As an elite in the military, Henry Brooks was, of course, well-versed in such matters!

"Kill!"

With a long howl, his fighting spirit soared to the sky.

Chapter 7: Certain Death

Under the moonlight, in the backyard.

"Boom!"

Henry Brooks and another man exchanged a punch, the sound like a thunderclap.

The opponent couldn't help but let out a miserable scream; his entire arm snapped, exposing stark white bone, and his body was sent flying, crashing into the wall, which then collapsed with a loud rumble.

A full-force strike—such terrifying power!

One punch, instant kill!

The remaining assassins were stunned by this punch. If the earlier sword strike could be blamed on underestimating the enemy, this punch was pure, unadulterated strength—blasting a man away, leaving him motionless. Even if he wasn't dead, he was crippled. Just fourteen or fifteen years old, yet possessing such terrifying combat power—how was this possible?

Even Henry Brooks himself hadn't expected it, but he would never make the fatal mistake of losing focus in battle. Seizing the opportunity, he thrust his sword like lightning, piercing the heart of the nearest man.

The rest reacted, quickly joining forces. Henry Brooks drew his sword and crouched, dodging a deadly slash. His sharp blade severed another man's calf, and with a roll, he avoided a fierce kick. Before he could get up, he flung his sword, which shot like a shadowless streak into another man's abdomen.

Ambush, evasion, another assassination—his movements were complex and unpredictable, yet executed in one seamless flow!

In an instant, another double kill!

His body sprang forward, pouncing on another man like a leopard.

This opponent was ruthless as well, realizing he'd underestimated his foe. He slashed fiercely with a dagger, his eyes flashing with murderous intent, refusing to let go. But to his horror, he saw Henry Brooks smirking wickedly, and for no reason, panic seized him. Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through his heart, his body losing all strength like a deflated ball. Looking down, he saw a strange weapon embedded in his body, confused—wasn't the sword already thrown? Where did this weapon come from?

Henry Brooks certainly didn't bother to explain. He grabbed the man's collar and flung him hard at another, yanking out the military spike and darting like a ghost toward a different foe.

Swordsmanship was not Henry Brooks's forte.

But the use of the three-edged military spike was etched into his bones and muscles—utterly instinctive.

He sidestepped, dodging a short dagger thrust by an assassin. Instead of retreating, he pressed in close and struck ruthlessly, the three-edged spike piercing the man's kidney. With a fierce twist, he widened the wound, the man's strength draining away like a receding tide. Staring fixedly at Henry Brooks, he weakly asked, "You... what... move is this?"

"The move that kills you."

Henry Brooks snorted disdainfully, and with unbelievable speed, the three-edged spike stabbed the man's heart and throat. With a quick step, he grabbed the body to block an incoming sneak attack, the short dagger piercing straight through to the hilt.

The would-be assassin hadn't expected Henry Brooks to react so quickly and ended up injuring his own comrade. Startled, he sensed someone approaching and hurriedly drew his blade to counterattack, but it was too late. The three-edged spike stabbed his heart five times per second, turning it to mush—no immortal could save him.

In the blink of an eye, all the attackers had fallen—dead or crippled!

Henry Brooks felt as if he'd only just warmed up. He tucked the three-edged spike into his sleeve, drew his sword, and looked around, his eyes flashing coldly, murderous intent surging. The first battle of the Great Tang had been somewhat stifling, but having taken over this body, he had no choice but to endure and face it.

The cold moon hung high, and all around was silent.

The thick stench of blood drifted on the night wind.

Suddenly, from the outer courtyard came Edward Grant's anxious voice: "Young master, are you all right? There was fighting just now—were there assassins? Should we come in?"

"No need, don't come in."

Henry Brooks called out. There were too many traps set up around, and barging in would be dangerous. Everyone had already received strict orders; otherwise, they would have rushed in long ago. Edward Grant called out worriedly, "Young master, are you really all right?"

"I'm fine, just couldn't sleep, practicing my skills. Everyone, disperse."

"Yes, sir."

The crowd responded one after another, their voices gradually fading away.

Although everyone in the residence was an old comrade of William Brooks, there was no guarantee that other forces hadn't planted spies—especially John Thompson, who had placed secret agents in the homes of many nobles and ministers. This wasn't exactly a secret, but investigating it would arouse John Thompson's suspicion, and Henry Brooks didn't want to expose too much.

"Young master, may I come over?" Helen's voice came, tinged with concern.

"No need, go to bed early," Henry Brooks called back, not wanting to frighten her. He tossed the corpses into a large vat, tied up the ones still alive, gagged them, and hid them in the vat as well.

The night was long, and the danger had not passed.

Henry Brooks hid himself in an inconspicuous dark corner, waiting patiently.

Time slipped by quietly, the night growing ever deeper.

In a farmhouse near the western market, a man in brocade stood in the courtyard, hands clasped behind his back, looking up at the sky, his expression relaxed, calm, and composed.

Soon, a man in black tight-fitting clothes approached, cupped his fists, bowed, and said solemnly, "Young master, the men we sent have yet to return. I'm afraid they've been lost."

The man in brocade's expression changed slightly, and he rebuked, "How is that possible? The Three Demons of the Yellow River—their combined attack is unmatched in the world, their reputation far and wide, top assassins in the martial world. When have they ever failed? Are you telling me a mere snot-nosed brat could defeat them? Would you believe that if you heard it?"

"I don't know either, sir, but they did not withdraw at the agreed time."