Chapter Twenty-Seven: Encounter

Although there wasn’t much snake meat, it was exceptionally delicious. Roasted until cooked through, even without any seasoning, it was delectable.

Zhou Li’s piece had been grilled a bit too long, resulting in a texture somewhat reminiscent of beef tendon. Li Pingyang had hoped to catch a glimpse of Zhou Li’s face while he ate, but he had miscalculated once again.

Unexpectedly, Zhou Li pulled up his mask, only to reveal a smaller mask beneath, exposing only his mouth. Li Pingyang noticed he had no beard—whatever brand of razor he used, it left a perfectly clean shave.

The more mysterious something is, the greater the curiosity it arouses, and Li Pingyang was no exception. He wondered if everyone in the Secret Tribunal was cross-eyed, buck-toothed, or similarly peculiar…

Perhaps they were all terribly ugly, and wore masks to hide their appearance, afraid to show their faces.

Zhou Li ate with a gentle manner, nothing like a burly man; he nibbled and savored his food with careful, slow appreciation. In contrast, the other two seemed as if they hadn’t eaten in eight generations—devouring their snake meat, leaving only bones behind. The brown bear finished his portion, then used his claws to pinch the bones, tilted his head back, and swallowed them whole.

After their meal, Li Pingyang and the brown bear sat back-to-back. The bear began reminiscing, howling to recount a story from his past. Fortunately, the system’s clumsy translation allowed Li Pingyang to grasp the gist.

It was winter, five years ago. The brown bear had still been a cub.

That day, the winter fog was thick, snowflakes whipped by the wind, and white blanketed the entire forest, freezing the land for miles.

All around, there was only white.

In the deepest snow, it was thick enough to cover an adult’s neck. A weary figure trudged through the snow, clearly gravely wounded, blood dripping from his arm with every step.

Blood trailed behind him, forming a crimson line that was quickly covered by fresh snow. The biting wind tormented him alongside his injuries.

Finally, he collapsed.

Lying face-down in the snow, his eyes lifeless, he gazed to the side, panting heavily. Each breath warmed the snow before him, moistening the surface.

His eyebrows were coated in snow, half his face buried beneath it. Even if the wounds didn’t claim him, nature would—burying him beneath the glistening snow.

His clothes were ragged and soaked with blood, draped in a rain cape. The wind had blown away his bamboo hat, leaving his long white hair dancing in the breeze.

Above, high in the trees, a furry brown figure hid, peeking at the scene below. Seeing the wounded man’s dire state, it wanted to help, but then voices rang out.

“Boss, I see someone up ahead!”

Turning in that direction, several large white wolves followed the trail of blood to this spot, sniffing at the crimson stains before licking them clean.

On each of the three wolves rode a person clad in animal skins, wielding a huge scythe. Their faces were painted with oils, and atop their heads perched crests resembling a rooster’s comb.

These three belonged to an organization called Thunder Hall, serving as subordinates of its second branch. They had apparently fought with the white-haired man earlier, bearing wounds themselves.

They weren’t much better off—one, a chubby man on the left wearing an eyepatch, had been beaten senseless by the man, losing a front tooth and speaking with a whistle through his lips.

The second, a slender man of middling build, had a sword wound to the abdomen, the blood soaking his bandages. Only the one addressed as “boss” suffered merely superficial wounds.

They marveled at the man’s resilience; they had tracked him through the snow for over four hours, even their wolves were weary and panting.

“Go check on him. The master said we must take him alive; before we get his secrets, his death would be worthless.”

The boss rose, squinted into the distance, and waited. Seeing no movement from the man, he felt uneasy, so he sent the skinny one to investigate.

The skinny man himself was apprehensive, knowing the man’s martial prowess firsthand. They’d only managed to injure him by drugging his drink beforehand.

Yet, even so badly wounded, the man had fought three-on-one, completely overpowering them—not human at all.

Had he not used a hidden weapon to strike the man’s arm, he might have been killed in return. The sword wound to his abdomen was deep; a few more centimeters and he might truly have died.

Cautious of the white-haired man, the skinny one dismounted and shouldered his large black scythe, approaching slowly, thinking he could escape if anything went awry.

He had no intention of risking his life for mere money.

Upon reaching the white-haired man, he prodded him from a distance with the scythe, wary of any movement. Once done, he darted away to watch for signs.

After a few seconds with no reaction, he muttered, “Could he really be dead?”

At this moment, the white-haired man lay motionless in the snow, covered by a layer of white. Seeing this, the skinny man grew bolder, stepped closer, and kicked him several times.

Still no response. He decided to turn the man over, but whether from fear or a slip, he lost his balance and fell, landing atop the white-haired man.

Startled, he tried to rise, but the more he panicked, the less strength he could muster, flailing helplessly. Then he realized the white-haired man’s eyes were open, staring at him.

From the rear, the other two couldn’t see this and laughed at his cowardice, mocking his inability to even stand, calling him useless.

The skinny man was about to speak when he felt a coldness at his throat—the white-haired man had sliced it open with a dagger. Clutching his neck, he collapsed atop his would-be victim.

At that instant, the other two sensed something was wrong and charged over on their wolves. As they reached the man, they saw the skinny one’s corpse shoved aside, and a wave of sword energy slashing toward them.

Unable to dodge in time, the chubby man with the eyepatch lost his left arm to the blow; the boss watched something fly past, his face splattered with blood.

The boss was stunned. The chubby man screamed, tumbling from his wolf, rolling in the snow. The boss abandoned him and turned to flee.

“Boss, help… help me…”

The chubby man reached out toward the boss’s retreating figure, then his vision faded and he collapsed into a snowdrift.

The boss glanced back, relieved the white-haired man wasn’t pursuing, and breathed easier. But just as he turned away, pain stabbed his abdomen.

Another crimson wave of sword energy struck. The white-haired man’s longsword slipped from his grasp, spent of the last ounce of strength.

The boss, riding his wolf, was cleaved by the sword energy; both man and beast perished beneath the blade.

“Is this the end? Such regret…”

The white-haired man lay in the snow, gazing at the falling flakes, his eyes nearly closed. In the final haze of consciousness, he saw a brown figure appear before him.