“What makes a successful killer? If a killer can go his entire life, right up until the day he dies, without anyone ever knowing he is a blood-soaked murderer, then he is a successful killer!”

“Then, what makes a qualified super killer?”

“A so-called qualified killer is someone who can hide himself under any circumstances! With scholars, he is a man of letters; with painters, he is an artist; with thugs, he is a scoundrel; with noble ladies, he is an aristocrat, a gentleman; with perverts, he is a lecher! With heroes, he is a role model!”

“In the desert, he is a lizard; on the grasslands, he is the wolf king! Back in the mountains, he is the tiger, king of all beasts! Drifting on the sea, he is the mighty dragon stirring up storms!”

“Only then is one a qualified, successful killer!”

“If all you know is killing, at best you’re just a butcher!”

“If you kill only for your own ends, even if you succeed every time, at most you’re just an outstanding assassin!”

“Killing! In itself, it is also an art! As a killer, you must never, ever desecrate the elegance of this art!”

……

This was a conversation from a previous life between Ethan Brooks and his master. As he recalled it, a faint smile appeared at the corner of Ethan Brooks’s mouth, and he muttered, “...One more thing: born into a family like this, I’m just a good-for-nothing rich kid waiting to inherit.”

Suddenly, a cold voice said, “Wrong! You’re not a second-generation rich kid! I am the second generation, and you are the third!”

Chapter Four: Second Generation, Third Generation

Suddenly, a cold voice said, “Wrong! You’re not a second-generation rich kid! I am the second generation, and you are the third!”

In front of Ethan Brooks, a wheelchair appeared. Seated on it was a thin, middle-aged man in his thirties, reclining at an angle. A thick satin blanket covered his legs. His eyes, at once cloudy and clear, looked at him with amusement. His brows were like swords, slanting toward his temples, naturally carrying an inexplicable chill and murderous aura! His eyes were like hawks, sharp light flashing within, and deep in his gaze there was a faint, but unmistakable, contempt!

If this man were not disabled, he would surely be a strikingly handsome and heroic figure! A true man of iron will! Judging by the lingering authority in his expression, he must once have been a decisive general commanding thousands of troops!

“Third Uncle?” Ethan Brooks stopped in his tracks. Looking at his third uncle Samuel Brooks sitting in the wheelchair, in Ethan Morris Brooks’s original memory, this third uncle was just a useless cripple who could do nothing but idle away his days; utterly worthless. But at this moment, Ethan Brooks keenly sensed a familiar aura from this uncle who had spent years in a wheelchair—a presence that made his skin crawl!

Killing intent!

A killing intent strong enough to move even Ethan Brooks!

Only a battle-hardened soldier, one who had fought his way through mountains of corpses and seas of blood, could possess such a unique sharpness! Like a peerless sword, even if broken, its edge would never be buried by dust, still radiating an intimidating brilliance!

Yet this peerless sword was now sheathed!

Throughout Ethan Brooks’s life, he had met only two or three such people, and each one was a major figure commanding great armies. In fact, these iron-blooded warriors were the type of people Ethan Brooks admired most in his previous life! Actually, Mr. Brooks was also such a person, but as The Old Man aged, his self-cultivation had reached a state of returning to simplicity, always hiding his true strength. Since Ethan Brooks had spent little time with The Old Man, he had overlooked this for a while!

But Samuel Brooks had not yet reached that level of hiding his brilliance; he was like a sharp sword in its sheath, its edge concealed but still exuding a chilling aura. Of course, it took someone with Ethan Brooks’s eye to discern this—an ordinary person, like Ethan Morris Brooks, would never notice it, even if their life depended on it!

Though the peerless sword hung idle in its sheath, silent on the wall, in the dead of night it still let out a dragon’s low cry! This was a bloodthirstiness ingrained in his very bones!

“It’s rare for you to call me Third Uncle.” Samuel Brooks looked up, his deep eyes carrying a hint of mockery as he gazed at his only nephew: “Morris, are you really so interested in being a second-generation rich kid?” After speaking, he suddenly sighed, wondering to himself what had gotten into him today, to actually feel like talking to this hopeless good-for-nothing.

Ethan Brooks looked at him for a long moment, focusing on his crippled waist and legs, then suddenly laughed: “Third Uncle, you must be joking. You’re the genuine second generation; at best, I’m just the third. I’m already quite content to be a happy and carefree third generation.”

Huh? What’s with this kid’s tone today? Though his words had a barb, there was none of the usual arrogance or unruliness?

Surprised by Ethan Brooks’s unexpected response, Samuel Brooks’s eyes widened, and in an instant, a sharp light flashed in his gaze, like a bolt of lightning splitting the dark night! Suddenly, he burst out laughing, shaking his head as he said, “Do you know the difference between the second and third generation?”