Strongest Scammer: Scamming The World, One Death At A Time-Chapter 762: Delivering The Letter

With Chitterfang’s return, Han Yu did not rush.

He waited.

The night after Chitterfang’s reconnaissance passed quietly, and Han Yu spent it exactly as he always did when he wished to appear unremarkable... working a short puppet maintenance mission, returning to his cave, feeding Meng Jueyan and Xuan Qing, and then sitting in meditation as if nothing weighed on his mind.

But internally, everything was aligned.

The following evening, when the blood-red moon dipped low and the sect was wrapped in layered shadows, Han Yu finally acted.

Darkness was Chitterfang’s ally.

The night cold was sharper, the Frost Qi thicker, but that also meant fewer wandering disciples, fewer inspections, fewer idle movements. The Kidney Peak especially became quieter after dusk. Those who lived there were disciplined; they did not wander without reason.

Han Yu knelt inside his cave and held out the Spirit Wood Pulp Envelope one last time.

Inside it, the letter was folded simply. No name. No seal. No greeting.

Only a few carefully chosen lines, written with precision, restraint, and absolute confidence.

And bound within the jade slip tucked behind the letter was the sealed aura; cold, profound, unmistakable.

Han Yu tied the envelope firmly against Chitterfang’s back with thin Spirit Silk thread, looping it in a way that would not restrict movement or chafe his skin. He tugged lightly to test it.

Secure.

Chitterfang squeaked softly, half nervous, half excited.

"This is the dangerous part," Han Yu said quietly, more to himself than the rat. "You already know the way. Don’t rush. If something feels wrong, stop."

Chitterfang’s reply came clearly through their link, steadier than before.

"I know. I’ll be careful."

Han Yu returned to the same bridge and took out his fishing rod. While he was fishing, Chitterfang slipped out, vanished into the shadows, and disappeared into the ground..

The tunnel Chitterfang had dug earlier saved him hours.

Instead of burrowing through frozen soil again, he darted through familiar passages, the earth cool and compact around him. The Spirit Silk thread did not snag, and the envelope stayed flat against his back, its faint weight a constant reminder of the importance of his task.

Three hours later, he emerged near the Seventh Gate.

Here, Chitterfang slowed to a crawl.

This was where the real danger began.

Before, he had been a nameless speck, a mere vermin, unimportant. Now he was a messenger. The envelope tied to his back changed everything. Even a careless glance might notice the unnatural bulge, the faint Spirit Wood scent, the deliberate knot.

So Chitterfang became patient.

Painfully patient.

Whenever footsteps approached within a hundred meters, he froze. When voices echoed faintly, he hid. When Frost Qi fluctuations surged, he waited them out, tucked deep into brush or snow.

Time stretched.

An hour passed.

Then another.

By the time he reached the Eighth Gate, nearly two hours had slipped by, and his small body was a bit stiff with cold. But he pressed on.

The formations at the Eighth Gate brushed over him again, faint and curious, then dismissed him. To them, he was still nothing more than a rodent.

The Ninth Gate loomed.

Chitterfang hesitated.

The memory of that invisible pressure, the crushing awareness that had made him lose control rose vividly in his mind. His heart thudded painfully.

But Han Yu’s presence was there, steady and calm through their link.

"Slow," Han Yu advised. "Breathe. Move when it feels right."

Chitterfang crept forward.

The pressure descended again, cold and vast, sweeping across his existence. This time, he was ready. He lowered his Qi instinctively, shrinking inward, making himself as small and insignificant as possible.

Seconds passed.

Then the pressure lifted.

Allowed.

Chitterfang slipped through.

The palace was quieter than before.

Night reduced activity even here, though the puppets never slept. Their soft movements echoed faintly through halls and corridors, predictable now that Chitterfang had watched them before.

He did not go inside.

Instead, as planned, he scrambled up the first pillar he encountered, claws finding shallow grooves and decorative ridges. The climb was slow with the envelope strapped to him, but manageable.

Above, the rafters welcomed him like old friends.

Here, he moved faster.

Puppets did not look up.

They did not consider the ceiling a place of concern.

Chitterfang navigated the beams with practiced ease, crossing from structure to structure until he reached the uppermost level. Cold wind brushed his whiskers as he slipped outside, clinging to the palace’s carved exterior.

The balcony appeared ahead.

The table.

The chairs.

Exactly as before.

Chitterfang slid between the bannisters, landing softly atop the stone table. For a brief moment, he froze, listening.

Silence.

The presence behind the closed door was there. His immense, calm, terrifying, but unmoving aura, the same as before.

This was his chance.

With quick, precise motions, Chitterfang gnawed through the Spirit Silk thread. It parted cleanly. The envelope slipped free and lay flat on the table, perfectly visible.

Now that the task complete, fear surged and Chitterfang bolted.

He sprinted toward the edge of the balcony, misjudged the distance in his panic, and slipped.

WHOOSH

The world dropped away.

For a heart-stopping instant, he was falling.

Then instinct took over.

Chitterfang expelled a burst of fire Qi from his mouth. It was not an attack, neither was it controlled. It was simply desperation.

POOF

The small fireball detonated against the stone, propelling his body sideways just enough for him to slam against a supporting pillar.

thud

He clung.

The flash lasted less than a breath.

No alarm sounded.

No presence stirred.

Chitterfang did not wait to test his luck.

He scrambled down the palace exterior, vanished into shadows, then into snow, then into earth.

The retreat was faster.

Adrenaline burned through his veins, pushing him onward. He did not stop until he was far from the palace, far from the gates, far from the crushing cold awareness of the Peak Head’s domain.

Three hours later, Han Yu felt it.

The familiar presence.

Chitterfang burst from the shadows near the bridge, scampered up Han Yu’s leg, and vanished into his robes, trembling but triumphant.