Those who are not adept in the open are killed by men; those who are not adept in the shadows are killed by ghosts.

　　If neither men nor ghosts kill you, the gods will.

　　A single Dead Man’s Sutra, half a book of heresy.

　　Cut down a thousand heads, devour a hundred bodies and bones.

　　You must either endure the world’s injustice, or become the master of the world.

　　He chose to become a killer, a killer just like his enemies, but even colder and more ruthless.

　　Amidst flashing blades and clashing swords, he seeks the truth—

　　Those who kill do not die; those who live do not truly live.

Volume One: The Killer Boy

Prologue: The Two Commandments of a Killer

　　To kill, you must be decisive and clean—never hesitate or drag things out. Strike when your target is unprepared, seize the initiative whenever possible, finish your enemy in a single blow if you can, and leave no loose ends if you’re able. All that talk about white robes brighter than snow, duels atop mountain peaks, martial world etiquette, and legendary tales—it’s all nonsense. A killer is not an actor; who are you putting on these tricks and chasing after empty fame for?

　　A top-tier killer has only one standard: survive, and survive for a long time.

　　Generations of “Sole Sovereigns” have taught their successors this way, and now, Gavin Spencer uses the same words to teach his sons.

　　The first commandment of a killer: caution. Only strike when you’re sure, seize every possible advantage of time and place—hiding in the shadows is your greatest edge.

　　Even if your target is a half-paralyzed beggar, you must treat him as a peerless master: approach quietly, and kill him from behind with a single stroke.

　　You think it’s shameful, don’t you? You’re right—the beggar isn’t shamed, he’s already a dead man. And there’s still a one percent chance he’s actually a peerless master in disguise, luring you into a trap.

　　As the saying goes, “All’s fair in war.” The general who wins is the good general—who cares what methods he used? Especially his soldiers—they should be grateful for the commander’s ruthlessness, because it’s these schemes and tricks that keep them alive and let them enjoy the spoils of victory.

　　A great general always attacks from the enemy’s rear or flanks; only arrogant fools talk endlessly about fighting to the death.

　　A killer is not a general, so he must be even more cunning, more sinister, and more ruthless than any general.

　　There was once such a master: born to a noble family, his martial skills were unmatched. From his youth, he rarely met a worthy opponent. Those seeking his instruction had to make appointments in advance, and after sparring, all would sincerely concede, acknowledging him as “the world’s number one master”—they were just short of hanging a plaque on his door.

　　And what became of this master in the end? He died. Not even thirty years old, his body lay in a gutter for over ten days before being discovered, so decomposed that those collecting his remains couldn’t bear to let his parents see him.

　　Why did he die? Because he made one mistake: he left home to wander the martial world.

　　Those who came to learn from him all followed the rules: two people face to face, surrounded by martial world elders, a call of “begin,” then a contest of speed, steadiness, and accuracy. No one dared use dirty tricks, and even a slight misstep in form would be ridiculed.

　　A master used to “fair duels” becomes helpless once he steps into the real world. No one knows who killed him, or how he was killed—only that his fatal wound was on his back.

　　Everyone sympathized with his untimely death, and outwardly scorned the sneaky killer. But in private, they whispered that the master wasn’t truly a master—what kind of master can’t guard against a strike from behind?

　　Even those who had once lost to his sword gradually changed their tune, claiming their defeat was due to unfavorable circumstances, and that if they met in a narrow alley, the outcome would be uncertain.

　　What could the master do? He was dead, reduced to a pile of bones, unable to defend himself with a single word.

　　In the end, the mysterious killer became an idol. Everyone spread tales of his deeds, everyone claimed to have witnessed his skills firsthand, and some even claimed to be him.

　　This is the true face of martial world legends: no matter what means you use to climb to the top, admirers will invent glorious, dramatic stories for you. People only see you standing above; who cares what methods you used, or how many corpses with wounds on their backs you stepped over?

　　The second commandment of a killer: no mercy. Strike hard, leave no survivors. Killing is not just to silence witnesses, but to erase “names.”

　　There was once such a master. To avenge his father, he trained hard for ten years. Once he emerged, he swept all before him. When he was fully confident, he found his enemy and slaughtered nearly everyone—except, when he reached a widow and orphan, he hesitated. He wanted to be a hero, to keep a good name for “not killing women and children.” In that moment of mercy, he sowed the seeds of his own destruction.

　　Could the widow and orphan avenge themselves? Of course not. The orphan was talentless—train for a hundred years and he still couldn’t match the master’s finger. The widow knew no martial arts, was plain in appearance, and could barely survive, let alone seduce someone to avenge her.

　　But the master’s enemy had been wealthy, and all that property naturally fell to the master. Yet the widow and orphan didn’t see it that way. The woman spread the word: whoever avenged her would get half the estate that should have been hers.