Kyoto's dusk deepened into night, the city's ancient streets glowing under lantern light, oblivious to the war stirring beneath. Feng Ruoxi led her battered team from the tower's base, her dark hair matted with sweat and blood, the phoenix tattoo on her wrist glowing faintly, its whisper—"The fire rises…"—a steady pulse in her veins. Her chest ached from old wounds, her fire simmering low, but her eyes burned with a resolve forged by loss—Xingxing's sacrifice, Yukang's frailty, and Chen's final taunt of soldiers waking across the city. The tower loomed behind, a steel corpse now, Chen dead within, but his legacy pulsed alive in Kyoto's shadows.