TLOBH-Chapter 392: The Situation Is Worrying

Seeing Henwell about to leave, Cao Mingzhi hurriedly says, “Wait a moment. The patrol camp will arrive soon, and the Ministry of Justice’s detectives will come too. There’s no need to rush off yet, there might be some matters you need to assist with.”

”Besides, I haven’t even repaid your lifesaving kindness. I don’t even know where you live, how could I possibly repay you?”

Henwell waves his hand dismissively. “Forget it. If fate allows, we’ll meet again.”

Cao Mingzhi grabs Henwell’s arm. “Since you’re not officially part of the government, my father has connections in the capital. You have such martial skills under your command; I’m sure you’re a hidden expert yourself. Why not take this chance to serve the court? With my father’s recommendation, I’m sure you could get a good position!”

”This matter is serious, several relatives of high-ranking officials have been attacked. Your role in capturing these villains could be your chance to make a name for yourself. You have the strength, I have the connections. Together, we can shine in this matter and maybe even earn the emperor’s praise!”

Henwell brushes his hand away. “Better not. I’m used to a carefree life and don’t like being controlled. If I join the court, I’m afraid it will only bring trouble. If you truly appreciate my help tonight, just keep me out of this. That’s thanks enough.”

At this, Cao Mingzhi feels powerless to persuade him further.

He can only watch as Henwell boards the carriage and prepares to leave.

Suddenly, Henwell rolls down the window. “One more thing—the head you should keep carefully. There are quite a few Second Rank Martial Warriors, but few capable of killing officials and nobles like this. If you find a skilled professional in the underworld to identify it, you’ll uncover the villain’s origins. That alone is a great achievement!”

With that, Henwell’s carriage drives away.

Passing by the dock, the battle there is still ongoing.

Number Eight, the steward driving the carriage, ignores the pleas from the two Second Rank swordsmen asking for help.

The assassins realize Henwell’s group is tough to deal with. Since Henwell wants to leave, they won’t recklessly cause trouble or block their way.

Back at the estate, Henwell sheaths his long sword and heads to his bedroom. As he steps inside, he calls out to steward Number Eight, “Send word to your mistress, tell her to come see me as soon as possible.”

Number Eight nods. “I’ll contact her right away. Don’t worry, Young Master Henwell. We’ll have someone erase all traces of tonight’s events. Nothing will implicate this place.”

Henwell shoots him a sharp glance. “It better be that way.”

At this moment, Henwell begins to doubt Lucy’s capabilities.

He had assumed she commanded at least tens of thousands of troops. Now it seems she’s just another player climbing the ladder of power by riding the tides.

Put nicely, she’s a savvy, resourceful woman rising with the wind.

Put less kindly, she lacks a solid foundation, everything she has is but a mirage.

In truth, among the members of their chat group, very few truly have their own base or armies.

Though many hold high positions, they’re bound by countless constraints. Their family’s power is both a help and a hindrance to further advancement.

Henwell suspects Lucy might be planning a palace coup to install a prince on the throne.

But he also realizes her cards aren’t as plentiful as he imagined.

Otherwise, she would have brought Henwell into the capital long ago, instead of cautiously hiding him in an estate outside the city.

A beautiful, intelligent woman often navigates the game of power with ease.

Yet, she often overlook the most crucial element of the game.

Using others’ strength to bolster your own is good, but ultimately, having your own strength is better. And the stronger your own power, the better.

If you’re borrowing strength, you’ll inevitably have to pay something back.

Henwell, having fought his way this far, already possesses his own power.

He does borrow strength, but more with finesse rather than relying solely on schemes.

When it comes down to it, rebellion inevitably involves conspiracies and plots, but they’re never the decisive factor.

If, as he suspects, Lucy’s influence is limited, Henwell remains skeptical about her coup’s chances.

Her success seems unlikely.

So now, Henwell must seize the chance to talk with Lucy.

Once the rebellion starts, there’s no turning back. If he discovers shortcomings too late, there won’t be time to fix them.

Henwell doesn’t want one of the few female friends in their chat group to end up as another tragic casualty of ambition.

The next morning, Henwell practices hand-to-hand combat in the courtyard.

His close-quarters fighting style doesn’t look graceful, but after watching for just a short while, steward Number Eight feels his hairs stand on end.

Also trained in lethal techniques, Number Eight clearly senses the deadly intent woven into Henwell’s moves.

Though Henwell’s motions are slow and don’t seem forceful, Number Eight can distinctly feel the weight behind every punch and kick.

It’s a strange heaviness, as if Henwell is dragging something heavy while training.

If Lucy were here, she’d witness a shocking sight.

Chains of spectral shadows wrap around Henwell’s limbs, chest, and back—an expression of his Will Lock technique.

Moreover, it’s an advanced application, a skill Henwell developed over the past six months.

By binding himself with Will Lock, he achieves a form of weighted training that builds strength through resistance.

After more than three hours, Henwell finishes his workout.

The steward, who’s been waiting, hands him a towel. “Young Master Henwell, my mistress says she’ll come see you today.”

After freshening up, Henwell begins lunch. He’s quite satisfied with the food in this world.

In the afternoon, Henwell stays in the study, poring over every book he can find.

Within two days, he already masters the local writing system.

His extraordinary mental power boosts his learning speed dramatically, “genius” doesn’t even begin to describe it; it’s part of what makes him extraordinary.

As night falls, Lucy still hasn’t arrived.

This irritates Henwell. How can she be so careless about such an important matter?

Near midnight, Henwell closes his book and leaves the study to rest, thinking Lucy won’t come after all.

Just as he reaches the small courtyard where he stays, a streak of light suddenly shoots onto the blue stone tiles.

Henwell pivots, planting his foot hard. The stone slabs crack loudly beneath him as he launches himself forward like a cannonball.

In an instant, he reaches the courtyard wall nearby and raises his hand to strike the head of the attacker.

The man blocks with a long blade. Henwell clamps the spine of the blade with his left hand while his right hand stops just in front of the attacker’s face.

Henwell turns his head, frowning as he notices a foot-long spear hovering behind his back.

He glances at the man grinning across from him, then withdraws his palm. “Don’t let it happen again.”

The man whistles softly, and the spear flies back into its sheath at his waist.

Then he cups his fists and says, “Rising Sun Empire, Liu Mang, greets Henwell!”