Chapter Seventy-Two: The Three Leaders

Killing intent is a mysterious thing—unseen, unheard, indescribable, indefinable—yet one can sense it, and only those with ample experience are able to do so. At the very least, Zhang He possessed this kind of experience. Back on Qingluan Peak, for instance, you might not spot the wild boars in the forest, but as they drew near—the grinding of tusks, the low growls, the restless shuffling, the foul stench—all these signs woven together would trigger an instinctive sense of looming danger.

Similarly, when an enemy harbors murderous intent toward you, their manner, their gaze, the invisible pressure radiating from their whole being—you can sense it just as clearly.

But Zhang He watched these three men coldly for quite a while and noticed they seemed to bear no malice. In fact, their leader took the initiative to strike up a conversation.

His tone was friendly enough, but Zhang He could hardly commend their choice of words. He noticed that in "Dynasty," there were quite a few players who spoke peculiarly, like that Lord Qi, who seemed as if a person from ancient times had traveled here. But these three were different; they talked as if they were from some modern-day government office.

After a brief chat, Zhang He figured out that the trio was also headed for Blue Ripple Pool, but their aim was not the Luminous Grass—they were searching for treasure.

As for what kind of treasure, even they couldn't say for sure, which left Zhang He torn between laughter and exasperation.

“Comrade, if you don’t mind, why don’t we all go together? If things work out, well, we’ll settle everything as it should be. What do you say?” As he spoke, the leader wore an ambiguous look as if to say, “You know what I mean.” It felt less like an invitation and more like a veiled bribe. He even sent over a team invitation.

The team panel only showed name, class, and level. Looking at the three men’s info, Zhang He nearly fell to his knees.

The male subordinate: “Director of the Finance Bureau, Level 54, No Class Change.”

So, the honorable director was actually a level 54 vanilla player—what perseverance and determination! In "Dynasty," seeing a player in their thirties still without a class change wasn’t unusual, but someone in their fifties or sixties? Now that was remarkable. Judging by the trend, if the director reached level sixty and was still vanilla, it wouldn’t be out of the question.

The female subordinate’s name was even grander: Deputy Chairwoman of the Union.

A level 46 vanilla player—no wonder Zhang He had subdued her so easily.

Vanilla versus first-class: dialectically, a vanilla player could theoretically defeat a first-class, but realistically, unless the latter made a serious mistake, the chances of an upset were virtually nil.

When Zhang He saw the leader’s name, he gave up entirely.

Leader: “Secretary of the Disciplinary Committee, Level 61, No Class Change.”

Impressive—the secretary, the chairwoman, and the director, all gathered together.

“L-leaders!” This time, it was Zhang He’s turn to stammer. “Are all three of you... Enlightened Apes?”

The finance director chuckled. “Heh, no, we’re part of a public institution.”

Zhang He felt like spitting blood. The finance bureau was a government agency, not a public institution—at least, he knew that much.

Fortunately, the deputy chairwoman explained, “Actually, not really—we’re on leave without pay, out here hunting for treasure.”

The secretary coughed twice. “Ahem. If we find that treasure, our staffing status will be sorted out.”

Zhang He thought to himself, Your staffing issue is probably a class-change problem. Are you searching for a mystical class-change elixir?

Zhang He’s line of reasoning was correct, for the deputy chairwoman looked at him with envy. “Comrade Wu, you’re lucky. You already have a level-one administrative post. Unlike us—we’re still auxiliary staff, reserve cadres, and enthusiastic participants. Oh, and you have to add parentheses in the middle: our revolutionary road is still long and arduous.”

Zhang He fell silent, realizing that if the conversation continued, his head would spin. He couldn’t use “Dynasty” logic to figure them out; he’d have to rely on the structure of the modern state system to understand their thinking.

The four of them traveled unimpeded, arriving at Blue Ripple Pool by evening.

Blue Ripple Pool was cradled atop a ring of mountain peaks, nestled amid towering ridges. The water was a crystalline jade, the lake vast as the sea. At sunset, the peaks reflected on the surface, the ripples glittering, the scene elegant and poetic—a dazzling gem set atop the summit of Golden Buddha Mountain.

Yet the lake was not empty. Eight massive stone pillars rose from the depths to stand above the surface. The tops of each pillar were broad enough not for a soccer match, perhaps, but certainly wide enough for a game of basketball.

The eight great pillars formed a circle in the lake’s center, each separated by at least fifty meters. The shore was several hundred meters from the heart of the lake.

Atop the southern and northern pillars stood two players—one standing, one seated—as if echoing one another across the water, yet poised in confrontation.

Zhang He was certain these two were players, for both were red from head to toe, so red they bordered on purple-black, clearly notorious murderers of the highest order.

