Contract and Covenant

The accountant came, and the accountant left. Two days later, he returned, bearing a new contract. After a brief round of negotiations, neither side raised any objections to the terms, and both felt they had made a killing. Once Ji Jue signed his name, the accountant drew a blade from his robes, blew a breath onto the hilt, and slammed it down onto the paper. It left behind an imprint of a mottled, ferocious mask crossed by swords. In the name of the Knights of Homecoming, a covenant was forged with Ji Jue, witnessed by the Sacrificial Lord and the Swarm above. It did not carry the binding compulsion of Tianyuan, but the consequences of breaking it were just as dire. A covenant rooted in inherited burnt offerings meant that should the Knights of Homecoming breach their word, they would immediately face the punishment of the Sacrificial Lord and the cold abhorrence of the Swarm. And if Ji Jue were the one to break it, well, that hardly mattered… It merely meant they would be irreconcilable blood enemies forever after. Unless every last soul in the Knights of Homecoming was wiped out, the blood feud would never end. With his signature affixed, Ji Jue went from an ordinary client to an esteemed Friend of the Red States and a strategic partner of the Knights of Homecoming. Put simply, he was now a top-tier benefactor on par with the Lou clan—a VIP user of on-demand beatings. In the future, whatever job he needed, he would receive a twenty-percent discount. The Homecoming Knights would come at his beck and call, guaranteed to do prime work without clingy strings attached! That said, convenient as it was, something felt distinctly off… Heavy. Far too heavy! Throwing around terms like "lifetime" and "together forever" at every turn, insisting on being lifelong partners… it was outright terrifying. Do you Swarm folk ever think of anyone other than yourselves?! Ah, right, you just want to keep mooching off me for free… Ji Jue didn't care about the petty scraps, though. None of the goods were expensive anyway—just ordinary creations, mostly experimental models meant for mass production. He treated it like hiring test subjects for his work. Before departing, the accountant went out of his way to leave an iron chest for Slan. [Death-Fungus Seed] Grayish-black mold nurtured and harvested across countless battlefields of the Mid-Continent. Sprouting in blood, growing amid death, decaying in rot—after repeating the cycle for untold generations, the mold patches had grown into tufts of moss-like fluff. If utilized in corruption alchemy, it might yield unexpectedly wondrous results. Watching it made Ji Jue turn green with envy. Regrettably, this was a treasured offering beloved by the Sacrificial Lord Colony—a strategic supply kept at the bottom of the Knights' vault, something they would never part with. To a Homecoming Knight, even a tiny pinch was equivalent to a second life and a decisive victory. For them to bring out this much meant they were genuinely putting up immense capital. Before the accountant left, he gripped Ji Jue's hands, sighing deeply and spouting platitudes about how as long as green hills remain, there will always be wood to burn. He urged Ji Jue never to do anything rash if an accident happened. "Come to the Mid-Continent! We'll open a factory just to keep you fed!" The clicks of his abacus were practically smacking Ji Jue in the face… It wasn't just the Swarm unit already here. Over the latter half of the week, three more squads trickled in—some forty men in total. All of them were Homecoming Knights who had been picking up side gigs around the Federation and the Seven Cities Alliance in the surrounding waters. Upon receiving word, they had ridden hard through the night to back Factory Director Ji's play. Money was beside the point. Ji Jue's delivery quota of heavy exoskeletons was calculated per head: one extra person meant one extra suit, and one extra squad earned an entire extra set of spare components. Soon after, personnel from the Wild Gathering arrived in waves, settling down around Old Diaomao Town… Among them, the only one peering around and casting resentful glances toward Ji Jue was Old Tom, the notoriously ill-reviewed thug from the on-demand muscle circuit. *We're so close already, so why didn't you call me first when there was good business?* *We're all part of the Swarm! I can do it too! I'll even give you a discount!