**Chapter One**
A thick stack of files—one hundred and seven in total—lay on the expansive mahogany desk.
Zhao Linyuan had led this assassin organization for eight years.
Eight years may be but a fleeting moment in the journey of life, yet every single day of those eight years was unforgettable to Zhao Linyuan.
They were eight years drenched in blood and slaughter.
Zhao Linyuan was now forty-eight, but the harsh passage of time had left little trace on him.
His posture remained as straight as a spear, his body devoid of any excess fat.
He could still defeat the strongest opponents, tame the wildest horses, and satisfy the most demanding women.
Sunlight streamed through the window, casting its glow on his statue-like face and on the topmost file on the mahogany desk.
**Name:** Leng Mochen
**Age:** Twenty-five
**Weapon:** Sword—three feet seven inches long, six-tenths of an inch wide.
**Record:** Drew sword twenty-one times, succeeded twenty-one times.
...
This was a rather sparse file. As Zhao Linyuan read it, he closed his eyes slightly, as if Leng Mochen's image had already appeared before him.
Zhao Linyuan's memory had always been sharp, a skill honed during his early years as a constable.
He could remember every face, even those he had seen only once.
In his recollection, Leng Mochen was a very lonely, very sorrowful man.
His face never bore a smile. Every time he returned from a mission, he would shut himself in his room.
No one knew what he did inside.
Other assassins would go out drinking, gambling, or seeking women after completing their tasks.
But Leng Mochen was an exception. Every time Zhao Linyuan saw him, he was in front of his small hut, polishing his slender, elongated sword.
It seemed he was always waiting to kill.
In recent years, there had been fewer and fewer targets worthy of Leng Mochen's blade.
Zhao Linyuan remembered Leng Mochen's last mission—the assassination of Qian Bancheng, the great magnate of the capital.
Qian Bancheng was not his real name. He was called "Half the City" because half of the vast capital was under his control.
The capital had always been the emperor's domain. For one man to command half of it under the emperor's very nose was no easy feat.
Since ancient times, Chang'an had been home to countless heroes. To hold sway over half the city was not something that could be achieved by martial prowess alone.
Qian Bancheng had always lived a reclusive life. His enemies were far too numerous—when a man amassed such power, he was bound to make many foes.
Thus, Qian Bancheng was exceedingly cautious. He spent vast sums to hire numerous experts to guard his estate.
Anyone who wished to enter his chambers had to pass through sixteen checkpoints.
Despite these near-perfect arrangements, Qian Bancheng remained uneasy. Thus, he was always accompanied by four bodyguards.
Few knew the true extent of these bodyguards' martial skills. The only thing people knew was that one of them had killed Xuan Gangzi of Wudang, a swordsman renowned in the martial world for his speed.
Under such stringent protection, assassinating Qian Bancheng seemed an impossible task.
Moreover, Qian Bancheng's own martial prowess could not be described merely as "first-rate." Even Zhao Linyuan had frowned slightly when he received the request for Qian Bancheng's assassination.
In the end, he decided to assign the mission to Leng Mochen.
Upon receiving the task, Leng Mochen said not a word. Without a moment's delay, he took his sword and headed for the capital.
Three months later, news of Qian Bancheng's death spread throughout the martial world.
No one knew how Leng Mochen had assassinated Qian Bancheng. No one even knew that Leng Mochen was the one who had killed him.
When Leng Mochen returned, Zhao Linyuan asked him no questions. He only noticed that Leng Mochen looked much more haggard.
He had never been one to pry into his subordinates' methods.
Nearly half a year had passed since Qian Bancheng's death, and people's interest in the matter had gradually waned. The martial world was always bustling with events—each day brought something more thrilling, more intriguing than Qian Bancheng's demise.
People no longer cared to know who had killed Qian Bancheng, and the assassin himself was slowly forgotten.
But Zhao Linyuan had not forgotten.
He rose from his wide, comfortable chair and gently tugged on a cord tied to the edge of the desk.
This cord was part of an ingenious mechanism. The moment Zhao Linyuan pulled it, someone would immediately enter the room.
And that someone would always be Xiao Li.