The armored truck rumbled through Beijing's outskirts as the dawn painted the sky in streaks of gold and gray, its engine a low growl over the quiet streets. Feng Ruoxi sat in the back, her dark hair matted with sweat and Xingxing's blood, the phoenix tattoo on her wrist glowing softly, its whisper—"The fire rises…"—a steady pulse in her veins. Her chest ached from old wounds, her fire simmering beneath her skin, but her eyes burned with a resolve sharpened by loss—Kyoto claimed, Xingxing gone, Tianhua's labs still standing. The children huddled around her, eleven frail figures, silent but alive, their hollow eyes a mirror of her grief.