Strongest Scammer: Scamming The World, One Death At A Time
Chapter 288: Murong Xie’s Anger

Chapter 288: Murong Xie’s Anger

As the silence grew heavier, so did Murong Xie’s anger until finally he exploded.

"Do you know what was written on it? What arrangements were being finalized?" He turned, each word laced with venom. "Do you even begin to grasp how delicate that correspondence was? I told Rong Jun to protect that message with his life!"

His voice rose with each word until it finally erupted in a thunderous shout.

"AND NOW HE’S DEAD AND THE LETTER IS GONE?!"

With a swift motion, he spun and lashed out. A nearby ceramic pot—worth at least three hundred spirit stones—exploded into shards. He didn’t stop there. The table bearing spiritual incense and meditation scrolls was overturned, its contents crashing to the floor. Two decorative lanterns were swept from their stands and shattered against the walls.

A storm of qi surged through the chamber, thick with rage and frustration.

The disciples huddled on the ground like leaves caught in a gale.

Murong Xie’s aura flared with crackling intensity. Crimson spiritual energy roiled around him like wildfire—anger made manifest. The walls of the room groaned under the pressure, formation inscriptions flickering as they struggled to contain his fury.

It was clear that his power was a notch above the average late stage Qi refining realm cultivator.

For a long moment, no one moved.

Then, gradually, the aura faded. Murong Xie took a sharp breath and forced his qi back under control, though his expression remained twisted with seething hatred.

"Clean this up," he said coldly. "Find out if the letter was taken or destroyed. Trace the last known position of Rong Jun and backtrack every step. If someone has intercepted our correspondence, I want their head. If it was merely lost... then find proof."

He paused, the weight of his words settling like stone.

"...We cannot afford another mistake."

The disciples scurried to obey, leaving the room in a flurry of panicked bows and quick steps.

Once alone, Murong Xie stood silently amid the wreckage.

His jaw clenched. His fingers twitched with residual rage.

He had been preparing something—something vital to consolidating his influence within the Inner Court in prepartion for his promotion later. Rong Jun was his pawn, his courier, and his knife-in-the-dark. Now he was a corpse. And worse, he had failed.

’Whoever did this...’

Murong Xie’s eyes narrowed.

’...will pay.’

—

Far across the sect, within a quiet, unassuming courtyard behind a line of spirit-fed bamboo stalks, Han Yu was lounging on a meditation cushion with his eyes half-open and a half-eaten peach resting in his palm.

A ripple of qi brushed across his skin.

It was faint at first, like the ghost of a breeze. But as it settled around him, Han Yu recognized the presence immediately—several tendrils of Eight Emotions Energy had drifted in, painting the air with a vivid, shimmering red.

Anger.

He exhaled slowly, watching as the qi wrapped itself around him before sinking into his soul.

A pleased smirk tugged at his lips.

That energy was sharp, wild, and saturated with intense emotion. The type of rage only someone truly powerful—or truly offended—could emit.

And from the direction it came?

It didn’t take a genius to figure it out.

"Murong Xie, huh..."

Han Yu stretched lazily and popped the rest of the peach into his mouth.

"I guess you finally got the news."

He chuckled softly.

"Hope the intel was important."

He didn’t need to know the details. Whatever Rong Jun had been carrying clearly mattered. And now, it was either lost or in the hands of someone else.

Either way, Murong Xie’s plan had been disrupted—and Han Yu’s cultivation had benefited.

As he turned his attention back to meditation, he thought idly to himself:

’Maybe I should make him angry more often.’

The following weeks at Twin Leaf Peak Sect passed under an odd, brooding tension. Like a storm that refused to arrive, pressure hung in the air without breaking. Though no official announcements were made, whispers and rumors filled the sect like floodwater trickling into every crevice.

The deaths of Rong Jun and his fellow Inner Court disciples had not gone unnoticed by the higher-ups.

For the first time in months, the Elders convened publicly in the Hall of Judgments, summoning a few disciples for questioning.

Several senior stewards and inner court messengers were seen moving between peaks at odd hours. Even some of the normally reclusive enforcers from the Law Hall emerged, observing sect traffic and gathering intelligence behind quiet glances and shadowed veils.

The sect’s mood shifted—quiet conversations became shorter, measured, and guarded. Smiles came less freely. Even the Outer Court disciples, who were usually uninvolved in internal political matters, moved with a hushed awareness that something significant was happening behind the scenes.

And through all of it, Han Yu thrived.

He made his daily rounds, pretending to be no more than a mildly reclusive outer disciple still recovering from his last mission. He visited the spirit herb fields, took long walks past the rock gardens, and occasionally traded a few talismans at the monthly disciple market to maintain his image as well as to make some pocket money.

Every now and then, as he wandered beneath shaded pavilions or loitered near the carp ponds, he’d overhear snippets of conversation—bits of information that helped him stitch together a clearer picture.

One day, a pair of disciples whispered about how the deaths were too clean—no signs of struggle, no traces of spiritual backlash, but the bodies were still left in devastating states.

He also heard that the bodies of the dead disciples, or rather whatever was left of them, were returned to the sect as well and a quiet funeral was held for them

Another time, he caught a discussion speculating that the victims may have been betrayed from within.

But the true source of his satisfaction came not from eavesdropping, but from the subtle pulses of Eight Emotions energy that occasionally drifted into his courtyard—scarlet strands of wrath that trickled in like embers on the wind.

Whenever it happened, he would close his eyes, absorb the qi, and chuckle to himself.