The Beijing safehouse stood as a scarred fortress against the rising dawn, its walls pocked with the remnants of Liang Zhao's fall, the air thick with the shimmer of gold blood and the weight of a new threat: "The king falls, but the heirs rise." 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 honed through Tianhua's end, Liang Xiu's collapse, and Zhao's defeat. Her blood thundered, the golden-eyed woman's promise echoing: "Your blood reigns supreme."
Jiang Yukang flanked her, his pistol steady despite the blood seeping through his bandaged shoulder and ribs, his dark eyes locked on the gold-eyed figure cloaked in shadow—a lean silhouette, not Zhao, not Jin, but something younger, sharper. "They keep coming," he growled, voice raw but resolute, the kingpin's calm a steel anchor. "Tianhua, Xiu, Zhao—now heirs?"
