The Kyoto dawn painted the Jiang villa in hues of ash and gold, the air thick with smoke from the night's battle. Feng Ruoxi stood at the gates, her dark hair tangled, her palms still warm from the fire that had crushed Xia Mia's last stand. The phoenix tattoo on her wrist pulsed faintly, a mystery she couldn't shake since it flared during the fight—its whisper, "The blood wakes…", lingering in her mind. Her chest ached from the strain, her body bruised, but her resolve burned brighter than ever—Kyoto was hers, claimed through blood and flame, yet new shadows loomed.
Jiang Yukang approached, his mask tucked into his belt, blood crusting on his arm where Xia Mia's dagger had grazed him. His dark eyes met hers, steady but heavy with the weight of his confession—he was the masked kingpin, the shadow who'd razed Kyoto's underworld for Bai Yunshu, her past self. "We've got Mia locked in the cellar," he said, voice rough but firm. "She's broken, but alive—for now. What's our next move?"
