Walking out of the training hall, the evening breeze brought a chill against his face. The streets were sparsely populated with pedestrians, and shops were lighting up one after another.
Matthew walked along his familiar route toward the inn, his mind still reviewing the details of his recent practice—the transmission of force with each slash, the extent of energy consumption, the endurance limit of the wooden sword...
As he was pondering, he passed by a narrow alley.
A dull thud suddenly echoed from within the alley, followed closely by a low, angry roar:
“The Blood Hand Gang?!”
Matthew paused slightly, his gaze sweeping into the alley.
In the dim light, three or four figures could be vaguely seen locked in combat.
One of them seemed to be injured, stumbling back until his back hit the wall.
Seeing this scene, Matthew's brow furrowed slightly, a faint trace of doubt flickering in the depths of his eyes.
With his current Silver Rank Perception and eyesight honed through life-and-death experiences, the truth behind this “struggle” before him had nowhere to hide.
The three figures besieging the stumbling man seemed fierce, but they were actually holding back at every turn—
Though their moves carried the vicious, powerful wind typical of the Blood Hand Gang, their strikes all landed on non-vital areas like the shoulders, arms, and legs. Their movements showed clear hesitation and restraint; rather than a life-and-death struggle, it looked more like a threatening suppression and expulsion.
“This is strange...” Matthew stopped. He did not draw closer, merely watching the shifting light and shadows in the dim alley from a distance, thoughts racing through his mind.
The Blood Hand Gang's actions had always been known for being ruthless and decisive, especially when it came to turf wars or clearing “trouble,” where they would often strive to eradicate the root cause to leave no future worries.
This was also why he had remained highly vigilant against this force ever since his previous encounter with Nathan and his subsequent investigations.
Yet the men before him clearly held the absolute upper hand, yet they chose to show mercy. It was completely contrary to their usual style.
“Are they wary of this person's identity? Or... do they have other designs?” His gaze swept over the panting figure leaning against the wall, trying to find clues from his clothing and posture, but the dim light and distance limited his observations.
The only certainty was that the aura of the attackers—a mix of street thuggery and rough training marks—was indeed a classic characteristic of Blood Hand Gang members.
The night wind swept past the alley entrance, carrying a faint scent of blood and tense, ragged breathing.
Matthew stood at the boundary between light and darkness, his shadow stretched long by the streetlamp. His face remained as calm as usual, but the contemplative look in his eyes deepened.
There was always a reason behind anomalies.
Just as he was pondering, a dull sound of physical impact echoed from the alley, followed by a low roar that was desperately suppressed but still betrayed shock and anger:
“The Blood Hand Gang... You dare lay a hand on me? I am the adventurer ‘Iron Shield,’ protected by the Adventurer Guild—!”
The man seemed to want to use his reputation to intimidate them, his voice growing louder. But before he could finish, one of the Blood Hand Gang members drove a vicious straight punch heavily into his abdomen. With a muffled groan, the rest of his words were choked back, leaving only painful gasps.
The one who threw the punch was Osborn, the most heavily built and sinister-looking of the three. He didn't even look at the kneeling “Iron Shield.” Instead, as if sensing something, he abruptly whipped his head around to look toward the alley entrance.
The street outside the alley was empty, the dusk deepening. There were only scattered lights in the distance and the occasional blurry figure walking past; no one was seen stopping or spying.
“What's wrong, Big Brother Osborn? No one usually comes to this crappy alley,” a lean youth curled his lip, not caring in the slightest.
“Even if someone hears us, so what? The reputation of our Blood Hand Gang is right here. In this western district of the outer city, who would dare meddle in our business?”
A trace of impatience and anger flashed in Osborn's eyes. Just as he was about to berate this subordinate for his lack of discretion, another slightly steadier voice spoke up first:
“Big Brother Osborn is right. It's always better to be careful. The Guild's people are troublesome after all. It's better to avoid unnecessary trouble.”
The speaker was another member. Had Matthew still been here, he might have recognized the faint, barely perceptible familiarity in this voice—it was Jasper, whom he had briefly crossed paths with during the training hall incident!
Osborn glared at the lean subordinate and snorted through his nose, tacitly agreeing with Jasper's words.
He ceased wasting time and jerked his chin toward “Iron Shield,” who was curled up on the ground groaning: “Hurry up. Knock him out and take him away. The boss is still waiting to question him.”
“Understood!” the lean youth responded. Exchanging a glance with Jasper, the two stepped forward in unison.
One covered Iron Shield's mouth and nose to stifle any potential cries for help, while the other chopped down precisely with the edge of his hand against the side of his neck.
Iron Shield's body stiffened before he slumped to the ground, losing consciousness.
Osborn took one last sweep of the quiet alley entrance. Confirming there were no further anomalies, he growled in a low voice: “Let's go.”
The three moved swiftly, quickly hoisting up the unconscious Iron Shield and carrying him out of the dim alley like dragging a piece of cargo. Their figures soon melted into the deeper shadows, quietly departing in the direction of the Blood Hand Gang's headquarters.
Silence returned to the alley, leaving behind only a few messy tracks on the ground and a faint scent of dust lingering in the air, testifying to the brief and brutal conflict that had just occurred.
Meanwhile, Matthew was walking along the street back to the inner city. The dusk grew heavier as scattered lights turned on.
He had already departed the moment he heard the mention of the Adventurer Guild.
He had never been someone overflowing with a savior complex.
In this world, struggles in the dark happened day after day. Bloodshed and oppression were merely the norm of this city.
If he had to draw his sword every time he witnessed an injustice, he would have run himself ragged long ago, let alone make it any further along this perilous path of cultivation.
What was more, the Blood Hand Gang was no ordinary group of street thugs—the shadow of the inner city's great nobles faintly loomed behind them, their power deeply entrenched and intertwined.
Recklessly meddling was no different from sticking one's hand into muddy waters; it would only invite endless trouble.
Matthew knew very well in his heart that his most urgent task right now was to consolidate his newly broken-through Silver Rank realm, completely digest the remaining energy of the goat demon crystal core in his body, and convert the eight magic stones buried in his backyard into concrete strength.
Other people's grudges, other people's lives—as long as they didn't burn their way to him, he was too lazy to care, nor did he have the mind to.
“But if they provoke me...” The moment this thought surfaced, an icy, ruthless look flashed in the depths of Matthew's eyes.
His fingers gripping the hilt tightened unconsciously for a brief second, his knuckles turning slightly white, as if he could already feel the coldness of the blade inside the scabbard, and touch his own untouchable bottom line.
The strength of the Silver Rank gave him not only a leap in power, but also a confidence in his state of mind. Now, he no longer had to be cautious at every turn or play it safe with every step.
If he wished, he could go to the vast majority of places in the Kingdom of Cher.
What he sought in his actions was no longer pure survival or self-preservation, but more of a “peace of mind”—not violating his original intentions, not being bound by external things, and not being troubled by outside matters.
Therefore, he chose to walk straight away.
Not meddling, not looking back, not letting himself get embroiled in meaningless disputes.
This was a calm decision made after weighing the pros and cons, and also the composure brought by the elevation of his strength—he no longer needed to prove anything by sticking his nose into other people's business; it was enough to keep to his own path and protect those he ought to protect.
The thuds and curses in the alley were gradually swallowed by the wind on the street and the distant bustle of the market.
Matthew's figure moved steadily forward in the deepening night, his steps showing not a hint of hesitation, as if the conflict just now had never entered his eyes, nor had it ever disturbed his heart.
...
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