* Too bad Ji Jue wouldn't even discuss money with him, brushing off his pitches for private security and bodyguard services entirely. What a joke. Did you really want to help me? You just lusted after my gold coins, you shameless wretch! Once he confirmed that gold coins of the Eternal Dynasty were Old Tom's bound offering, Ji Jue stopped being so generous. String him along first! He let Tom scurry about, waiting on him hand and foot to earn brownie points. Meanwhile, Ji Jue acted like a pure, delicate lotus flower who accepted gifts without returning the slightest favor—feigning reluctance, full of tender, unspoken affection. *You must believe in the bond between us. In my heart, you're naturally different from the rest.* *This is just a tiny test; you won't let me down, will you?* With just a little prodding, Old Tom was already pushing the grindstone so hard that sparks flew. The Swarm truly was remarkably useful… During this time, Ji Jue also took the opportunity to upgrade the security team's gear. He rushed out production on the knockoff armor and weaponry he had developed earlier, conducting small-scale outfitting and drills. They were top hitters from the Veterans Club, after all. Anyone who could crawl out of the Mid-Continent's quagmire in one piece to seek new employment in Quancheng was the cream of the frontline trench-fodder crop. There was zero need to worry about their discipline or capability. Double the wages, max out the bonuses and allowances, and the job took care of itself. Days rolled by. Amid the intense preparations, the entirety of Xinquan underwent another transformation. Defensive lines and patrol routes were erected in accordance with Mid-Continent garrison standards. Weapons ready, steeds fed, everyone waited in full battle readiness for war to erupt. And then… there was only "then." With the full arrival of the rainy season and the steadily increasing deluge, the entire Haizhou territory gradually turned into a waterlogged marshland. Communications and travel between cities and the outside world were all but severed, leaving only airship traffic and a handful of stable roadways. The wilderness slowly rotted in the rain, mist, and humid air. Day by day, the foul stench carried on the sea breeze grew heavier, and mold crept across corners without needing to spread. Yet from start to finish, not a single soul came. In the end, after waiting day after day, everyone was bored out of their skulls. God knew how long ago they had heard that the coalition between the Blood Cleansing Fleet and various pirate flotillas had set sail. Yet even now, not a single mast had been spotted. It was as if their ships had sunk and drowned the moment they left port. It was utterly bizarre. Grim news periodically drifted in from the wild. Small bands of water ghosts had bypassed Xinquan through various routes, slipping past the coast and driving inland to plunder incessantly. After all, with such a vast coastline, even if the main gate was barred, there were plenty of back alleys. Beneath the raging storms, the dirt-poor water ghost pirates came ashore. Wherever they passed, they left total ruin, until not even wails remained. Chaos reigned outside, yet Xinquan was peaceful and serene, so quiet that people grew restless. Everyone began to suspect that the so-called general had chickened out—that this was all bark and no bite, that he had lost his nerve and wheeled around toward other targets. Yet fearing it was a feint designed to lull them into a false sense of security, they had no choice but to remain on guard. Ji Jue didn't care either way. If they didn't come, they didn't come. Once the rainy season ended, slipping past the shoals and reefs to make landfall wouldn't be nearly as simple. He was in no hurry; the money he spent could just be written off as buying entertainment. Even if they genuinely didn't show, couldn't he just take his men on a trip to Floozy Town once the rainy season ended? Tit for tat, it was all the same. A banquet was a banquet, no matter where the feast was laid. Made no difference at all. And so, amid the pouring rain, the days slipped by… *** As the days passed, life grew increasingly agonizing for certain people. Particularly for General Pacquiao of the Blood Cleansing Fleet, who had mobilized his entire main force and coerced a large cohort of flotilla water ghosts along for the ride… The title of "General" was self-proclaimed, devoid of official recognition. But now, as clamor and discontent among the pirate water ghosts mounted day by day, he finally felt the weight of being a general. Those motley water ghosts were hardly submissive citizens; managing them was absurdly difficult. Their philosophy was simple: gathered together, they were a pile of shit; scattered apart, a stench that filled the sky. Talk of organization and discipline belonged strictly in fairy tales; drawing blades and hacking one another to death over