Chapter Sixty-Six: The Tragedy

“Don’t panic, sis, I’ll be there right away!” Song Yue didn’t waste a word, not even asking what had happened. Sister Zhu Jia was a valiant, capable woman; unless something catastrophic had occurred, she would never be like this.

Qian Qianxue and Wen Rou both stared at him in shock. Then, Qian Qianxue silently pulled a small bell from her pocket and quickly transmitted a mantra to Song Yue via spiritual communication.

“Shake the bell to attack the enemy, but it consumes a huge amount of spiritual power!” Qian Qianxue spoke rapidly and seriously, her star-bright eyes fixed on Song Yue. “Wen Rou and I won’t go and add to your troubles. Just remember to let us know when you get back.”

“Alright!” Song Yue accepted the little bell without hesitation, guessing it was given to Qian by her family after her previous accident. She didn’t mention its grade, just as she’d never told Song Yue the origin of the Phantom Mirage Steps manual.

Song Yue hurried home, launched his eighth-generation Divine Dragon vehicle into the sky, and sped toward the location Zhu Jia had sent him. In the ancient city of Hangzhou, flying cars were rarely seen; many people pointed and gawked, but before they could even start recording, the car had vanished into the vast night sky.

Zhu Jia felt utterly helpless. The scene before her left her on the verge of collapse, unable to believe any of it was real. The place was a shambles, tragically devastated, with fragments of magical artifacts scattered everywhere. Colleagues who had greeted her with laughter and banter that very morning now lay dead before her, their blood staining the earth, the air thick with the stench of death.

Lu Xiaohong, with his rainbow-colored hair, was dead; Uncle Wu Dongshan was dead; even He Guanghui, whose looks were delicate but who was fiercely loyal, was gone.

Leng Ruijun’s body was severed in two; when Zhu Jia arrived, she was still alive, weeping and begging Zhu Jia to look after her parents. The Meng brothers, Meng Hong and Meng Gang, had been beheaded. Sun Zeping was still breathing but badly wounded, lying unconscious. Fang Ming’s neck had been twisted, his abdomen gouged out, entrails spilling across the ground—he had long since died.

It was Zhao Peng who had called her. Usually the butt of jokes as the “nice guy,” the inscrutable Boss Zhao was now on the verge of death, barely holding on to ask Zhu Jia to handle the aftermath.

The entire Hangzhou branch had been nearly wiped out! Only a few who were out on assignment were spared; Zhu Jia had been the only one left to hold the fort. When she arrived and saw the carnage, she broke down on the spot. To see comrades with whom she had shared years of hardship so brutally slain—no matter how strong one’s nerves, no one could bear such a blow.

At that desperate moment, the only person she could think of was Song Yue, who had just returned that day.

Zhao Peng could barely speak, but he still looked at Zhu Jia with gentle encouragement, managing to say, “Don’t be afraid… don’t be afraid…”

Zhu Jia wasn’t afraid—she was shattered. She had already fed Boss Zhao and Sun Zeping life-saving elixirs, but so far, they seemed to have little effect. To this moment, she still didn’t know what had happened. The group hadn’t even been together; the whole day had been peaceful. Who could have imagined such calamity would strike at night?

When Song Yue arrived, Zhao Peng was clearly fading, and Sun Zeping’s condition was dire. Song Yue stepped out of the flying car and, upon seeing the massacre before him, was completely stunned.

But he reacted instantly, not pausing to look at the bodies of his colleagues. He immediately retrieved two potent healing herbs from the Jade Void Celestial Monument’s space, first rushing to the gravely wounded Boss Zhao. “Sis, pry open his mouth,” he instructed Zhu Jia.

Zhu Jia held Zhao Peng’s jaw, prying open his mouth. Song Yue squeezed the herb tightly, extracting its juice and pouring it down Zhao Peng’s throat. Simultaneously, he activated his phone by voice, calling his master. While administering the medicine, he explained the situation. The teacher promised to come at once.

Song Yue then pulled out another powerful herb, repeating the process to get the juice into Sun Zeping. The efficacy of these master-grade medicines was undeniable: Zhao Peng and Sun Zeping, who had been on the brink of death, soon stabilized after absorbing the medicine.

Song Yue saw that both Zhao Peng and Sun Zeping bore severe external injuries—some from weapons, some looking like claw marks from a beast. Zhu Jia had already bandaged their wounds before he arrived.

