There was no struggle. No defiance.
Only silence.
A silence so absolute it rang in their ears, louder than screams, louder than any battle cry. It was not the silence of hesitation, nor of a warrior preparing for his final stand. No, this was something deeper. Heavier.
It was the silence of prey that had finally understood the nature of its predator.
Somewhere, a soft breath hitched. The sound barely carried, yet in this frozen moment, it was deafening. A single, trembling exhale—the kind that came when the body knew something before the mind could catch up.
That there was no escape.
That there was no salvation.
That there was no future beyond this moment.
The weight of Yanwei's presence crushed down on them, suffocating and absolute, pressing into their skulls like unseen hands gripping their very souls. It was as if reality itself had turned against them, warping beneath his will, shackling them to the ground with nothing but the sheer force of his existence.
And he hadn't even moved.
Even in stillness, he ruled.
Even in silence, he owned them.
No one dared to speak. No one dared to breathe too loudly. The thought of drawing attention to themselves—of becoming the next subject of his amusement—was too horrifying to risk.
Yet it was not just fear that kept them still.
It was something crueler.
Fear meant there was still something to fight for. Fear meant survival was possible.
But now, as they stood beneath that abyss-like gaze, the cold realization settled in.
Yanwei had never given them a chance.
Not truly.
Every glance. Every laugh. Every idle word had been nothing more than a game—his game. Their reactions, their hope, their desperate struggle to hold onto the illusion of survival… he had watched it all like a child toying with ants, letting them scurry before finally crushing them beneath his heel.
And now, finally, they understood.
Their lives were not theirs to protect.
Their suffering was not theirs to resist.
They had never been people in his eyes.
Only things.
And things existed to be broken.
Some trembled. Others clenched their teeth so tightly their jaws ached. Zhang had already shattered, skull crushed in an instant, before he could even voice his surrender.
And the worst part?
It hadn't been an execution.
It had been a joke.
A meaningless, fleeting whim.
Just kidding, hehe.
The words echoed in their minds, looping over and over like a twisted lullaby, seeping into their bones.
Yanwei had taken a man who was ready to abandon everything—his pride, his ideals, his very self—and in the instant before he could submit, had erased him.
Not because Zhang had defied him.
Not because Zhang had fought back.
But simply because Yanwei could.
And now, as the silence stretched, they knew.
There was no right answer.
No plea that would be heard.
No struggle that would be respected.
There was only the slow unraveling of their minds, the stretching of this moment, the anticipation of the inevitable—
And the quiet, choking despair that came with realizing their deaths would not be tragic.
Only entertaining.
…
The fear wasn't new.
It had settled in long ago, creeping into the marrow of her bones, slithering through her veins like a sickness. The moment she became his, she had accepted it. That she was nothing more than his possession, a tool, a servant bound to his whims.
She had thought she understood what that meant.
She had thought that acceptance would dull the fear.
But as she stood there, staring at what remained of Zhang, at the blood, at the sheer, unceremonious ease with which he had been wiped away—
Something inside her cracked.
It wasn't the fact that Zhang had died.
It was the fact that Zhang had been better than her.
Stronger. Smarter. More willful.
And none of it had mattered.
He had been crushed as easily as a dying ember beneath a boot, his struggle reduced to nothing more than a momentary flicker of amusement in Yanwei's abyssal gaze.
If he could be destroyed so easily, then what about her?
She had never entertained the thought of resistance. Not once. She had accepted her place. Obedience had been her shield, her only means of survival.
But what if survival wasn't an option?
What if obedience meant nothing?
What if there was no logic, no rules, no structure—what if Yanwei simply decided one day that she wasn't worth keeping?
Zhang had been important.
And yet he was gone.
Linglong was next.
And then—
Her breath stilled.
No, that wasn't right.
She should be safe. She had no illusions of freedom. She had already given up the notion of control. She was nothing. She was already his.
And yet, a terrible thought gripped her like a vice.
What if that was exactly why her fate would be worse?
Zhang had been allowed to make a question.
But Yun—
What if she wouldn't even be allowed that?
What if there was something worse than dying by Yanwei's hands?
What if existing under him forever was the true horror?
Her heart pounded so violently she thought it might tear through her ribs. Her breath came short, sharp, unsteady.
She had thought she had come to terms with everything.
She had been wrong.
Her lips parted. She tried to speak, but no sound came.
…
Yanwei's gaze flickered toward her. Slowly, he tilted his head, his abyss-like eyes narrowing in quiet amusement—no, recognition.
"Ah," he murmured, as if reading something unspoken in her expression. "You have something to say?"
Yun flinched. Her breath hitched, and for a brief moment, she forgot how to move.
Yanwei's words weren't sharp, weren't laced with overt malice, yet they dug under her skin all the same. His abyss-like gaze lingered on her, amused, patient, as if waiting for her to gather the courage to speak.
Her fingers curled into trembling fists.
"Why…" Her voice came hoarse, barely above a whisper. She swallowed, forced herself to meet his gaze. "Why is Zhang dead, yet I'm still alive? It's clear that Zhang is better than me."
Yanwei smirked. His head tilted slightly, as if the question genuinely entertained him.
Yanwei smirked, tilting his head slightly, his gaze leisurely sweeping over her. "Well, because you're pleasant to look at."
Yun felt something sink in her stomach. A slow, sickening weight.
"And because Zhang was a man."
Her breath hitched.
"Men," Yanwei mused, rolling the word on his tongue as if it were an old, familiar thought, "always seem to think they're destined for something greater. Some call it ambition. I call it delusion." His voice was smooth, unhurried, almost indulgent. "They build empires in their heads. See thrones where there are none. Even when shackled, even when brought to their lowest, they dream of crowns."
His gaze flickered, unreadable. "Take any so-called great figure in history—warlords, emperors, sages who thought they could carve their names into eternity. What did they all have in common?" He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "They all wanted more. Even when brought to their knees, they kneeled with the weight of a thousand unsaid rebellions."
A chuckle. Soft. Almost pitying. "Zhang was no ruler, of course. But men like him? You can see it in their eyes. That foolish, flickering hope." Yanwei's gaze sharpened slightly, something like amusement gleaming within. "Even in submission, they wait. Even in death, they reach."
His voice was quiet, but it carried.
"It doesn't matter how long they wait. One day, they will strike."
He let the words settle, let them take root, before his gaze returned to her—dark, knowing.
"But you?"
A slow, deliberate smile curled at his lips.
"You don't have that problem."
Yun stiffened.
"Because you are full of obedience."
The silence that followed was heavy.
Yanwei studied her, his eyes flicking over her face with casual interest, as if savoring every shift in her expression, every flicker of thought passing through her mind. Then, with that same lazy, almost playful tone, he added,
"And if you looked at Zhang before, you would see—he doesn't bow easily. But you?"
His head tilted, voice dropping to something quieter, something that sank beneath the skin.
"You bow beautifully."
It was a statement, not a compliment. A quiet truth.
Yanwei let the words linger, let them seep into her bones before leaning back, his smirk widening.
"So tell me, Yun—" his voice was soft, mockingly sweet, "would you like to keep bowing?"