The breaking point of a grand structure rarely comes from a massive, singular strike. It comes from the microscopic fractures hidden deep within the foundation, widening silently under sustained, invisible pressure until the entire edifice collapses under its own weight.
In the Han Family Manor, the fractures were beginning to show.
The price of premium smokeless coal had doubled overnight, just as Lin An commanded. For Patriarch Han, it was no longer a matter of simply opening the treasury; it was a hemorrhage. The daily cost to heat the massive, open-air red pine pavilions was now equivalent to outfitting a small army.
Inside the central hall, the minor lords were no longer smiling. They sat wrapped in thick furs, picking at cold food. The braziers were burning the premium coal again, but Patriarch Han had strictly limited the amount. The heat was barely enough to keep the wine from freezing in their cups. The lavish celebration of Han Yue's ascension had turned into a grim hostage situation; the lords could not leave without insulting the Han Family, but staying meant enduring the bitter, miserable cold.
In a private antechamber behind the main hall, Patriarch Han paced furiously. The heavy bear pelts he wore could not hide the exhaustion carving deep lines into his face.
His steward stood trembling by the doorway, holding a thick ledger.
"Read it again," Patriarch Han demanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.
"Patriarch... the treasury reserves designated for the month are depleted," the steward whispered, his hands shaking so badly the pages rattled. "We paid the Shen Family barges at the secondary docks at dawn. The new price... it consumed the remaining liquid silver. To afford another shipment tomorrow, we must sell off the deeds to the eastern silk mills, or dip into the designated military funds."
Patriarch Han stopped pacing. He grabbed a heavy jade ornament from a nearby table and hurled it against the wall. It shattered into a dozen expensive pieces.
"The Shen Family is extorting me!" Patriarch Han roared, his heavy Qi flaring and rattling the wooden window frames. "Shen Tie thinks he can hold me hostage because of the weather! I will march the mercenaries to his mines and take the coal from his dead hands!"
"Patriarch, please!" The steward dropped to his knees. "Shen Tie has fortified his mountain passes. A winter siege would take months. And if we send the Silver Coin mercenaries away from the city, our estates and foundries will be left entirely unprotected. The Lin guards have already shown they are willing to attack our men."
Patriarch Han closed his eyes, pressing his thick fingers against his temples. The headache was blinding. The steward was right. He could not fight a war on two fronts. He needed the mercenaries here to keep the city terrified and to guard his assets.
But he also needed the coal. If the braziers went out completely, the minor lords would freeze, and the Han Family would become the laughingstock of the province. A family that could not even heat its own home was unfit to rule.
"The military funds," Patriarch Han finally spoke, his voice tight with suppressed rage.
The steward looked up, his eyes wide. "Patriarch? The military funds are for the Silver Coin Consortium. Today is the end of the week. Their wages are due at sundown."
"Delay their pay," Patriarch Han commanded coldly, turning his back on the steward. "Tell their commander that the banking transfers from the Imperial Court are delayed due to the blizzard. Tell them they will be paid double next week. Take the silver meant for their wages and buy the coal."
"But Patriarch... mercenaries are not loyal soldiers. They are killers. If we withhold their coin..."
"I am a Qi Condensation Cultivator!" Patriarch Han spun around, his eyes blazing with fury. "My daughter is the fiancée of the Holy Son! Do you think a pack of filthy, sword-swinging dogs will dare to raise their weapons against me over a delayed payment? They will wait. They will freeze in the outer courtyards, and they will wait for their coin. Do as I command!"
The steward swallowed his terror, bowed deeply, and scurried out of the room.
Two hours later, in the dilapidated outer barracks of the Han estate, the freezing wind howled through the cracks in the stone walls.
The Silver Coin Consortium mercenaries did not have bronze braziers. They did not have premium coal. They were huddled around small, smoky fires built from broken furniture and wet twigs, shivering violently in their leather armor.
Commander Feng, a veteran mercenary missing his left eye and half his right ear, sat near the largest fire, sharpening his broadsword with a whetstone. He had survived twenty years in the underworld by following two strict rules: never fight a Cultivator, and never fight for free.
The heavy wooden door of the barracks creaked open. A Han Family servant stepped inside, looking at the hardened killers with undisguised disdain. He did not step fully into the room, clearly wanting to leave as quickly as possible.
