Samuel Cooper felt even more uneasy, hoping for the victory of the Snow Mountain Swordsman. He had already made up his mind that no matter how Dylan Ford treated the two young men beside him later, he would not interfere again.

The assassin and the swordsman closed in to within three steps of each other, yet neither made a move. Within a single step, still no action. The two stared at each other, like acquaintances about to pass by, merely nodding in acknowledgment.

But Samuel Cooper's heart was in his throat. He had witnessed many duels and even participated in a few himself. Usually, both sides would take up their stances from a distance, approaching while constantly changing their moves. Never had he seen anyone as casual as these two, so relaxed that there wasn't even a hint of killing intent.

The assassin and the swordsman were now shoulder to shoulder, less than a step apart—just half a step and they would pass each other. Still, they turned their heads, staring at one another. Suddenly, a surge of murderous aura erupted, going from nothing to overwhelming in an instant. The short blade and the long sword struck at the same time.

Even though everyone was prepared, even though they had been watching intently, the onlookers were still startled, involuntarily leaning back as if the distant blades and swords were aimed at their own vital points.

The knife and sword moved as fast as lightning, yet did not clash. The black-clad assassin retreated even faster than he struck, and in the blink of an eye, he was already five steps away, right at the edge of the long sword's reach.

Dylan Ford did not let his sword move grow stale, but promptly withdrew his attack as well.

It seemed the first exchange had not determined a winner. Samuel Cooper felt the Snow Mountain Swordsman was stronger, but he wasn't entirely sure, because he remembered something his father Logan Cooper had once said.

Logan Cooper had always been indulgent with his youngest son, never pushing him too hard in his training. But once, when Samuel Cooper was again critiquing others' martial arts, Logan Cooper uncharacteristically grew serious, pointed to his own eyes, then to his hands, and said:

"Having a keen eye is much rarer than having a strong hand."

At the time, Samuel Cooper didn't think much of this, but now he believed it.

Dylan Ford had killed six desperate men in just a few moves, and the Golden Roc Fort's assassins had silently slaughtered dozens of members of the The Cooper Family. Even if the black-clad assassin before him wasn't the actual perpetrator, his skills couldn't be far off. Both were true experts, yet when it came to a life-and-death struggle, their moves were so simple as to be almost crude—just a chop and a thrust, not unlike the unchanging spear thrusts of the old family servant Henry Clark.

In contrast, Samuel Cooper himself had learned several sets of boxing and sword techniques, and could talk endlessly about the myriad martial arts schools of the Central Plains, yet when faced with the most ordinary bandit, he was powerless to fight back.

All show and no substance—that was the verdict his father Logan Cooper had given him with a smiling shake of the head.

The assassin and the swordsman clashed again, but this time, instead of slowly approaching, they sprang at each other like arrows drawn to the limit, like leopards with muscles tensed. In a flash, they collided, blades scraping together with a piercing screech.

Once again, the black-clad assassin was the first to retreat, and this time he withdrew even farther, all the way to ten steps away, his expression tense, as if every hair on his body was standing on end.

Dylan Ford swung his long sword once more, taking a large step forward.

Samuel Cooper was startled, thinking the Snow Mountain Swordsman was about to pursue and deliver a fatal blow. But he was wrong—Dylan Ford stopped after just one step, and both sides fell into a stalemate.

The two stood facing each other like statues for a long time, leaving the surrounding spectators bewildered. No one dared to cheer rashly; after all, picking the wrong side could mean courting death.

"Mercy Powder, I should have thought of it sooner." Dylan Ford suddenly knelt on one knee, both hands still gripping his sword hilt, but now it was no longer a weapon, just a support.

Samuel Cooper didn't know what "Mercy Powder" was, and he wasn't the only one. But everyone understood one thing: the Snow Mountain Swordsman had fallen victim to a plot.

"You swordsmen are always like this—'should have thought of it sooner,' but never prepared. Hmph." The black-clad assassin's tone was full of disdain, showing not a shred of pity for his defeated opponent.

"Mercy Powder is colorless and tasteless. Those who are poisoned become weak and powerless, causing great harm. Fifteen years ago, King Du Bu swore to destroy it all and never use it again. Now that it has resurfaced, it seems Golden Roc Fort is just as untrustworthy as ever."

"Heh, seems you know quite a bit. But you're wrong—this isn't Mercy Powder. So, the king's oath hasn't been broken, and Golden Roc Fort is still trustworthy. Especially when it comes to never leaving survivors—you can be sure of that."

As he spoke, the black-clad assassin walked behind Dylan Ford, pressing the sharp tip of his blade against the swordsman's shoulder.

Is this it? Samuel Cooper couldn't believe it. He had been hoping for Dylan Ford to rise up and fight back, but that was just a boy's wishful thinking. The good should defeat the wicked, justice should triumph over treachery, the Snow Mountain Swordsman should have "thought of it sooner"—but too many "shoulds" never become reality.

The assassin's narrow blade slowly slid in, all the way to the hilt. Dylan Ford did not resist, dying without a ripple, his corpse still kneeling, supported by his sword, refusing to fall. Not far away lay the six bandits he had slain.

The black-clad assassin, still holding his blood-dripping blade, turned to look at the dozens of bandits.