The Beijing safehouse trembled under the weight of the dawn, its walls scarred from the Liang queen's fall, the air thick with the tang of gold blood and the echo of a new threat: "The queen kneels, but the king rises." Feng Ruoxi stood at the center, the phoenix pendant blazing against her chest, her mark flaring crimson as fire surged in her palms—wild, supreme, a force forged through Tianhua's end and Xiu's defeat. Her blood roared, the golden-eyed woman's promise resounding: "Your blood claims all."
Jiang Yukang flanked her, his pistol raised despite the blood seeping through his bandaged shoulder and ribs, his dark eyes locked on the gold-eyed figure cloaked in shadow—a towering presence, not Liang Jin or Xiu, but something broader, more imposing. "They're not done," he growled, voice steady but laced with exhaustion, the kingpin's calm a thin thread. "Tianhua, Xiu—now this."
