Huang Yanyan's POV
Blood dripped from my hands—Yang Wei's, Haoyu's, mine—staining the muddy earth as I knelt beside Dad, his chest barely rising, his eyes shut, his last rasp—"Beijing… end him"—a fire in my gut I couldn't quench. Zhao's boats roared ashore, fifty men strong, rifles gleaming in the dawn, his voice booming through the trees—"Yang Wei—your blood ends here!"—a taunt that tore through me, my knife trembling in my grip, slick with gore but steady. Haoyu groaned beside me, blood seeping from his chest, his pipe clutched tight; Mom sobbed over Dad, her hands slipping in red; Grandpa Wu slashed with his machete, leg a mess but eyes fierce; Gramps stirred, his pipe dragging, alive but broken; Lao Zhang's three men fired, their clips low, facing a tidal wave—Zhao himself, tall and cold, stepping from the lead boat, his coat billowing, pistol raised. My family was bleeding out, but I'd carve his heart before he took us.
