Inside White Moon Tower!

Shouts of alarm and panic broke out intermittently.

Expanding blades flashed, blanching the faces of hall spectators.

Good thing guards packed the place, steadying their nerves.

Xia Chen’s eyes narrowed—things dragged too long. He’d aimed for a blitz, catching the Inspectorate spies off-guard.

Now they were stalled.

“Everyone, charge—bring him down quick!” With that, Xia Chen whipped out the crimson blade from his back, his qi and blood erupting, a searing aura flaring from the weapon.

His presence surged—pure yang, raw dominance.

He slashed at a paper figure; flames roared up, consuming it instantly.

A construct that could fend off two or three guards—gone in a blink.

Xia Chen led the charge, a tiger among sheep, felling paper foes with each swing. Xia Qian rallied the guards behind, storming in.

While carving through, Xia Chen’s focus stayed on the opera performer.

Qingya’s files pegged him as a mid-to-high Inspectorate operative in the capital, orchestrating many of their moves here.

This defense map heist? Heavily tied to him.

The opera performer’s face tightened. Even now, he kept cool, scanning for an out.

“Break through!”

He barked, more paper figures spilling from his sleeves. Sustaining them drained him—his face paled starkly.

“You go—I’ll hold them!”

The martial heroine who’d struck first brandished a broadsword, shielding him. Xia Chen closed in.

She roared, her blade arcing like a mountain’s weight, aiming to cleave him in two.

As if foretold, Xia Chen slashed as her weapon rose.

A crimson sun blazed from his blade, bathing the room in light.

When eyes reopened, the heroine’s torso bore a red seam. In horrified stares, it split—blood soaking the stage.

A grisly sight.

From the second- and third-floor boxes, sheltered ladies and noblewomen paled. That handsome youth’s gaze shifted from allure to dread.

A living soul, bisected before them—foe or not, any sane mind would quail.

Blood flecked Xia Chen’s face, casting him as a hellish Shura.

No pause—he charged the opera performer.

“You’re Xia Chen, the Zhendong washout. Seems we all got it wrong—blinded! One stroke fells an Eighth-Rank peak warrior—you’ve concealed your depths well!”

The opera performer retreated, glaring coldly. Their files on Xia Chen were bunk—a seventeen-year-old Seventh-Rank warrior, a genius even in Zhendong.

Xia Chen ignored the chatter, eyes fixed on the leader, intent on his capture.

He bulldozed through guards shielding the opera performer.

Igniting the Red Sun Body-Forging Technique, qi and blood surged, cloaking him like armor.

Lightning-fast, his double pupils flared—time crawled in his vision, foes lagging.

The opera performer lunged for a window, feet kicking off—then a demonic shadow loomed behind.

A hand shot out, air thinning. Pain seared his nape—Xia Chen hoisted him like a chick.

A sorcerer, rich with tricks, but caught close by a warrior? Perilous.

Especially against Xia Chen.

With him nabbed, White Moon Tower steadied fast. Attacking opera performers fell to crossbows—others were nabbed alive.

Complex, yet swift—under ten minutes, target down.

“Haul everyone back to the office. Until I’m back, no one—however big—takes them!”

Xia Chen ordered Xia Qian, tasking him with thirty guards to escort.

“Boss, I’ll go with Brother Xia Qian—White Moon Tower’s packed, I’ll help secure the haul!”

Li Xi, tagging along, piped up to ease Xia Qian’s load.

Xia Chen glanced, nodding.

In White Moon Tower!

Guards mopping up jabbed Blood-Sealing Needles into crouching, cowering Inspectorate spies—Celestial Master’s Mansion one-use tools.

For warriors, a crippler—once in, qi and blood locked tight.

Xia Chen eyed his captive opera performer, who glowered back, as if to devour him alive.

“Targeting me so dead-on—you’ve got our intel. Snatching merit from the Lamplighters—hiding this deep all these years, your ambition’s hefty!”

The opera performer spat, glaring. He’d braced for Lamplighters, not a guard takedown—least of all by this overlooked Xia Chen.

Xia Chen skipped words, smashing the opera performer’s skull with a brutal hammer-strike—crude, direct, effective—knocking him out.

He hefted the limp figure, not handing him to Xia Qian or Li Xi for escort.

He’d guard this one himself.

“Grab a few men and follow me to the next target!”

Xia Chen led dozens off, racing from White Moon Tower—speed was king, his blitz meant to blindside the Inspectorate.

“Where’s Boss off to now—more spies?”

Li Xi nudged Xia Qian, curiosity piqued.

“No clue!”

Xia Qian shook his head, curt, turning to White Moon Tower’s aftermath.

The theater’s audience exhaled—spies nabbed, whispers stirred.

“Royal City Division or Inspectorate? Who’d guess White Moon Tower was their den!”

A voice trembled with hindsight.