The temple attic hung heavy with the scent of melted metal and incense, the silence after the assassin's retreat broken only by the faint hum of the Kamo River below. Feng Ruoxi stood near the shattered skylight, the phoenix pendant warm in her hand, her mark glowing faintly against her wrist as Tianhua's voice lingered—"Come to Beijing, daughter—I'm waiting." The drone's red eye had blinked out into the Kyoto night, a harbinger of the war ahead, and her blood thrummed, the golden-eyed woman's prophecy a quiet pulse: "Your blood is his doom."
Jiang Yukang leaned against the shrine, his arm patched from the assassin's poisoned bolt—saved by Ruoxi's fire—his pistol resting beside him, his dark eyes fixed on her. "He's calling you out," he said, voice low and steady, the kingpin's calm returning despite the blood staining his sleeve. "Beijing's his turf—we're walking into a trap."
