Strongest Scammer: Scamming The World, One Death At A Time-Chapter 286: News About Rong Jun

Disciples were walking hastily in groups.

Some stopped, talking in low whispers. Others had grim expressions on their faces. Even the usual group of sword cultivators, who often practiced near the ponds with exaggerated movements and louder-than-necessary grunts, had ceased their training and were huddled together in intense discussion.

Han Yu frowned.

He paused outside his courtyard gate, narrowing his eyes. Something was off.

He waved at a passing outer sect disciple who looked particularly shaken. The boy paused, clearly recognizing him.

"Senior Brother Han Yu?"

"Yes. What’s going on? There’s a strange mood in the air."

The disciple’s shoulders tensed. "Didn’t you hear? A group of Inner Court disciples—six of them—were killed during a mission outside."

Han Yu’s expression froze. "Killed? Where?"

"In the forest Northwest of Lanbu City," the disciple replied, eyes wide. "It was supposed to be a standard herb collection mission, but none of them returned. The sect sent a search party and confirmed the worst. It... it was brutal. Some of the bodies were found burned or torn apart."

Han Yu’s heart skipped a beat—but not from fear. ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom

He remained outwardly calm, maintaining a concerned, subdued expression. "Do they know who the disciples were?"

"Yes." The disciple nodded slowly. "One of them was Senior Brother Rong Jun."

Rong Jun.

Han Yu’s heart gave a subtle flutter.

So it had worked.

Meng Jueyan—or rather, the Mist Eye Sect’s disciples—had acted swiftly. His intel had been solid, and their counterplay had been merciless. Rong Jun, that lurking snake tied to Murong Xie, had been eliminated. And with the others gone too, it meant Meng Jueyan had likely sent enough power to deal with the entire compromised group in one fell stroke.

Han Yu lowered his gaze, letting a shadow fall across his face.

"I see..." he murmured, voice soft and appropriately solemn. "That’s terrible news."

The outer disciple nodded. "Yeah. Everyone’s shaken. Even some of the elders have asked their disciples to stay on their peaks. There’s speculation it might have something to do with the Mist Eye Sect, since that group had been investigating something related."

"I appreciate you telling me," Han Yu said, giving the disciple a light nod. "Go on. Be careful who you talk to about this."

The disciple hurried off, leaving Han Yu alone at the path’s edge.

He exhaled slowly and began walking toward the gardens.

His face remained drawn and quiet, eyes reflecting the sorrow expected from someone who’d just learned of a sect tragedy.

But inside?

Inside, Han Yu was practically glowing.

’So it worked.’

’It really worked.’

His tip to Meng Jueyan had resulted in an actual purge. The sect had moved on his intel. He didn’t care that he had caused the deaths of his own sect’s disciples. What mattered was that his plan had been executed with precision.

Han Yu wasn’t just a lowly outer sect cultivator anymore.

He was now a player in the shadows, part of a quiet game with deadly stakes. And best of all—he had received no blame, no attention, no fallout.

His reputation remained intact, and his cultivation continued uninterrupted.

As he walked past the gardens, the morning mist curling around the path like threads of silk, Han Yu let himself smile just a little.

Not too much.

Just enough.

After listening to the devastating news of Rong Jun’s demise, Han Yu didn’t return to his courtyard immediately.

Instead, he took a slow detour through the common areas of the Outer Court, walking with the casual gait of someone who had nothing pressing to do. His eyes drifted lazily from one group of disciples to another, his hands tucked into his sleeves, ears wide open to catch every shred of gossip floating through the crisp morning air.

In truth, this was reconnaissance. Quiet, measured, and passive—but reconnaissance, nonetheless.

He passed by the Spirit Herb Garden, where two female disciples crouched near a lavender bush, discussing what they’d heard from their senior brothers.

"...they said all six of them died. Not even a single survivor."

"No way. All of them? I thought Rong Jun was supposed to be really strong..."

"He was. But apparently, they were ambushed before they could even fight back."

Han Yu kept walking.

Near the Spirit Crane coop, another group of disciples sat beneath the shade of a stone gazebo. The conversation turned toward speculation.

"They must’ve run into an elite from the Mist Eye Sect."

"I heard it was a rogue cultivator group that teamed up with someone inside."

"Do you think there was a traitor?"

"Could be. How else would they have known their mission route?"

Han Yu didn’t look their way, didn’t offer a nod of acknowledgment. He simply listened, storing the words in his mind while maintaining his distant, contemplative appearance.

By the time he reached the Eastern Training Field, he’d passed no fewer than nine different conversation clusters. They all revolved around the same topic: the deaths of Rong Jun and his team.

But the details?

They were vague at best.

Almost no one knew how they had died. There was no mention of specific techniques used, no clues as to who executed the ambush. Only that it had happened swiftly and without resistance.

That much, at least, was accurate. Meng Jueyan’s handpicked team must have struck hard and fast. Clean. Efficient. The perfect kind of hit—terrifying and mysterious, but leaving no tangible trail for the rest of the sect to follow.

’Good,’ Han Yu thought. ’The less the others know, the better.’

After nearly two hours of wandering, he was satisfied.

He turned back toward his courtyard, gliding quietly through the stone pathways, past trimmed hedges and flickering formation lamps. Once inside the courtyard gates, he locked them shut and released a long breath.

Nothing pointed back to him.

No suspicions. No rumors of "Elder Yi." No mention of any planted intel. Even those who spoke of the Mist Eye Sect only did so in the most general terms, casting blame without direction.

Perfect, he thought, a smile brushing the corners of his lips.

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