The newsfeed flickered on the public terminal as Han Sen stepped out of the Steelhold transfer station. The headlines blared:
*"Yate Group CEO Zhao Yalong Completes Third Evolution! Ascends to Fourth Sanctuary Sector! 83rd Human to Achieve This Feat! Lifespan: 500 Years! Granted Demi-God Tier!"*
"Lank, Prodigy of the Rekote System, Achieves Evolution with 100 Mutant Genes! Enters Second Sanctuary! Lifespan: 300 Years!"
"Senator Hemmingway Slays Demi-God Tier Sacred Blood Creature 'Ocean's Star' - A First!"
"Leading Experts Predict First Quadruple Evolver Within Decade - Fifth Sanctuary Access Imminent!"
Han Sen barely registered the triumphs of distant elites. A fierce determination solidified within him. Evolver. Transcender. Demi-God. With that crystal… I'll reach those heights. Maybe beyond. He clenched his fist, the phantom thrum of his eight Sacred Genes a quiet promise beneath his skin. He boarded the maglev train, the sleek pod humming towards the crumbling edges of the city where home waited.
He was still yards from the weathered gate when the voices hit him – sharp, accusatory, slicing through the quiet street. A woman's voice, shrill and laced with venom, led the chorus:
"Luo Sulan, are you trying to steal the ancestral home right out from under us? Let's be clear: this house was Mom and Dad's. Me, Big Brother, Second Brother – we all have a claim. Now Big Brother's gone, we're not here to bully a widow. His share? Fine, you keep it. But the whole house? Over my dead body."
A heavier, male voice rumbled agreement. "Exactly. It's inheritance. Belongs to all the children. You've lived here rent-free for over twenty years! That's more than generous. It's time to settle this."
A third voice, thin and unnervingly smooth, chimed in. "Second Brother speaks truth. We won't charge back-rent. But the property? It must be divided."
A younger woman's voice, colder, cut through: "We've had it appraised. Worth about three million credits. Split three ways, that's a million each. Pay us, Luo Sulan, and the house is yours. Or sell it. We split the proceeds. Your choice, sister-in-law. We're flexible." She made 'flexible' sound like a threat.
The first woman jumped back in, her faux sweetness grating. "Second Sister-in-law is right. Big Brother's gone. We're not monsters preying on orphans. Whatever you decide – pay up or sell – we'll accept." The lie hung thick in the air.
Han Sen's mother, Luo Sulan, sounded broken. "Second Brother, Third Sister… you know our situation. Where would we find two million credits?"
"Sell the house!" the shrill woman snapped instantly.
"Sell it?" Luo Sulan's voice trembled. "Where would we live? Han Sen just finished his mandatory schooling… Yan'er needs to start soon…"
"Don't play the victim card, Sister-in-law!" the shrill woman retorted. "Think we're rolling in credits? My Hao is in private academy! The fees alone turn my hair white!"
"Sis is right," the smooth-voiced man (Han Sen's Third Uncle) sighed theatrically. "Times are hard for everyone. Selling solves it. You'll get your share, have money for Yan'er's schooling..."
"Pay or sell," the younger woman stated flatly. "Choose."
Rage, white-hot and blinding, erupted in Han Sen. He slammed the gate open.
His mother stood clutching his five-year-old sister, Han Yan. Tears streaked Luo Sulan's face. Little Yan buried her head against her mother's chest, eyes wide with terror. Surrounding them, radiating smug satisfaction: two men and two women. His relatives.
"You dare?" Han Sen's voice was low, dangerous. He pointed a shaking finger at the heavyset woman with the shrill voice – his Aunt Yu Mei. "Auntie. Remember when you cooked the books at the family firm? Nearly a million credits gone? Who crawled here, sobbing, begging Dad to cover your tracks?"
"Han Sen! How dare you slander me!" Yu Mei shrieked, face purpling.
He pivoted to the thin, smooth-talking man beside her – her husband, Uncle Feng. "And you, Uncle. Embezzling company funds for your 'investments'? Blew half a million. Who knelt right here in this courtyard, begging Dad to save your skin?"
Feng sputtered, unable to form words.
Han Sen turned to the portly man – his Second Uncle, Han Lei. "Second Uncle. Your gambling debts? Ready to jump off a roof? Who pulled you back? That affair? Almost got you carved up by thugs? Who paid the ransom, smoothed it over?"
Han Lei's jowls quivered, his eyes darting away.
"And Dad!" Han Sen's voice cracked. "When Stellaris Group tried to gut the company, who stood up to them? Who made enemies powerful enough to get him killed? 'Accident' they called it!" He swept his gaze over the four vipers. "And you? You couldn't even be bothered with his funeral! Sold the company to Stellaris the second he was cold! Did we see a single credit? Not one!" He took a step forward, his fury palpable. "Your wedding houses? Who paid? Worth less than this 'ancestral home'? Grandma and Grandpa – who changed their sheets when they were sick? Fed them? Not you! And now… now you come for this?!"
Han Lei puffed out his chest, trying for bluster. "Don't twist things! Dad ran the company like a dictator! It was Grandpa's legacy! We had a right to the funds! We just took what was ours!"
"Exactly!" Yu Mei screeched, finding her voice again. "Your father hoarded everything! Today, it's simple: Pay up or sell the house. Take us to court? You'll lose! The law's on our side!"
"It was your father's fault…" the others muttered, a chorus of blame directed at the dead man.
Han Sen trembled, not just from anger, but from a profound sense of betrayal. His father had taken over a failing, million-credit business and built it into something substantial. And every step of the way, he'd bailed these people out. Covered their greed, their stupidity, their crimes. He'd nearly bankrupted the company saving them, time and again. And for what? To die protecting what he'd built, only for these hyenas to pick the carcass clean and now circle his widow and children?
"Family. They're blood. We take care of our own." His father's words echoed bitterly in Han Sen's mind. The ultimate irony.
If they were genuinely destitute, facing ruin, maybe… maybe he could stomach it. But his eyes flicked past them to the street. Parked ostentatiously were their personal flyers – sleek, top-tier models, each easily costing more than the "million credits" they were demanding from his mother. The proceeds from the company sale? Hundreds of millions. All vanished into their pockets. Not a single credit shared with the "orphans and widow." They weren't desperate. They were greedy. Vultures picking at the last scraps.