Chapter 20: A Grave Crisis

These matters, Lin Fan certainly wouldn’t tell Xu Qiang—at least not now. He sensed that his parents’ deaths were far from simple. If Xu Qiang were to find out, given his personality, he would definitely investigate in secret on Lin Fan’s behalf. Should there be a powerful organization behind it all, Xu Qiang might end up in danger. Lin Fan had no intention of dragging his brother into peril because of his own troubles. Although he had faith in Xu Qiang’s abilities, there was always a chance that things could go wrong. To be safe, Lin Fan preferred that as few people as possible were aware of the truth.

After some banter and light conversation, Lin Fan got in his car and left. Before he went, he handed Xu Qiang a bank card. After all, in their line of work, money was indispensable, and Xu Qiang was at a point where he needed it. He didn’t refuse and accepted it right away.

Some might think Lin Fan gave Xu Qiang money because he was helping him expand his influence. If you think that, you couldn’t be more mistaken. If Lin Fan were that kind of person, how could he have become the captain of Falcon? How could he have risen to lead Dragon Soul? Why would Xu Qiang acknowledge him? Why, after four years, would Xu Qiang still consider him his captain?

In Lin Fan’s eyes, his relationship with Xu Qiang was never one of leader and follower, but of true brothers—brothers bound not by blood, but by kinship of heart.

It was past ten when Lin Fan returned home. The moment he stepped through the door, he was momentarily taken aback. Two people were seated in the living room; one of them was Tang Rui, the very woman who had seen him bathing that morning. The other was his sister, Lin Yan.

After changing clothes, Lin Fan plopped down beside Tang Rui, chomping on an apple and grinning. “Miss Tang, you’re truly impressive. So young and already the general manager of Dongxing Group. The future holds limitless possibilities for you.”

“Mr. Lin flatters me,” Tang Rui replied with just the right amount of modesty, then fell silent.

“I’m telling you now, Rui’er will be staying here for a few days. The second floor is our territory. You’re not allowed up there without our permission.” Lin Yan shot Lin Fan a fierce glare—a clear warning for him to stay put.

Lin Fan understood exactly what his sister was getting at. Last time it was Tang Rui who had “peeked” at him, but the way Lin Yan put it, it sounded as if he had taken advantage of Tang Rui. Never mind—he was a man, after all, and wasn’t about to suffer any loss. With a wicked glint in his eye, Lin Fan said, “Then you two shouldn’t come downstairs either. If I suddenly lose control and something happens, I won’t be responsible.” As he spoke, he cast a sidelong glance at Tang Rui, making it obvious that his words were aimed not at Lin Yan, but at her.

As a leader in her own right, Tang Rui knew exactly what he meant, but she said nothing. Her cheeks flushed faintly before she quickly regained her composure.

Lin Fan curled his lip, muttering inwardly, “How dull.” Clearly, Tang Rui was a refined young woman from a good family. She might lack a certain spark, but such women had their own virtues: they understood the bigger picture, were mature, loyal in love—qualities increasingly rare today.

Yawning, Lin Fan returned to his bedroom. Reflecting on his recent days at home, he realized he’d rarely gotten up early to train—a habit quite unlike him.

What was so special about the Violet Sword that, even after nine years, people were still searching for it? This only deepened Lin Fan’s curiosity. If those responsible for his parents’ deaths had failed to get their hands on the sword back then, where was it now? Lost in thought, Lin Fan drifted off to sleep.

...

In a grand estate on the outskirts of T City, an old man sat sipping tea, his face wreathed in smiles as he addressed another elder seated at the head of the table. “That girl Rui’er is staying at the home of Lin Yan, the president of Zhentian Group. I hear the two of them have been friends since college.”

“If she wants to stay out, let her. Just assign a few people to keep an eye on her—make sure nothing goes wrong. T City isn’t as peaceful as it appears on the surface,” the elder at the head replied, setting down his cup with a smile.

...

A little after five in the morning, Lin Fan stepped out of the villa in nothing but boxers and a tank top. Back when he was with Falcon, he wouldn’t have dared to dress like this, but now he was free from those constraints and did whatever felt comfortable.

He sprinted at an even, near full-speed pace around the villa for a full hour, drawing the attention of early-rising elderly couples who speculated that he must be an athlete. When he judged the time right, he moved to the rear garden and practiced the Yanqing Fist from start to finish.

The Yanqing Fist, also known as the Lost Track Fist, has a history stretching back over fourteen centuries. It is one of the Thirty-Six Meridian Lethal Arts, characterized by agile, nimble movements and versatility. The stances are solid, blending hardness and softness, cultivating both internal and external strength. The moves are sweeping and powerful, carrying the force of a mountain, with deadly intent hidden within. Each strike aims for the vital points, making it possible to defeat an opponent with a single move. To prevent the art from falling into the wrong hands, it was only ever taught to disciples of high moral character within the sect. As a result, fewer and fewer people know it today, and with the passage of time and the evolution of the nation, even the surviving manuals are incomplete.

Perhaps it was fate. During his time with Falcon, Lin Fan happened to become the disciple of an elderly master who possessed a rare manual of Wing Chun. The old man saw promise in Lin Fan’s physique and temperament, but most importantly, the eighteen-year-old Lin Fan had a knack for charming elders. So, during Lin Fan’s stint with Falcon, the master passed this boxing art on to him.

The Yanqing Fist is renowned for its practical combat effectiveness—its forms are simple and direct, focused on real fighting. Every move is either attack or defense; there’s no room for showy flourishes. By the end of his morning routine, Lin Fan’s vest was already soaked through and clung tightly to his body—he was drenched in sweat.

Seeing that the villa was still quiet and everyone was likely still asleep, Lin Fan took off his vest, bare-chested, and headed to the first-floor bathroom—only to find the faucet broken. Without a second thought, he jogged up to the second floor. Even though Lin Yan had repeatedly emphasized that the second floor was off-limits to him, reserved for her and Tang Rui, Lin Fan wasn’t about to heed such a restriction.

He reminded himself to lock the door while showering, lest he be “peeped” at again. Yawning, he didn’t hesitate before pushing open the bathroom door on the second floor.

“What a strong smell of body wash,” he muttered under his breath as the scent hit him. At that very instant, a sense of impendin