The Kyoto night buzzed with the aftermath of chaos, the Jiang villa's grand hall a battlefield of shattered glass and bloodstains from Xia Zhenguo's failed ambush. Feng Ruoxi stood at the center, her dark hair loose, her fists clenched, the faint glow of a phoenix tattoo pulsing on her wrist—a mark she'd only noticed hours ago, after the fight. Her chest ached from a near miss, her breath sharp, but her eyes burned with a fire that had claimed this city—Kyoto's underworld hers, the Liang nest a memory, Xia Zhenguo's forces scattered. Yet the weight of Jiang Yukang's confession pressed harder than any wound: her husband, the masked kingpin, the shadow who'd torched Kyoto's syndicates to avenge Bai Yunshu—her past self.