"Commander Feng," the servant announced, his voice thin and nervous. "Patriarch Han sends his regards. Due to the severe weather, the silver shipments are delayed. Your weekly wages will be paid next week, with an additional ten percent bonus for your patience."
The rhythmic scraping of Feng's whetstone stopped instantly.
The entire barracks fell completely silent. Dozens of mercenaries stopped shivering and turned their heads toward the servant. Their eyes, previously dull with cold, suddenly sharpened with predatory hostility.
"Delayed?" Feng repeated, his voice remarkably quiet. He stood up, dropping the whetstone into the dirt. He walked slowly toward the servant, his massive frame blocking the dim light from the doorway.
"Y-yes," the servant stammered, taking a step backward into the snow. "The Patriarch assures you..."
Feng's hand shot out, grabbing the servant by the collar of his thick fur coat. He yanked the man forward, lifting him off his feet until they were eye to eye.
"I lost thirty of my best men at the Western Granary five days ago," Feng hissed, his breath washing over the terrified servant's face. "Your Patriarch sent them into a meat grinder against heavy armor, and he did not pay the blood-price for their widows. We stood in the blizzard for three days guarding his outer walls. And now, you tell me the richest man in the city cannot find the silver to pay my men, while he burns enough premium coal in the main hall to melt the winter?"
"I... I only deliver the message!" the servant cried out, his legs kicking frantically.
Feng stared at the man for a long, agonizing moment. The urge to snap his neck was overwhelming. But Feng knew Patriarch Han was a Cultivator now. Drawing blood inside the manor would mean his entire company would be slaughtered.
Feng threw the servant backward into the snow.
"Tell your Patriarch," Feng spat, pointing his broadsword at the trembling man. "We do not take promises. We take silver. If the coin is not in my hand by midnight, the Silver Coin Consortium walks. He can guard his own walls."
The servant scrambled to his feet and ran wildly back toward the inner courtyards.
Feng turned back to his men. They were looking at him, their faces tight with anger and hunger. They had bled for the Han Family, and they were being treated like stray dogs.
"Pack your gear," Feng commanded, sheathing his sword. "We are going to the tavern in the lower district. Let Han freeze in his empty courtyards."
The 'Broken Mug' was a notoriously dangerous tavern located deep in the slums of Luminous Pearl City. The city magistrates avoided the street entirely. It was a haven for smugglers, thieves, and mercenaries seeking cheap, burning liquor to stave off the winter cold.
Commander Feng pushed through the heavy, rotting wooden doors, followed by twenty of his core lieutenants. The tavern was dark, smelling strongly of spilled ale and unwashed bodies.
"Clear the back tables," Feng barked at the terrified tavern keeper. "And bring three casks of the strongest grain liquor you have. We are drinking until we cannot feel our toes."
The mercenaries took over the back corner of the tavern, slamming their heavy swords onto the wooden tables. The mood was incredibly volatile. They had expected to be celebrating with heavy purses tonight. Instead, they were broke, freezing, and nursing wounded pride.
"He thinks we won't leave," a scarred mercenary sneered, slamming his fist on the table. "He thinks the name of the Azure Cloud Sect is enough to keep us chained to his gates."
"We leave at dawn," Feng grunted, pouring a cup of the harsh liquor and throwing it down his throat. It burned like fire, but it did its job. "There is war brewing in the south. The Iron-Sand Empire is hiring. We march out of this cursed city and let the Lin Family tear Han apart."
"A long march on an empty stomach," a smooth, unfamiliar voice echoed from the darkest corner of the tavern.
Feng's hand instantly dropped to the hilt of his broadsword. The twenty lieutenants around the table tensed, their hands flying to their weapons.
The shadows in the corner seemed to part.
Captain Zhao stepped into the dim light of the tavern lanterns. He was not wearing the heavy spirit-iron armor of the Vanguard. He wore a simple, dark grey cloak, completely unarmed.
Feng narrowed his remaining eye. He recognized the man. Everyone in the underworld knew Captain Zhao, the loyal hound of the Lin Family.
"You have a lot of nerve walking in here, Zhao," Feng growled, half-drawing his blade. "Your men butchered thirty of my brothers at the granary."
"They were paid to take my grain. My men were paid to protect it," Zhao replied calmly, keeping his hands visible and empty. "It was business, Feng. You know the rules of the trade better than anyone."