The finance director’s first words left everyone dizzy: “Boss, should we call the police? There are criminals here!”

The deputy chairwoman interjected, “What use is calling the police? The authorities won’t get here any time soon, and even if they do, they might get taken out by the criminals!”

Zhang He felt his head spin.

At that moment, the player seated cross-legged atop the northern pillar suddenly opened his eyes. Though his clothes were ragged and his hair wild, his voice rang out across the lake, robust and resonant, a testament to his profound internal strength: “Since we parted ways in Qu Di, Brother Yan, have you been well?”

When he mentioned Qu Di, Zhang He was momentarily startled. Qu Di, near Qiongzhou’s jurisdiction, was the southernmost coastal region of the Central Plains. Given how infamous these two appeared, could they have fled here to this remote inland wilderness?

The southerner, known as Brother Yan, was quite the opposite: though a red-namer, he was dressed in snow-white, his bearing calm and composed. Standing atop his pillar, he cut a heroic figure—wind stirring his robes, a veritable gentleman of peerless poise.

“Thank you for your concern, Brother Bai. Though I’ve faced many foes along the way, none have troubled me,” he replied, his voice high and sharp like a woman’s, yet carrying unmistakable pride.

The four observers surmised the two not only knew each other, but judging by their words, were old friends—most likely both hiding out here to escape their enemies.

They were mistaken. For in the next instant, Brother Bai’s tone turned sharp: “Since you’ve made it here unscathed, Brother Yan, I can now act without hesitation.”

Brother Yan replied haughtily, “To cross blades with you is a wish long held. Please, do your worst!”

Though he spoke the word “please,” he was the first to act. With a flourish, a colossal sword appeared in his hand.

At the sight of his sword, Zhang He and his companions could not look away.

The sword was immense—seven feet long, as wide as a bench, its tip as thick as an arrowhead, its blade tapering like a willow leaf.

But its shape was not its most striking feature—it was its color.

The sword was pure crystal blue, like a pillar of light, and as it gleamed, even the verdant waters nearby seemed to reflect its azure brilliance.

“A true divine weapon! Surely it emits sword energy!” Zhang He could not help but exclaim.

Brother Yan, clutching his mystical blade, was the first to move. Leaping from his pillar, he tapped his boot upon the water’s surface, gliding far ahead. Another tap sent him soaring another dozen meters.

In flight, his sword danced through several stances, each transformation leaving a spectral afterimage suspended in the air. The sky was soon filled with blue sword shadows, dazzling to the eye.

This was indeed a divine weapon. Regardless of Brother Yan’s skill, the succession of sword images made it impossible for the eye to follow, let alone to counter.

Though he held the advantage in weaponry, at that moment, Brother Bai also leaped from his pillar. Using the famed “Running on Water” lightness technique, he skimmed across the lake—astonishingly, with bare hands, meeting the divine sword with nothing but his own flesh.

Halfway across, Brother Bai let out a clear cry, launching a wave of formless yet palpable force from his palms. Zhang He saw it clearly: the wind from his palms, like a rolling balloon, sent ripples across the tranquil lake. The strength of his internal power was formidable—Zhang He had never before witnessed such martial prowess.

Brother Yan was unflustered. Spinning horizontally with sword in hand, his icy blade immediately shredded the incoming force into countless filaments that struck the water’s surface like a torrential downpour, causing the lake to roil with waves.

The deputy chairwoman looked dumbfounded, mumbling, “His... His swordplay is fiercer than a machine gun!”

The finance director echoed, “Incredible!”

The secretary said coolly, “It’s nothing special.”

Zhang He asked curiously, “Oh?”

The secretary replied, “They’re fast, sure. But from a physics standpoint, when wind blows across water, of course you get waves. What’s so remarkable about that?”

Once again, Zhang He was left speechless. The interplay of internal energy and razor-sharp swordsmanship, producing invisible sword qi, was an extraordinary feat—yet the secretary reduced it to mere wind on water. Words failed him.

As the four conversed, the two masters in the lake’s center had already crossed paths. Brother Bai’s palm force was neutralized, but he pressed on with an incomprehensible attack—taking a sword blow head-on, he struck Brother Yan’s waist with a palm, a critical hit that registered “-516” in yellow.

Such devastating force—Zhang He and his companions could imagine that a blow like that to themselves would flatten them like a pancake.

Brother Yan, for his part, slashed Brother Bai’s lower abdomen in return, the yellow damage even greater: “-632!”

Both wounded, both staggered, seeming about to fall into the water—yet with a tap of their feet, they floated lightly backward, each returning to the other’s former pillar, simply trading places. In the lake’s center, only a faint crimson trail spread through the green water.

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