Night had settled into the city like a held breath.
Beyond the glass balustrade of her balcony, neon bled softly into the rain, staining the darkness in hues of cyan and amethyst. Wind carried with it the pale petals of dandelion bloom, lifting them in slow, spiralling arcs as though the night itself were shedding memories it could no longer keep. Rain descended in uninterrupted sheets, not falling so much as pouring, a liquid veil drawn between the world and whatever truths hid behind it.
Nightingale stood motionless at the railing, a solitary silhouette against the luminous sprawl. Her long silvery-aqua hair streamed behind her, caught and teased by the wind, strands brushing her cheek like restless thoughts that refused to be stilled. She raised a cigarette to her lips, lit it, and inhaled. The ember flared briefly—defiant, fragile—before dimming again. Smoke slipped from her mouth in a slow exhale, dissolving into the rain-soaked air like a confession that could not survive being spoken aloud.
Sleep had abandoned her hours ago.
The news replayed itself relentlessly in her mind: Wen-Li—Chief Wen-Li—the woman who had welded the SSCBF together not by command, but by conviction. The woman who had stood before them like a shield and called them family. The same woman now paraded across screens as a murderer, a traitor, a psychopath. The dissonance was unbearable, like hearing a beloved melody played in the wrong key.
And then there was the obstruction. The SCP's cold refusal. The sealed house. The erased surveillance. Files vanishing as though they had never existed. Truth scrubbed away with bureaucratic precision. It was not merely suspicious—it was surgical.
Her jaw tightened.
Wen-Li's smile intruded upon her thoughts without permission—warm, unguarded, rare. The kind of smile that made you believe, absurdly, that justice was not an abstract principle but a living thing, embodied in one person's choices. Nightingale had admired her in silence, the way one admires constellations: from a distance, with reverence, never expecting to touch.
Her fingers curled around the railing.This is wrong, her mind whispered, over and over, like a prayer beaten thin by repetition. They have turned the world upside down and expect us to call it order. If Wen-Li is guilty, then I have never understood loyalty, nor truth, nor myself. A gust of wind tugged at her coat, snapping her back to the present. She took another drag, harsher this time, as if the smoke might cauterise the ache tightening in her chest.
Her inner voice trembled now, no longer restrained.
You taught us to stand when it was easier to kneel.
You taught us that justice was not obedience.
So how am I meant to believe you chose blood over principle?
Her eyes burned, though no tears fell. Nightingale had learned long ago how to keep them at bay.
"Chief…" she murmured at last, the word breaking free like a fault line giving way.
Her voice wavered, carried off by the rain before it could betray her fully. "If the world has decided to hunt you," she whispered, fingers tightening as though gripping the thought itself, "then someone must remain who remembers who you truly are."
The cigarette burned down to its filter. She crushed it out with deliberate care, watching the ember die.
Above her, dandelion petals drifted past the balcony light, luminous and fleeting—fragile things that survived only because they refused to fall straight down.
And Nightingale stood there, awake, breathing, enduring—wondering whether loyalty, like those petals, could still fly against the storm.
At the High Chaebol Tower, sleep remained an alien concept.
Gavriel Elazar stood before the vast window wall, hands clasped behind his back, watching the metropolis churn beneath him. The city glimmered like a living circuit—arteries of light pulsing through steel and glass, unaware of how close it was to being bled dry. His posture was immaculate, priestly even, yet there was a tension in his shoulders, as though the night itself had whispered something unwelcome.
The hydraulic doors sighed open.
Gavriel did not turn at once. He felt her before he saw her.
Nahema entered without ceremony. Her steps were measured, but there was a subtle dissonance in her movement—an infinitesimal delay, as though reality itself needed an extra moment to catch up with her. The amber-gold glow in her eyes was dimmer than before, turbulent rather than absolute.
Gavriel turned slowly, studying her with a clinician's patience.
"What happened to you, Nahema?" he asked, voice silked with concern that did not quite reach his eyes. "You look… disorientated."
He crossed to the bar with unhurried grace, selected a crystal glass, and poured deep red wine. The liquid caught the light like congealed rubies. He offered it to her, fingers steady, expression composed.
Nahema accepted the glass but did not drink.