a single disagreement was the norm. Controlling such a pack of monsters required the carrot and the stick. Only the lure of distant riches combined with the threat of his own iron fist could barely keep them in line. Now, the stick alone was failing to keep the lid on. Yet the carrot remained far beyond the horizon… The rainy season was brief, fleeting in the blink of an eye, and the window to strike it rich was the same. Everyone had followed him out to sea and revered him as leader just so their big boss could guide them to some dirty money, hadn't they? Yet after leaving port for so long, they had drifted in the mist for nearly half a month. Forget money—they were practically running out of food. Discontent and grumbling surged through the middle and lower ranks, while the upper echelon repeatedly used the crew's unrest to pressure Pacquiao, demanding he step up, play the role of the big boss, and lead them to bigger, better glories! Regrettably, Pacquiao didn't budge an inch. He acted like a corpse. Relying on his past prestige, throwing money around, and mixing threats with promises, the Blood Cleansing Fleet had united numerous flotillas. It showed every sign of dominating the northwestern reaches of the Endless Sea. If this raid succeeded and led them to riches, establishing absolute supremacy over the Panic Ocean as the foremost maritime titan would be well within grasp. When that time came, wouldn't the damned Seven Cities have to dance to his tune? With a bit more effort, siring a few more cheap sons and grooming them, reaching for a seat among the "Three Scales and Six Horns" within his lifetime wasn't out of the question! The premise, however, was surviving the hurdle before him. Fucking Ji Jue! Ji Jue! Always fucking Ji Jue! Before armies march, provisions lead the way; and before provisions were even prepared, intelligence gathering had already begun. Especially after Ji Jue completely shed all pretense and stomped Pacquiao's son to death, leaving no room for reconciliation, Pacquiao had spared no expense to purchase intel on Ji Jue from every channel, awaiting the latest update. Then, upon flipping open the first page, Pacquiao's vision swam. The feeling was like Xu Chaoxian opening the door for Lu Changsheng—wickedness had truly come home! The credibility of intelligence was sometimes more fantastical than the Federation's stock market… Half truths and full lies, nine true and one false, nine shallow and one deep—it was a chaotic mess of mixed signals! With a behemoth like the Tong family quietly stirring the pot behind the scenes, rumors and truths blended together until the report became utterly confounding and impossible to stomach. Some claimed the bastard named Ji had been an apprentice since fourteen, apprenticed to an artisan whose workshop was merely entry-level and completely obscure, and that he had gotten where he was purely by whoring himself out… Others said he was a candidate of the Celestial Conscription, born as prime timber of Embers, a jade of the highest virtue, who had carved out a massive enterprise from nothing in a single year, stood at the pinnacle of Embers artisans, had a Golden Ribbon virtually reserved for him, and had achieved complete Metamorphosis. Some claimed he was a black-glove hitman secretly cultivated by the Tong family—loyal, reliable, ruthless, and deadly. Others claimed he was Chen Xingzhou's secretly groomed successor, that he had personally orchestrated Chen Xingzhou's rise to power, and that he had even sat in Lei Wuye's mourning hall and hounded Lei Wuye's last heir to death! Still others said he was gloomy, scheming, and deceitful, closely tied to the Lou family, and that to become the Lou family's son-in-law, he had recklessly infiltrated Kanemoto's workshop to rescue the imprisoned Lou Yanyue. As for his teacher, some said he was a nobody whom no one had ever heard of. Yet other artisans… the moment they saw Ye Xian's photograph, they didn't even say goodbye; they literally picked up their boats and fled overnight! When the people at the Phantasm Realm Workshop caught wind of this, they deadbolted their doors and refused to answer no matter how hard anyone knocked. Just imagining how deep those waters ran made one's scalp tingle. There were too many truths and falsehoods tangled together, but one fact was beyond dispute… He undoubtedly deserved the lion's share of credit for Haichao Armaments' rise. Not only had he resurrected the empty shell of Haian Auto Plant, but he had also slaughtered four racing teams across the Desert Sea Rally and personally overseen the bloody purge of every participant after the race! Everyone who crossed him, everyone