Things had already reached that point—of course, he couldn’t let James Smith escape. The Black Hawk, though majestic, could not speak; but the youth had a mouth, and if he got away, there would be endless trouble later. Faced with the choice between silencing a witness and seizing the Black Hawk, the rogue Daoist chose the former.

To put it plainly, James Smith knew he was unlikely to escape being silenced, so he might as well make the first move, seize the initiative, and bluff his enemy one more time. By acting first and forcing the rogue Daoist’s hand, he also gave the Black Hawk’s supposed benefactor a slim chance to escape.

From start to finish, it was just a single “You’ve caused trouble” and a leap, but it showed James Smith’s clear mind and youthful courage!

The drowsy youth was ready to die.

But he didn’t die.

Chapter Three: All at the Ancestor’s Discretion

After roughly explaining his thoughts, James Smith looked at the man in black robes, then at the Black Hawk, his usually dazed expression growing even more confused: “Um… you… which one are you?”

The man in black robes replied calmly, “This beast isn’t anything special, just a few more years of cultivation, so it flies more steadily. This time, I came here only as a projection of my spiritual consciousness. Taking you away by flight isn’t hard, but it’s a bit inconvenient, so I summoned it from near your home to help out.” After speaking, he turned to John Harris, who was still crouched nearby, and said, “You tried to take my junior’s mount, so I’ll take your flying sword in exchange. Any objections?”

It was indeed a shadow, but not an illusion—a truly substantial presence, a person with real power and abilities. Though the shadow cast by his spiritual consciousness might not have even one or two percent of the original’s cultivation, it was enough to intimidate John Harris so much that he dared not lift his head, and replied in a trembling voice, “All at the ancestor’s discretion.”

The man in black robes beckoned with his hand, and John Harris’s flying sword immediately flew into his grasp. Without the support of his sword, the rogue Daoist still dared not move, kneeling in midair with cold sweat streaming down his forehead as he used his own magic to stay aloft.

The red flying sword contained a spirit. Held in the black-robed man’s hand, the sword twisted and struggled like a snake, unwilling to submit. With a slight flick of his wrist, there was a soft “buzz,” and the deep red aura attached to the sword burst forth like rosy clouds, swirling around the blade in a three-foot arc of crimson light—a striking sight.

Looking again at the sword in his hand, it had now reverted to its original metallic color, a dazzling, silvery shine. The black-robed man said flatly, “The sword’s quality is barely passable, but the refining is utter rubbish.” With another flick of his wrist, the expelled red light quickly returned to the blade, which turned red again, but no longer struggled—the spirit within had clearly been erased.

With a third flick of his wrist, using some unknown technique, the sword rapidly shrank to the size of a hairpin. The black-robed man casually tossed it to James Smith: “The sword’s power comes from the red clouds at sunrise. It’s not very practical, but at least it looks nice—young people like these flashy things. Take it. I’ll help you subdue it in a few days. With this for protection, true experts may not be deterred, but those who wanted to take you as a disciple before won’t dare bother you again.”

Without waiting for James Smith to thank him, the black-robed man turned again to John Harris: “We’ve settled the matter of objects; now let’s talk about people. You tried to kill my junior, and he really did jump off the hawk.”

The black-robed elder had always been clear and straightforward—he would never bully others, but would never tolerate being offended either. James Smith was someone he had chosen, and the mount was arranged by him as well. John Harris trying to rob James Smith was truly kicking against an iron wall.

John Harris was so frightened by the black-robed man’s words that his face turned deathly pale, and he kowtowed desperately, not daring to utter a single extra word.

At this moment, James Smith suddenly interjected, “Killing… isn’t good, is it? I wonder if the immortal elder has a way to plant a restriction on this thief, so he’ll never dare harbor ill intentions again, and will obediently follow his benefactor as a loyal servant. If he still refuses to repent, the ancestor can kill him with a single thought.”

James Smith didn’t know any magic and was just making suggestions. He had no idea that what he spoke of so lightly was something even top experts would find hard to accomplish. Yet the black-robed man showed no sign of difficulty, and was instead made to blink by James Smith’s repeated use of “benefactor,” “immortal elder,” and “ancestor” in a single sentence.

In fact, James Smith, being a former constable, felt no sympathy for villains like John Harris who would kill for greed. Killing him would be no loss. But he had another reason:

John Harris had his own sect and close friends. The rogue Daoist deserved to die, but the one to actually kill him would be the black-robed man. If James Smith didn’t try to dissuade him, it would mean causing his benefactor to make new enemies and invite more trouble. James Smith didn’t want to be the reason his benefactor made enemies, so he proposed this solution.

The black-robed man was a senior cultivator who had lived for countless years—how could he not see through the youth’s little scheme? He glanced at James Smith again, but said nothing more, and turned to John Harris: “Any objections?”

As long as he could live, John Harris dared not ask for anything more, and hurriedly nodded: “All at the ancestor’s discretion.”