Seven days.
For the City of Chaos, seven days was enough for a minor faction to be wiped out, enough for an unknown expert to suddenly shake the heavens and then quickly fade into oblivion. The flames at the Myriad Treasures Pavilion had been extinguished, leaving only a pile of pitch-black ashes, an ugly scar in the heart of the open-air market. The earth-shattering melee of that night had become idle chatter over tea and wine, and the mysteriously vanished Demon General Medallion had become a new legend.
The three major factions, having bitten and torn at each other, had temporarily gone silent. The Crazy Sand Gang kept their doors tightly shut; rumor had it that Manh Tam was severely injured and remained in secluded meditation. The Phantom Shadow Pavilion was like a venomous snake, withdrawing deep into the shadows, their movements growing even more enigmatic. The Black Dragon Stronghold, being the prime suspects, faced provocations and probes from countless smaller factions, leaving them no time for anything else.
Outwardly, the City of Chaos had returned to its inherent chaotic peace.
But no one knew that beneath this peace, an invisible intelligence net was silently being cast, blanketing every alley, tavern, and gambling den of this city of sin.
The Blood Fiend Guards had completely changed.
They were no longer demonic fiends who only knew how to slaughter. Under Thiet Phu's direct command and the ironclad rules set by Faceless, the nearly one hundred fierce tigers had temporarily retracted their fangs and claws, learning how to conceal themselves, learning how to become the most patient of predatory serpents.
A Blood Fiend Guard, originally a butcher, now opened a pork stall in the eastern market. Every day he swung his cleaver, but his ears never missed a single story from passing housewives or mercenaries.
Another Blood Fiend Guard disguised himself as a crippled beggar, sitting all day at a street corner near the Crazy Sand Gang's headquarters, observing everyone coming and going, memorizing every face and habit.
As for Thiet Phu himself, he had used the remaining wealth of the Black Wind Stronghold to purchase a bankrupt little tavern. He refurbished it, turning it into a gathering spot for low-level rogue cultivators. He didn't sell fine wine, nor were there beautiful women, but the wine here was the cheapest, and most importantly, one could hear news here that could be found nowhere else.
They were employing the simplest yet most incredibly effective stratagems: blending into the populace and listening for the most trivial of details. For they understood that grand schemes were often built upon seemingly useless information.
Meanwhile, Tran Kien, or Faceless, remained in the safe house in the blacksmithing district. He did not show his face. For these seven days, he was also "sharpening his knife."
He no longer cultivated his Primordial Chaos Qi. His cultivation base was solid; he needed serendipity to break through and could not rush it. He was doing something else. He was forging.
In the safe house's abandoned forge, the fire had been lit once more. He brought out the Iron Eagle's eagle claws and the weapons seized from the bandits. He wasn't forging new weapons. He smashed them to pieces and re-tempered them into entirely different objects.
He forged throwing darts as thin as willow leaves, iron lockpicks for breaching doors, and small grappling hooks for scaling walls. He was crafting the tools of an assassin, one who operated in the shadows.
And he was also reforging his saber. He added a rare type of frigid iron he had found in the Black Eagle Fort's treasury. The dull black saber now possessed not only stability but also a sharp, freezing aura concealed deep within.
The night of the seventh day.
At the abandoned gladiator arena. Faceless still stood there in the darkness, like a statue.
Thiet Phu arrived alone to report. He no longer knelt. He merely bowed his head—a reverence stemming from the depths of his heart.
"Reporting to the Lord," he presented a parchment scroll. "All the intelligence we have gathered over the past seven days is in here."
Faceless accepted it but did not immediately open it. "Speak."
"The Crazy Sand Gang," Thiet Phu began. "Gang Boss Manh Tam is indeed severely injured, but not by the Blood Demoness; he was sneak-attacked by a palm strike from a Black Dragon Stronghold man. He is in secluded meditation healing his wounds and temporarily cannot show himself. Authority within the gang is being fought over by the three Vice Bosses; their internal affairs are incredibly chaotic. Their primary source of wealth comes from running protection for the gambling dens in the eastern district."
"The Phantom Shadow Pavilion," he continued, "their movements are exceedingly secretive. But we managed to locate one of their secret strongholds, a brothel named the 'Rouge Pavilion'. The Blood Demoness occasionally visits there. Additionally, the Phantom Shadow Pavilion seems to have a clandestine trade with an outside faction, though we have yet to investigate who it is."
"As for the Black Dragon Stronghold," Thiet Phu's voice grew slightly solemn. "They suffered the least losses, yet they are the most active. That skinny-faced leader from before, named Blood Shadow, is incredibly cunning. He has had people spread rumors that the Demon General Medallion actually fell into the hands of the Crazy Sand Gang, and that Manh Tam is merely feigning injury to buy time to refine it. He wants to borrow the knives of other factions to further weaken the Crazy Sand Gang."
An incredibly complex chessboard. Three factions, and none of them were fuel-efficient lamps.
Faceless listened in silence, not missing a single detail.
"Well done," he said after Thiet Phu finished his report. "The net has been cast. Now, it is time to choose which fish to catch first."
"Please issue your command, Lord!" Thiet Phu said, his eyes brimming with anticipation.
Faceless did not reply immediately. He looked at the parchment scroll in his hand.
"Thiet Phu," he suddenly asked an unrelated question. "Tell me, when is a pig at its fattest and easiest to slaughter?"
Thiet Phu froze, not understanding the Lord's meaning.
Faceless answered himself. "It is when it is entirely engrossed in gorging itself, completely devoid of any guard."
He pointed a finger toward the east on the map. "Manh Tam is injured, and the Crazy Sand Gang is in internal chaos. This is precisely when they are at their most negligent. And those gambling dens are their fattest troughs."
"Lord... you mean..."
Beneath the brim of his hat, the corners of Faceless's mouth curled into a frigid smile.
"Notify all Blood Fiend Guards. Three days from now, during the Hour of the Rat, when the gambling dens are at their most crowded."
"We," he said, his voice not loud, but carrying an undeniable tyrannical tone. "Are going to rob a casino!"