"And what is your business here?" Feng asked, not sheathing his sword. "Did you come to gloat? Or did you come to die?"
"I came to buy a drink for thirsty men," Zhao said, stepping aside.
From the shadows behind Zhao, a second figure emerged.
He was draped in a thick grey mantle, a white wool scarf pulled up around his neck. He moved with a slow, deliberate grace that immediately made the hair on the back of Feng's neck stand up. The tavern was loud, filled with the murmurs of drunk thieves, but as the youth stepped forward, a profound, chilling silence seemed to follow him.
Lin An walked to the edge of the mercenaries' table. He did not look at the drawn swords. He did not look at the scarred, angry faces of the killers. He looked only at Commander Feng.
Feng stared into the boy's dark eyes. There was no fear. There was no arrogance. There was only a fathomless, calculating stillness that made the veteran mercenary feel as though he had just stepped onto thin ice over a very deep lake.
"Who are you?" Feng demanded, his voice losing some of its rough edge.
"I am the one holding the silver Patriarch Han denied you," Lin An spoke quietly.
He raised two pale fingers.
Behind him, four Lin Family guards emerged from the shadows of the tavern entrance. They were carrying two heavy, iron-bound chests. They walked forward and set the chests down directly in front of Feng's table.
With a swift kick, Zhao broke the iron locks. He kicked the lids open.
The dim light of the tavern reflected off thousands of perfectly minted silver taels. The sheer volume of wealth sitting in the dirty sawdust was staggering. It was more than the Silver Coin Consortium made in three months of bloody contracts.
The mercenaries stared at the chests, their anger completely short-circuiting under the blinding glare of the silver.
"Patriarch Han requires your swords to guard his foundries, his remaining warehouses, and his eastern gates," Lin An said, his voice weaving through the tense air like a silken thread. "He expects you to stand in the blizzard for empty promises."
Lin An reached out and picked up a single silver coin from the chest. He tossed it onto the table. It spun loudly against the rough wood before falling flat.
"I require you to do nothing," Lin An stated flatly.
Feng tore his eye away from the chests and looked at the youth. "Nothing?"
"Take the silver," Lin An instructed softly. "Drink your liquor. Rest your men. Tomorrow morning, when the Han Family sends their overseers to check the guard posts at the foundries and the eastern gates... I want those posts to be entirely empty. I want your men to pack their gear and walk out of Luminous Pearl City without drawing a single blade."
Feng frowned, his mind racing. It was the easiest contract he had ever been offered. He was being paid a fortune to simply pack up and leave. But he was a veteran, and he understood the brutal implication behind the offer.
"If we abandon the posts," Feng said slowly, "the Han Family's outer perimeter will be completely exposed. Their foundries will be unguarded. You aren't just buying our departure. You are buying an open door."
"I am buying your survival, Commander Feng," Lin An corrected smoothly.
The mask of the frail boy slipped for a fraction of a second. The *Void Singularity* released a microscopic pulse of intent.
The temperature around the table plummeted. The grain liquor in the cups instantly froze solid, the ceramic cracking under the sudden expansion of the ice. Feng felt a terrifying, suffocating weight press down on his chest, pinning him to his chair. He could not breathe. He could not move his hand to his sword. The youth standing before him was not a merchant's son; he was a monster wearing human skin.
The pressure vanished as quickly as it appeared.
Feng gasped for air, his single eye wide with sheer terror. The lieutenants around the table were clutching their chests, equally paralyzed by the brief, invisible strike.
"My Vanguard will march on the Han foundries at dawn," Lin An said, his voice returning to its polite, quiet tone. "If your men are standing at the gates, they will be slaughtered to the last man. Take the silver, Feng. Walk away. Let Patriarch Han freeze in the bed he has made."
Feng looked at the frozen liquor in his cup. He looked at the chests of silver. Then, he looked at Lin An, finally understanding why the Han Family's hundred men had died at the granary without leaving a single survivor. The Han Patriarch had swallowed a pill, but this boy... this boy had swallowed the abyss.
Feng sheathed his broadsword. He reached out and closed the lids of the heavy chests.
"The Silver Coin Consortium is leaving the city tonight," Feng declared, his voice gravelly, but firm. "We were never here."
Lin An offered a small, polite nod.