"It's Ninety," she said at last. Her voice was low, clipped—controlled, yet carrying the faint abrasion of wounded pride. "At Shimmerpoint Quarter. I was fighting Wen-Li… and her accomplices." A brief curl of disdain crossed her lips as she added, "The woman—Naomi—and the man, Nolan."
She looked away, jaw tightening.
"I had Wen-Li on the brink," Nahema continued, her fingers tightening around the stem of the glass. "Her power was awakening, yes—but it was unstable. I was moments from breaking her." Her eyes flicked back to Gavriel, burning now. "And then he intervened."
Her composure fractured, just slightly.
"He defeated me."
The word tasted sour even as it left her mouth.
Gavriel's brows drew together. "Defeated you?" His tone sharpened. "Explain yourself. Properly."
Nahema exhaled, slow and deliberate, as though replaying the moment offended her senses.
"He moved incorrectly," she said. "No preparatory phase. No energy ramp. No ritual logic. He crossed the distance without traversing it. Dodged without momentum. His counterstrike did not obey causality." Her gaze darkened. "It was as though probability bent around him—like water refusing a stone."
She finally took a sip of wine, then continued, voice colder.
"My Malevolent Destruction should have erased him. Instead, he stepped out of it. Not shielded. Not resisted. Avoided. As if he chose a different outcome."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Gavriel smiled.
Ah. Not a pleasant smile—no. This was the smile of a man who had just found the missing piece of a centuries-old equation.
"So," he murmured, turning back to the window, "it has manifested at last."
Nahema frowned. "You speak as though you expected this."
"I did," Gavriel replied calmly. "What you encountered was not brute force, nor sorcery in the traditional sense." He glanced over his shoulder, eyes alight with something dangerously close to reverence. "It was a quantum ability."
Nahema stiffened. "Quantum… ability?" A rare flicker of astonishment crossed her features. "I have devoured empires, Gavriel. I have studied abyssal doctrines older than language. And yet—I have never seen or heard of such a thing."
"Because it should not exist," Gavriel said softly. "Not in a stable organism."
He turned fully now, warming to his explanation.
"A quantum-capable entity does not merely react to reality—it selects it. Ninety does not move faster than light; he occupies the interval between outcomes. Probability collapses in his favour because his nervous system is entangled with multiple potential states simultaneously."
Nahema's eyes narrowed, analytical despite her irritation. "You mean he doesn't fight within reality."
"Precisely," Gavriel replied. "He edits it."
A slow, thoughtful pause.
"It seems," he added, almost fondly, "that Wen-Li is no longer our primary concern. Ninety stands beside her now—not as a weapon, but as an anomaly."
Nahema's lips curved into a dangerous smile. "Agreed. Which begs the question—what is your next malevolent inspiration, Gavriel?"
She leaned closer, interest rekindled. "What monstrosity do you propose now?"
Gavriel returned her gaze, and this time his smile was unmistakably terrifying—thin, radiant, and utterly devoid of mercy.
"A war."
Nahema's brows lifted. "A war?"
"Yes," he said quietly. "A war between flowers."
He gestured vaguely towards the city, as though arranging pieces on a board only he could see.
"The Crimson Lotus… and the Petals of Dandelion."
Understanding dawned in her eyes. "You mean Shin-Zhang Corporation and the SSCBF." She tilted her head. "But the SSCBF already dances to the High Council's strings. And you—High Chaebol—rule from the penumbra. Why turn upon your own assets?"
Gavriel laughed softly.
"Oh, Nahema… you still think in terms of ownership." He stepped closer, voice lowering. "This is not governance. It is chess."
He spread his hands, palms open.
"I want both organisations ruined—whether under my banner or not. Order born of obedience is brittle. Order born of annihilation is eternal." His eyes gleamed. "To summon the Lord and the Shadows, obstacles must be dissolved. Hearts must break. Tears must be shed."
He inhaled, almost blissful.
"We will let them tear each other apart. And from their suffering, we shall build dominion."
Nahema regarded him for a long moment—then laughed, a low, delighted sound.
"You humans," she said, shaking her head with genuine amusement, "are more intricate—and more horrifying—than any abyssal species I have known. Magnificent."
"Yes," Gavriel agreed serenely. "Humans are wonderfully self-destructive. They require no chains—only belief." He lifted his glass in a mock toast. "When morning comes, we shall watch the petals fall."
