The setting sun dyed the town's bluestone roads a dim yellow. The air was mixed with smoke, dust, and a faint stench of blood.
Lin Chen walked slowly down the streets, his single arm hanging loosely at his side. The deadly poison in his chest was tightly suppressed by his true essence, dark blue veins crawling up his neck toward his jaw. Every step sent stabbing pain through his meridians. His clothes were tattered and stained with fresh blood, and his empty left sleeve fluttered in the wind. To passersby, he looked like a dying cripple.
He searched his entire body and found only a few broken copper coins—not even enough to buy the lowest‑grade antidote herbs.
To survive, to cure the poison, there was only one path: to trade his life for money.
On the west side of the town stood an unremarkable mansion. A black wooden plaque hung at the entrance, bearing the words "Shadow Assassins Pavilion" in cold characters that exuded a chilling murderous aura.
This was the only assassin organization within a hundred miles. It asked no questions about origin or morality. Only those who were ruthless, fast, and reckless with their lives could join, in exchange for cultivation resources and gold.
Lin Chen stood before the gate, silent for a moment, then stepped inside.
The courtyard was empty. In the center lay a gravel training ground, where dozens of lean, cold‑eyed youths stood on either side, their gazes sharp and indifferent. At the front sat a gray‑robed elder with a lifeless face. His withered fingers tapped on a stone table, his eagle‑like eyes scanning every applicant.
"Shadow Assassins Pavilion initiation trial: life or death. Winners stay, losers die," the elder rasped, devoid of emotion. "Now, pair off and fight until only one remains."
A low murmur spread through the courtyard.
As soon as Lin Chen took his place, a sharp sneer echoed beside him.
"Heh, where did this beggar crawl from? Missing an arm and daring to beg for a living at the Shadow Assassins Pavilion?"
The speaker was a burly bald youth with triangular eyes and a fleshy face. A rusty machete hung at his waist. He stared at Lin Chen with undisguised contempt.
Several others beside him burst into laughter, spewing vulgar insults.
"Hahaha! A one‑armed cripple looking to die? You're just tired of living and want a quick end, huh?"
"Look at that sickly face, all blue. Probably got some filthy disease and is about to croak!"
"Scram home and die! Don't dirty this place. The Pavilion isn't a trash dump for losers!"
"A cripple who can't even protect himself dares call himself an assassin? You're not even fit to shine shoes!"
A flood of insults poured forth, full of mockery and degradation.
Lin Chen ignored them all. His right hand, hanging at his side, clenched slightly, his knuckles whitening. He did not look up, his gaze calm and fixed on the gravel beneath his feet, as if the noise around him did not exist.
Seeing Lin Chen's silence, the bald youth thought he was afraid and grew even more arrogant. He stepped forward, reaching to shove Lin Chen's shoulder, cursing loudly: "Deaf? I'm talking to you! Cripples are always spineless. Scram before you sully my eyes!"
His palm, charged with brute force, shot toward Lin Chen's chest, clearly intending to hurl him out of the courtyard.
Just as his hand was about to make contact—
Lin Chen moved.
No warning, no hesitation.
His right arm shot forth like a viper striking from ambush!
Faster than the eye could follow, leaving only a blurry afterimage.
The bald youth only saw a flash before his wrist was seized by a cold, iron‑tight grip!
The force was crushing, bones creaking instantly.
"Argh!"
The bald youth screamed, his arrogance melting into agony and terror. He struggled wildly, but his wrist was locked fast, immovable.
Lin Chen slowly lifted his head.
His eyes, once calm as a frozen pool, held no anger, no killing intent—only dead, icy indifference.
He stared at the youth's contorted face, his voice flat yet bone‑chilling:
"Your mouth is too filthy."
Before the words faded, Lin Chen twisted his arm violently!
Crack!
A crisp bone‑breaking sound echoed across the courtyard.
The bald youth's wrist was snapped, twisted into a grotesque angle.
"Aaaaah! My hand!"
A shrill scream tore through the air. The youth turned pale, sweat soaking his clothes, trembling so violently he nearly fainted.
Lin Chen released him, letting him collapse to the ground, clutching his broken wrist and wailing.
The laughter in the courtyard died instantly.
Everyone froze, their eyes fixed on Lin Chen, shocked and disbelieving.
No one expected this sickly, one‑armed cripple to strike so ruthlessly, so swiftly.
Lin Chen lowered his arm again, his lone figure standing lonely and cold beneath their stares.
He glanced at those who had mocked him, his eyes deep and still.
"The trial begins."
His voice was soft, yet sent a shiver through everyone present.
The gray‑robed elder watched from the stone table, a faint glint flashing in his withered eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching upward slightly.
"Interesting."
The atmosphere on the gravel training ground turned heavy and murderous.
A life‑or‑death battle had begun.