He turned around, his grey mantle swirling silently in the dark tavern, and walked back out into the freezing night. Captain Zhao followed, his hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword.
The second major pillar of the Han Family's dominance had just been kicked out from under them. The cold had drained their treasury, and their treasury's failure had just stripped them of their shield.
The economic war was over. Tomorrow, the physical butchery would begin.
Dawn broke over Luminous Pearl City not with the warmth of the sun, but with the pale, lifeless grey of a frozen corpse.
The Han Family Manor, stripped of its outer stone walls for the sake of Imperial vanity, offered no resistance to the morning wind. The sweeping red pine pavilions were beautiful monuments to a golden future, but right now, they were silent and freezing. The minor lords who had not already fled in the night were locked in their guest rooms, wrapped in every blanket they could find, cursing the name of the family they had come to worship.
In the eastern wing, Patriarch Han sat cross-legged on a silk cushion.
He was attempting to cycle his Qi, trying to stabilize his newly acquired Condensation realm. But the process was ragged. Cultivation required a still mind and a stable environment. He had neither. His thoughts were a chaotic storm of missing silver, frozen coal, and the infuriating arrogance of the Lin Family.
Heavy, frantic footsteps echoed down the wooden corridor, shattering his fragile concentration.
The sliding doors of his chamber were thrown open. The head steward collapsed onto the floorboards, his breath coming in ragged, white plumes. He didn't even have the breath to speak; he just held up a trembling hand.
Patriarch Han's eyes snapped open. The heavy pressure of his Qi flared, cracking the wooden floorboards beneath his cushion.
"If you tell me the Shen Family has raised the price of coal again," Patriarch Han growled, his voice vibrating with lethal intent, "I will throw you into the river."
"N-no, Patriarch," the steward gasped, his face ashen. "It is the outer perimeter. The eastern gates... the southern storehouses... the foundries..."
"Speak!" Han roared, standing up.
"They are empty!" the steward cried out, pressing his face to the floor. "The overseers went to deliver the morning rations. The barracks are completely empty. The Silver Coin Consortium is gone. They took their weapons, their bedrolls, their horses. They abandoned the city in the dead of night."
Patriarch Han froze. The blood drained from his face, replaced by a sudden, sickening drop in his stomach.
"A hundred and fifty men," Patriarch Han whispered to himself, the sheer scale of the betrayal breaking through his anger. "They left without demanding their delayed pay?"
"They left this on the commander's table, Patriarch," the steward said, lifting a trembling hand. Pinched between his fingers was a single, pristine silver tael. It was not stamped with the Han Family crest, nor the Imperial seal. It bore the distinct, elegant engraving of the Lin Family trading house.
Patriarch Han stared at the silver coin.
The pieces of the board suddenly clicked together with devastating clarity.
The Lin Family had not just cornered the coal market to make him freeze. They had cornered it to drain his liquid silver so he could not pay his mercenaries on time. They had created a microscopic gap in his defenses, and then they had driven a mountain of their own silver right through it.
"The foundries," Patriarch Han realized, his voice dropping to a horrified whisper.
The iron foundries in the lower district were the beating heart of the Han Family's wealth. It was where they forged their weapons, smelted their raw ore, and built the foundation of their newly acquired power. Without the Silver Coin mercenaries guarding them, the foundries were protected only by a handful of mortal foremen and tired blacksmiths.
"Gather my personal guard!" Patriarch Han bellowed, rushing past the steward. "Every man who can hold a sword! We ride to the lower district immediately!"
But even as his boots thundered down the wooden corridors of his freezing palace, Patriarch Han knew, with the cold certainty of a man watching a blade fall toward his neck, that he was already too late.
....
....
......
Two miles away, in the industrial heart of the lower district, the sky was thick with the grey smog of the smelting furnaces.
The Han Family Foundries spanned three entire city blocks. Massive stone chimneys belched smoke into the winter air, and the rhythmic, deafening sound of iron hammers striking anvils usually drowned out the noise of the city.
But this morning, the hammers were silent.
Fifty men in dark, unmarked heavy spirit-iron armor stood in a perfect, unbroken line across the main thoroughfare leading to the foundries. They did not move. They did not speak. The only sound they made was the deep, terrifyingly synchronized rhythm of their breathing. Thick clouds of scalding steam rose from their iron visors, melting the falling snow before it could even touch their armor.
