The temple tunnels stretched dark and cold beneath Beijing's ancient stone, their walls slick with damp, the hum of machinery growing louder with every step. Feng Ruoxi led the way, her dark hair matted with sweat, the phoenix tattoo on her wrist glowing fiercely, its whisper—"The fire rises…"—a relentless pulse in her veins. Her chest ached from old wounds, her fire surging through her palms, but her eyes burned with a fury that had claimed Kyoto and now sought to purge Tianhua's sins. The child's cry echoed in her skull, Yuwei's vision—fighting here, pleading for children—driving her deeper into the abyss.