Huang Yue's POV
The dawn was a blur of blood and smoke, my hands trembling as I pressed them to Yang Wei's chest, his blood seeping through my fingers—warm, relentless, his pulse a faint thread beneath my grip. Yanyan's voice roared ahead, fierce and unbroken, her knife slashing through Zhao's men, Haoyu's pipe swinging beside her, Dad and Wu Qiang battered but alive, Lao Zhang fading on the dirt, Chen's seven men firing from their trucks. Zhao's boats retreated, only to surge back—dozens now, rifles gleaming, his voice crackling through the radio: "Sixth wave—reinforced. Take them—now!" My fault—Li Wei's deals, my silence, the shadow I'd run from—had brought this war to our door, and now my family bled for it, Yang Wei most of all.
"Yue!" Dad's voice cut through, rough and urgent, his pipe dragging as he crawled to me, blood dripping from his chest, his side—alive, barely, his eyes sharp despite the pain. "Yang Wei—he's slipping!"