Silently, Song Yue got up and moved to the others. In truth, he hadn’t known this group for long. Since joining the Hangzhou branch of the Anomalous Affairs Management Bureau, he hadn’t even worked a full day. Yet these people had treated him exceptionally well. Though their time together was brief, their voices and faces were etched into his mind.

Especially after his recent accident in the West—without hesitation, they sent people to rescue him, and when that failed, Boss Zhao had even wanted to go himself. They hadn’t just treated him as one of their own, but as a cherished junior.

Since killing Zhang Zixing and Ou Ping in the Kunlun secret realm, Song Yue had become an adult and was no stranger to bloodshed; but it had always been in the heat of battle against the enemy, with no time for reflection. He understood perfectly why Zhu Jia had collapsed.

Now, he too felt as if a heavy stone was crushing his chest, making it hard to breathe. This was an ancient city of the human world—a place where even dragons must coil and tigers must crouch. Almost all monsters lived discreetly here, like the old lame wolf from before. Occasionally, a few unruly rats might appear, but the moment they met the bureau’s people, they’d fall in line.

So who could have done this? Who would dare unleash such carnage on the bureau’s own? No, this wasn’t just a heavy hand—this was a massacre.

Lu Xiaohong’s lifeless eyes stared skyward, his neck nearly severed by a blade, hanging by a shred. Song Yue crouched before him, reaching out to close his eyes, but they remained wide open.

“Brother, I’ll avenge you,” Song Yue whispered, trying again to close Lu Xiaohong’s eyes. This time, they shut.

He moved on to check the others, finding that, apart from Sun Zeping and Boss Zhao, all were gone. Uncle Wu Dongshan, who’d given him a harmonica; He Guanghui, who’d sneak ingredients from the canteen for Boss Zhao; Miss Leng Ruijun, who’d begrudgingly given him a standard issue watch; Meng Hong, who’d gifted him a storage artifact; Meng Gang, who’d given him a formation manual—all slaughtered here.

His master and mistress arrived in haste, equally stunned by the bloody scene, but they remained composed, checking the wounded first. Once they confirmed the injuries had stabilized, Mistress began making phone calls.

She then approached Zhu Jia, who sat dazed and weeping, and gently stroked her head. “Child, don’t be afraid…”

Perhaps it was because Mistress was a woman, but Zhu Jia stood and threw herself into her arms, sobbing uncontrollably.

Master looked at Song Yue, who shook his head. “Sister Zhu Jia called me over. It was already like this when I arrived.”

Master walked over to the corpses, crouched to inspect them, and said gravely, “The weapons used were blades and swords, but among the attackers, there was a great demon.”

“What kind of great demon would dare commit such an atrocity here?” Song Yue felt the stone on his chest grow heavier still. He wanted to lash out, to find the killer and tear them apart. But alongside that fury was a deep sense of powerlessness. To have killed so many of the bureau’s people, to have wounded Boss Zhao so terribly—such an enemy was far beyond what he could handle now.

Soon, people summoned by Mistress arrived in a large flying craft. They were stunned into silence by the carnage, but asked no questions, quietly gathering the bodies.

Late at night, Song Yue, Zhu Jia, Master, and Mistress kept vigil at Boss Zhao’s hospital room. Sun Zeping was in another room, out of danger but still unconscious. Master had checked him, saying the cause was spiritual exhaustion; though the external injuries were severe, with treatment they would heal. A period of rest would suffice for recovery.

The truly critical one was Boss Zhao. His internal organs were gravely damaged—he must have fought desperately to protect his subordinates. Had Song Yue not arrived in time with the potent medicine, Boss Zhao would surely have died.

They waited for Zhao Peng to wake. In the room with them was a high-ranking bureau official, who had rushed over from the capital in the middle of the night. He looked to be in his forties and seemed quite familiar with Master; the two communicated in silence, faces heavy.

After a long time, the official turned to Zhu Jia, who was still quietly weeping, and spoke gently: “You and Song Yue, both young people, should go rest now.”

But Zhu Jia stubbornly shook her head. “No, I’ll wait until Boss wakes up.”

The middle-aged man sighed and said no more. The room fell silent; no one felt like speaking.

At last, Song Yue remembered to let Qian Qianxue and Wen Rou know he was safe. Neither had slept, clearly waiting for news. Once they heard he was unharmed, they were finally at ease, urging him to rest without asking what had happened. They’d been friends for years and knew each other well; even from the brief message, they could sense Song Yue’s heavy mood.

At three in the morning, Boss Zhao finally woke.

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