I am here to discuss a partnership.

Half an hour before the fireworks festival began.

Disciples of the Confucian Sect, dressed in coarse linen robes, were hauling buckets of fireworks up to a hastily constructed platform, carefully calibrating the launchers’ settings.

At that moment, a tall, long-haired man clad in black nightwear and a bronze skull mask slowly approached them, a plain double-edged sword hanging at his waist.

The fireworks festival held great significance for the Confucian Sect. To prevent sabotage from rival factions, a number of elite disciples stood guard beside the platform.

One of them spotted the black-clad man and immediately barked a warning:

“This is Confucian territory. Leave at once!”

The man in black, however, acted as if he hadn’t heard a word, continuing his approach.

Sensing the intruder’s ill intent, the elite disciple promptly withdrew a “Haoran Scroll” from his sleeve.

The Haoran Scroll resembled a bamboo slip, except each “slat” was crafted from chips and circuit boards. The more formidable the disciple, the longer the scroll—proof of mastery over a greater number of magical codes.

Just as the disciple prepared to chant an incantation, the black-clad man’s figure vanished, leaving behind only a flickering afterimage.

“Where did he go?” the disciple muttered, scratching his neck in confusion.

Suddenly, a chill crept down his spine—a thin line of blood appeared across his throat. In the next instant, his world spun wildly; from a supine angle, he found himself staring up at his own headless body.

His vision whirled as his severed head tumbled, eyes still able to see the decapitated form below.

Unbeknownst to him, the black-clad man had slipped behind, beheading him in a single stroke.

The other guards, sensing something amiss, rushed over—only to discover their comrade slain.

“You... you’re... the Midnight Headsman?” one disciple gasped, nearly choking on the words.

Though no one had ever seen the Midnight Headsman’s true face, his penchant for targeting sect members over civilians, his mastery of the double-edged sword, and his unerring, lethal strikes were infamous.

The Headsman made no reply—he merely flicked his bloodstained blade and lunged at the rest of the Confucian disciples.

One disciple, seeing this, hastily drew his Haoran Scroll and chanted:

“My body is as indestructible as diamond—flesh impervious to blade or bullet!”

The scroll in his hand vibrated and pulsed, triggered by the spoken keywords. As it flashed, his muscles tensed and his skin took on a faint metallic sheen, as if he’d been injected with a potent stimulant.

Clang!

The sword struck his chest, first producing a shrill metallic screech—then the dreadful sound of flesh being torn apart.

Even with the hardening spell, the disciple’s body could not withstand the assassin’s blow; he was cleaved cleanly in two by the immense force, his halves toppling to either side.

The Midnight Headsman kicked the remaining half of the corpse aside and pressed on toward the others.

Realizing the peril, the disciples scrambled to draw their own Haoran Scrolls, desperate to cast their spells.

But before they could even finish their incantations, the Headsman descended on them with supernatural speed, slicing every last one in half.

Within moments, the air was filled with the sounds of rending flesh and pitiful screams. In the blink of an eye, the ground was littered with mangled corpses.

This speed and power were far beyond human limits—likely even surpassing the battle-modified semi-cybernetic soldiers used by the military.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Not far off, a surviving Confucian disciple whipped out an automatic rifle and unleashed a hail of bullets at the Midnight Headsman.

Unlike the cheap models found on the black market, this weapon was a product of the sect’s own advanced technology—its rate of fire greatly enhanced, each bullet a spreading round with the force of a grenade.

Yet, as the barrage tore toward him, the Headsman made no move to dodge, not even bothering to raise his sword in defense.

He simply advanced step by step toward the disciple, who kept firing desperately.

Bullets struck him, blooming into bloody bursts across his body, tearing through flesh and revealing glimpses of bone beneath.

Seeing his attack land, the disciple emptied an entire magazine. But as he reached for another clip, something strange occurred.

The exposed flesh began to writhe like worms, a faint black mist seeping from the wounds. The Midnight Headsman’s body, riddled with holes, began to heal at a rate visible to the naked eye.

By the time the disciple had swapped magazines, most of the Headsman’s grievous wounds had sealed. Only the spent casings and pooling blood bore witness to the bullet storm he’d just endured.

“What the—are you fucking kidding me?” the disciple cursed, but before he could finish, the Headsman was already upon him, moving so fast he left an afterimage in his wake.

Crack!

One stroke—and the disciple’s head soared from his shoulders, leaving a headless body fumbling with a magazine.

The massacre ended as swiftly as it had begun. Against this terrifying assassin, the Confucian disciples’ advanced weaponry proved almost laughably ineffectual.

Then, the Headsman hacked the corpses into pieces and bound them with rope to the fireworks shells.

As the countdown for the launchers reached zero, the shredded remains of the disciples soared skyward along with the fireworks.

Ordinary serial killers would go to great lengths to conceal their crimes, hiding the bodies so they would never be found.

But the Midnight Headsman was different. In this case, as with all his previous attacks, he made no attempt at concealment. Instead, he displayed his victims’ bodies in the most conspicuous places imaginable.

Such brazen, ostentatious violence was as if he were flaunting his brutality to the world.

His work complete, the Midnight Headsman left the scene with calm detachment.

“How marvelous~”

Just as he was about to leave, a boy who looked no older than a high schooler casually kicked aside a severed head and strolled into the crime scene, smiling.

The boy carried an oddly shaped black rifle, wore plain black-rimmed glasses, and exuded a composure far beyond his years. Most striking of all, his face seemed shrouded in a faint mist; his features were impossible to discern.

“Who... are you?” the Midnight Headsman asked, jaw opening to emit a hoarse, chilling voice.

Chen Shang only grinned. “Why don’t you guess?”

The Headsman’s veins bulged in fury as he swung his sword at Chen Shang.

At that moment, time slowed around Chen Shang.

In the blink of an eye, the Headsman’s blade was already at his throat, triggering his “Danger Sense.”

He quickly aimed his light crossbow at a nearby tree, pressing ZL and ZR in rapid succession to activate “Iron Hook Flight.”

Time snapped back to normal.

A mechanical grappling hook, chained to the gun, shot out and latched onto the tree trunk. Just as the Headsman’s blade was about to strike Chen Shang’s chest, the hook’s chain retracted at lightning speed, yanking Chen Shang out of harm’s way.

With the combined help of his crossbow skill and Danger Sense, Chen Shang narrowly evaded the blow.

“Whew, that was close~” he breathed, recalling how near the sword had come to him.

Before he could savor his escape, the Headsman lunged at him again.

“Wait! I came to discuss a partnership!” Chen Shang shouted hastily.

The Headsman paused, sword still raised, and glared at him.

“A partnership?”

“That’s right. I can help you get your revenge—because I also want to see the Kunlun District brought to utter ruin.” Chen Shang smiled, his deep, magnetic voice echoing in the assassin’s ears:

“Interested in making a deal?”