who tried to cause him trouble—from top to bottom, every single one of them was wiped out. Not a single soul escaped! To climb to his current tier in a circuit like the Federation, where peace reigned on the surface while people tore each other apart in the shadows, his backing had to be immense, to say nothing of his capability and methods. It was said that even Haizhou's current Warden, Lyu Yingyue, had to take his thoughts and opinions into account! …Who in the hell was this guy?! Pacquiao had already heard rumors that Ji Jue was tough to deal with, but after digging deeper, he found the man was infinitely more terrifying than advertised. Halfway through the file, Pacquiao wanted to die. He scratched his ears and clawed his cheeks, raking his mind until he peeled layer after layer from his already bald scalp—he just couldn't understand! If Ji Jue were standing before him right now, he would grab the dog by the throat and demand: *Brother, what the hell are you after?!* *Why go this far?!* *You rule the roost in Xinquan, you look down on us water ghosts, you think we're filthy… then say so earlier!* *You should have just said so earlier!* *If you had picked up the phone, chewed me out, and made my blood pressure spike so I lost my temper two or three times, things wouldn't have escalated to this point!* *I could have just taken a different route!* There were countless ways to resolve this affair, every one of them far more convenient, simpler, and easier than colliding head-on like this. Yet now, the only path left was fight to the death. Pacquiao truly had no other choice. After wheeling and dealing for so many years, everyone focused on political maneuvering. Then, before he knew it, he ran face-first into a man-eating tree! He had lost his son, lost his face, and lost his leverage. In the end, he was backed into a corner with no way out! The thought of being driven to such an extreme and perilous situation by some punk who sprang out of nowhere filled him with uncontrollable fury. Yet the moment he realized he had been pushed this far without a single alternative, he felt an instinctive, bone-chilling dread! Begging for peace was useless now, and stalling was nothing more than a slow death. To preserve his standing, to strike back, this was the only path forward. The only path he could take was the one his opponent had arranged for him! It was as if invisible hands held his marionette strings, assigning him a role as he walked onto the stage step by step against his will. Entirely within his opponent's palm… *Why is he doing this? What does he want? What is his endgame…* No matter how he racked his brain, he couldn't comprehend it. The more he thought, the more his skin crawled with uncontrollable dread. In the dead silence, he let out a soundless sigh. Outside the cabin, the faint grumbling and clamor of sailors from other flotillas drifted in. The voices spread like a tide, entangling, washing over him in relentless restlessness. "What is he waiting for?" A mocking voice sounded from the empty air within the captain's quarters. "And what are you still waiting for, 'Lord General'?" Pacquiao remained silent, offering no reply. Only a regretful chuckle resonated. "You ran out of choices long ago, didn't you." Pacquiao lowered his eyes without expression, staring at the ornate goblet that had abruptly materialized on the desk, and at the wine of swearing within. After a long pause, he reached out and took it. Tilting his head back, he drained it in one gulp. "Then it's a deal!" he said to the presence on the other side of the cup. "Of course." As the goblet dissolved into streaming light, sinking into his chest and wrapping around his heart, a guarantee from the other end echoed within his soul: "Between you and us, the covenant is sealed." *** Half an hour later, a shrill, piercing horn blast suddenly rose from Pacquiao's flagship. Its solemn blare echoed endlessly through the dense sea fog and pouring rain. Within ten minutes, every ship captain and pirate chieftain gathered in the battleship's council chamber, staring dumbstruck at Pacquiao as he shoved the doors open. Wreathed in crimson blood-flames, his hunched frame stood straight. Iron-gray muscle resurfaced over his skeleton, shedding all traces of senility. Like a giant striding among dwarves, he took the foremost seat with absolute arrogance. He looked down, glaring with disdain! "Order all hands to weigh anchor immediately." Wiping the scimitar he had just stained red in an execution, Pacquiao issued a chilling command: "From this moment on, complete radio silence. Sever all outgoing communications." "—In three days, we burn Xinquan to the ground!"