Behind them, the massive iron gates of the Han foundries had been ripped off their hinges.
Captain Zhao stood at the center of the formation. His halberd was planted firmly in the snow, the heavy steel blade dripping with fresh, steaming blood.
The assault had taken less than ten minutes. The few Han Family guards left behind by the fleeing mercenaries had tried to raise the alarm, but the Vanguard moved with a supernatural, explosive velocity that shattered any organized defense. They did not fight like soldiers; they fought like a localized natural disaster. Iron doors were kicked down. Swords were snapped in half. Foremen who tried to run were cut down from behind.
Now, the surviving blacksmiths and Han overseers were tied together with heavy chains in the center of the foundry courtyard, kneeling in the dirt, entirely surrounded by the silent, steam-breathing monsters.
The sound of galloping hooves echoed down the street.
Captain Zhao raised his head. Through the morning mist, a column of thirty riders charged toward them. They wore the green silk and polished steel of the Han Family elite guards. At the head of the column was Patriarch Han himself, his face contorted into a mask of pure, unadulterated fury.
"Hold the line," Zhao commanded, his voice a low rumble.
The fifty Vanguard soldiers shifted their stances simultaneously. Fifty heavy halberds were lowered, forming an impenetrable wall of dark steel points. The *Blood-Iron Breathing Art* surged through their veins, causing the muscles beneath their heavy armor to bulge with terrifying, corrosive strength.
Patriarch Han pulled hard on his reins, forcing his warhorse to a skidding halt fifty paces from the Vanguard line. His elite guards stopped behind him, their horses nervously stepping back from the dense, predatory intent radiating from the armored men blocking the street.
Patriarch Han looked at the torn-down gates. He looked at his chained blacksmiths in the courtyard. And then he looked at the dark armor of the Vanguard.
"You Lin Family dogs," Patriarch Han spat, drawing a massive, gleaming broadsword from his back. His Qi flared, vibrating the air around him. "You sneak into the slums like rats and attack unarmed blacksmiths! Where is your coward of a master? Where is Lin An?"
Captain Zhao did not flinch under the crushing pressure of the Cultivator's aura. He gripped his halberd with both hands.
"The Young Master does not converse with thieves," Zhao replied coldly. "He sent us to collect a debt."
"A debt?" Patriarch Han laughed, a harsh, desperate sound. "I am the father of the future Holy Maiden! I am a Cultivator of the Qi Condensation realm! I will butcher every single one of you, and then I will march to your manor and tear your master's head from his shoulders!"
Patriarch Han channeled his spiritual energy into his legs. He intended to leap from his horse, crash directly into the Vanguard line, and use his superior Qi to shatter their mortal armor into shrapnel.
But before his boots could leave the stirrups, a sound cut through the freezing air.
*Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.*
From the rooftops of the stone foundries surrounding the street, thirty figures suddenly stood up from the snow. They were dressed in white cloaks, perfectly camouflaged against the winter sky.
In their hands, they held heavy, military-grade repeating crossbows—the exact weapons Lord Lin had purchased from the Shen Family.
The crossbows were fully loaded, their heavy iron bolts aimed directly down at the Han Family riders.
Patriarch Han froze. His elite guards looked up, panic instantly seizing their faces. They were trapped in a narrow street, completely surrounded by high ground, with an impenetrable wall of heavy halberds blocking their path forward.
"You are a Cultivator, Han," Captain Zhao called out, his voice echoing in the trapped street. "Your Qi can deflect an arrow. It might even deflect ten. But can it deflect three hundred iron bolts fired simultaneously? Can it protect your horse? Can it protect the thirty men behind you?"
Patriarch Han's teeth ground together so hard his jaw ached. The fiery rage in his chest collided with the icy reality of the trap.
If he ordered the charge, his elite guards would be turned into pincushions in seconds. He might survive the volley, but he would be forced to fight fifty supernaturally strong, heavily armored men alone, on foot, in the snow. Even a Cultivator could be dragged down by a pack of rabid wolves if there were enough of them.
He was staring at total annihilation.
"What does he want?" Patriarch Han hissed, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.
Captain Zhao pulled a sealed scroll from his belt and tossed it onto the snow between them.
