17. Three escorts plus a driver. Two-hour trip.]

[Her assigning a high-value cargo to a freshly hired agent is abnormal in itself. Last night, the cold storage was hit, so she should be on high alert. Handing a core asset to a newbie now means either she’s really that desperate for manpower, or she’s testing your reactions.]

[Then let her watch. He Chenguan is someone who works for money. Handle the escort mission exactly as she said—from point A to point B, don’t interfere or ask questions in between. Deliver the goods, collect the pay, and leave. The cleaner, the better.]

Chen Guan replied. [Understood.]

[I’ll arrange a replacement for you as soon as possible. Stay safe.]

...

At 3:50 in the morning, Chen Guan woke up.

Not by an alarm—Baobao nuzzled his hand with her nose.

He opened his eyes. It was still dark; nothing was visible outside the window. The streetlights from the harbor cast a dim yellow glow, just enough to see that the iron box was still in its place on the table.

Chen Guan sat up and slipped the iron box into the inner pocket of his jacket. With one hand, he patted Baobao’s head.

“Let’s go.”

His other hand grabbed at air. Only then did Chen Guan realize the familiar black iron coffin was no longer by his side.

It really was strange not having it.

He stroked Baobao’s head again. Now, Baobao’s life was even more important than his own.

Someone was already downstairs.

A gray box truck was parked at the entrance, engine still running, idling softly, a small puff of white smoke escaping the exhaust pipe.

Two people stood beside the truck.

One was a bald man. Not the same bald guy from last night’s warehouse cluster—it seemed bald thugs were a standard type for desperate men.

The other was a stocky, shorter man with a receding hairline, and it wasn’t hard to guess that this line of work aged a person.

Chen Guan walked over. Their eyes fell on him simultaneously.

“You’re He Chenguan?” the bald man asked.

“That’s me.”

“Call me Zhao.” The bald man glanced at Baobao behind him but showed no particular reaction. Summoners weren’t unusual—he’d seen plenty.

The stocky man stubbed out his cigarette, crushed the ember under his heel, and nodded slightly in greeting.

“He’s Feng Wu,” Zhao introduced briefly.

Feng Wu didn’t say a word. He pulled open the rear door of the truck and climbed inside.

Chen Guan followed, handing the iron box to Zhao. Baobao jumped up last, lying down by Chen Guan’s feet.

Zhao gave the box a quick check. Once satisfied, he closed the cargo door, sat down across from Chen Guan, and leaned against the wall of the compartment.

Feng Wu sat in the corner. He pulled his hand out of his pocket and swapped what he was holding—a half-worn telescopic baton that gleamed with a metallic luster under the dim light.

“No stops along the way. Straight to Warehouse Zone 17. If anything happens on the road, you follow my lead,” Zhao said.

Chen Guan nodded.

The truck started moving.

“What’s your rank?” Zhao asked amid the jostling.

“Third rank. Almost fourth.”

The road conditions were terrible; the truck swayed constantly. Almost fourth, indeed.

“What affinity?”

“Summoner.” Chen Guan tilted his head toward Baobao.

Zhao glanced at the cheetah, grunted, and didn’t press further.

Feng Wu never spoke the whole time, but he never let go of his baton.

Chen Guan said nothing else.

After about half an hour, the truck slowed down.

Not because they’d arrived—it was decelerating.

Zhao leaned forward slightly, pulled his hand from inside his jacket, and slapped the partition wall of the truck. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s a roadblock ahead. Construction or something, I’m not sure.”

“Go around.”

“Can’t. Both sides of this road are walled. This is the only way.”

Zhao cursed under his breath. “How long is the stop?”

“I’ll go check.”

The truck came to a halt.

The engine was still running, but the vehicle stood still. The smell of diesel thickened in the air.

Chen Guan’s ear twitched.

Baobao’s ears twitched too.

From the cab came the sound of the door opening, then footsteps crunching on gravel—about seven or eight steps.

Then, nothing.

No footsteps. No voices. No sound at all.

It was as if the person had vanished into thin air.

Zhao sensed it too. His hand slid back into his jacket, touching the edge of the iron box. His center of gravity dropped half an inch as he tensed.

“Feng Wu.”

“Yeah.”

Feng Wu tightened his grip on the baton, slowly rose, and crept to the rear door. He pressed his ear to the metal for two seconds.

“No sound outside.”

Zhao’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t open it.”

Before he finished speaking, there came a faint metallic deformation from the roof of the truck—something cutting in from above.

After a flash of sword light, the roof was gone.

Above them hung a pitch-black sky, thick clouds blocking all starlight, only a faint orange glow spilling over from the harbor lights in the distance.

A figure stood on the rim of the truck’s cargo bay.

Silver hair blew in the night wind. Black pupils looked down at the three inside the compartment.

Guan Jinyue.

Zhao reacted quickly. The moment he saw her face, he had already pulled the iron box from his jacket and flung it behind him, straight into Chen Guan’s arms.

Simultaneously, his left hand rose. A murky white light flickered in his palm—a reinforcement-type ability—forming a thin layer of armor over his body.

Feng Wu was even more direct. He snapped the baton open, the metal segments locking into place as electricity surged along its length. He swung it toward Guan Jinyue.

Guan Jinyue didn’t even raise an eyebrow.

Light of sword spilled everywhere.

Zhao’s armor shattered before it fully formed. Guan Jinyue barely moved her left hand. The space in front of Zhao seemed to clench like a fist, and he flew sideways, crashing through the truck’s side panel, tumbling onto the road. After twitching twice, he lay still.

As Feng Wu’s baton reached mid-swing, a crack split open at his feet.

Same death as the hoodie guy at the southeast corner—Feng Wu didn’t even make a sound. The ground swallowed him whole, the fissure sealing shut cleanly. All that was left in the truck corner was the still-sparking baton, sizzling with electricity.

Less than three seconds had passed.

Chen Guan sat still on the floor. When Zhao had thrown the iron box, he caught it. Now it rested on his lap, his palm placed flat on its lid.

Baobao crouched low, his front paws planted on the ground, purple eyes fixed on the silver-haired woman standing on the edge of the train car's frame. The growl in his throat was barely audible.

Guan Jinyue’s gaze shifted from where Feng Wu had vanished and landed on Chen Guan.