"The foundries belong to the Lin Family now," Zhao stated, his tone leaving zero room for negotiation. "The tools, the ore, and the blacksmiths are ours. You will turn your horses around and ride back to your freezing manor. If a single Han Family guard steps foot in the lower district again, the Vanguard will not stop at the foundries. We will march up your hill and burn your red pine pavilions to the ground with you inside them."
Patriarch Han stared at the scroll in the snow. His empire, built so rapidly on the back of his daughter's ascension, was being systematically amputated. First his treasury, then his mercenaries, and now his production.
He looked up at the crossbows aimed at his head. He looked at the unblinking, dark iron visors of the Vanguard.
With a roar of pure, helpless frustration, Patriarch Han slammed his broadsword back into its scabbard. He yanked the reins of his horse, turning the beast around violently.
"Ride back!" he screamed at his terrified guards.
The Han Family elite did not hesitate. They spurred their horses, fleeing back up the main street toward the center of the city, leaving their foundries, their wealth, and their pride behind in the snow.
Captain Zhao watched them run until they disappeared into the morning mist.
He raised a hand. The crossbowmen on the roofs lowered their weapons.
"Secure the perimeter," Zhao ordered his men, turning back toward the foundries. "Get the furnaces burning. We have a lot of iron to forge."
High above the lower district, situated on a cliff overlooking the winding river, the Pavilion of Records offered a perfect, unobstructed view of Luminous Pearl City.
Lin An stood by the window. The heavy grey mantle was draped over his shoulders, protecting him from the drafts. He held a cup of hot jasmine tea, the fragrant steam rising to warm his pale face.
He watched the thick, black smoke begin to rise from the towering stone chimneys of the lower district. It was not the grey smoke of a dying fire; it was the heavy, rich smoke of massive smelting furnaces roaring back to life under new management.
The door to the library opened. Lord Lin walked in. He looked exhausted, but the perpetual shadow of defeat that had haunted him for weeks was entirely gone. In its place was a sharp, guarded reverence.
"The signal fires are lit, An'er," Lord Lin reported, stopping a respectful distance away from his son. "Captain Zhao has secured the foundries. Patriarch Han retreated without drawing his sword."
Lin An took a slow sip of his tea, keeping his gaze fixed on the rising smoke.
"He retreated because he still believes he has something to lose," Lin An replied softly. "He thinks if he hides in his manor, the Emperor will eventually send the Dragoons to restore his property, or his daughter will send an envoy to save him. He still relies on the sky to fight his battles on the ground."
"We control the southern rivers. We control the coal. And now we control the iron," Lord Lin said, looking at the city map spread across the desk. "The Shen Family has received their first shipment of promised armor. They are satisfied. The Han Family is entirely isolated. The economic war is won, An'er. We have survived."
"Surviving is for prey, Father."
Lin An turned away from the window. He set his teacup down on the desk. The gentle, frail youth vanished, replaced by the calculating predator who viewed the entire city as a mere stepping stone.
"If we leave Patriarch Han alive, he remains a variable," Lin An explained, his voice entirely devoid of emotion. "When the Azure Cloud Sect officially opens its gates in a few years, Han Yue will remember her mortal family. If she sends resources down to him, he will rebuild. A severed weed will grow back if the roots are left in the dirt."
Lord Lin's breath caught. "You intend to wipe them out completely?"
"I intend to extract everything of value," Lin An corrected. "Patriarch Han possesses a Qi Condensation foundation. It is crude, built on a pill, but it is a massive reservoir of spiritual energy. To let it rot in a freezing manor would be a tragic waste of resources."
Lin An walked over to the desk and picked up his bamboo brush. He dipped it in the dark ink.
He was rapidly approaching the limit of what his dark blue crystal foundation could passively absorb from the freezing air. To break through the Foundation Establishment realm and prepare for the long, treacherous journey across the continent to the Taiyi Profound Sect, he needed a massive influx of pure energy.
He did not just want the Han Family's iron and silver. He wanted their cultivation.
"Prepare the Vanguard, Father," Lin An instructed, writing a new list of orders on the parchment. "Give them three days to master the foundries and upgrade their armor. Distribute the remaining silver to their families to ensure their absolute loyalty."
"And in three days?" Lord Lin asked, his heart pounding in his chest.
Lin An finished the final stroke of the brush and looked up. The abyss in his eyes was wide open, promising total, unrelenting ruin.
"In three days, we stop cutting their supply lines," Lin An whispered. "And we cut their throats."