Nahema's smile lingered, sharp and intrigued. "Well then, Gavriel… I find myself rather fond of you." She studied him with predatory curiosity. "Charismatic. Ambitious. And dangerously ignorant of the gods you dare to court."
Gavriel's smile did not falter.
Ignorance, after all, had never stopped a man from burning the world.
The following morning arrived without mercy.
By ten o'clock sharp, the SSCBF headquarters had resumed its habitual cadence—boots on polished floors, datapads humming to life, officers and analysts moving with rehearsed precision. From a distance, it appeared orderly. Functional. Untroubled.
Up close, the cracks were visible.
Lan Qian crossed the central operations floor and slowed when she saw Nightingale standing near the railing. The woman's posture was rigid, shoulders squared as ever, yet her eyes betrayed her—shadowed, rimmed with fatigue, the faint hollows beneath them like bruises left by a sleepless war.
Concern softened Lan Qian's features.
"Ying Zheo-Lin," she said gently, lowering her voice, "are you… all right?" She tilted her head, studying her friend with quiet scrutiny. "You don't look as though you slept at all."
Nightingale startled, as if pulled from a private abyss. "Oh—Lan Qian." She forced a thin smile that did not reach her eyes. "It's… well…" Her voice faltered, then trailed away.
Lan Qian's gaze sharpened—not accusatory, merely knowing. "You can't stop thinking about her, can you?"
The question landed cleanly.
Nightingale exhaled, slow and weary, as though conceding a truth she had been guarding all night. "No," she admitted. "I can't." Her fingers curled unconsciously at her side. "Wen-Li wasn't just our Chief. She held us together. She led with discipline, yes—but also with compassion. She made us believe we were more than an institution. We were a family."
Lan Qian nodded, her expression softening with shared memory. "You're right. She was kind-hearted and unyielding in equal measure. Strong-minded, but never cruel. A true leader—one you'd follow even into fire."
A familiar presence cut into the moment.
"What's happening here?"
Commander Krieg approached from the far end of the floor, his stride measured, his expression unreadable. Both women stiffened instinctively, straightening as if summoned by gravity itself. He regarded them for a moment—long enough to understand everything they were not saying.
He raised a hand slightly, a subtle signal for silence.
"You're still worried about her," he said at last—not as a question, but a statement.
Neither Nightingale nor Lan Qian replied.
Krieg's jaw tightened, though his voice remained calm. "I know how deeply you cared for her. I know what she meant to you." His gaze hardened, pragmatic as steel. "But this is not the hour for sentiment. Focus on your duties. And whatever you feel—do not let it be seen. There are eyes everywhere."
Before either could respond, the intercom crackled to life, slicing through the air with bureaucratic urgency.
"All personnel, please report to the auditorium immediately. This is not optional."
The words lingered, heavy as a summons.
Elsewhere, far removed from fluorescent corridors and procedural order, the Black Castle breathed in shadow.
Zoyah burst into Lady Sin's chamber, her long silver hair streaming behind her like liquid moonlight. She dropped to one knee without hesitation, head bowed, voice taut with urgency.
"My Lady."
Lady Sin did not look up at once. She sat poised, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, turning a black rose between her fingers as though it were a thought made tangible.
"What is it, Zoyah?" she asked calmly.
"A war has been declared," Zoyah said, her voice tightening as the words left her mouth.
Lady Sin's fingers stilled.
"A war?" She lifted her gaze, one brow arching with faint intrigue.
"Between the flowers," Zoyah continued. "Between the Petals of Dandelion and the Crimson Lotus."
A slow smile curved Lady Sin's lips—sharp, delighted.
"So," she murmured, rising gracefully to her feet, "the SSCBF against Shin-Zhang Corporation." She let out a soft, amused laugh. "Impressive." Her eyes gleamed with cold understanding. "It seems Gavriel has chosen to play chess against Madam Di-Xian… using the SSCBF as his expendable piece."
Zoyah hesitated. "What are your orders, my Lady?"
Lady Sin turned towards the tall window, gazing out as though she could already see the carnage to come. Her reflection in the glass looked almost pleased.
"There will be no intervention," she said lightly. "We shall sit back… and watch."
She twirled the black rose once more, petals catching the dim light like fragments of night.
"Let the Crimson Lotus clash with the Petals of Dandelion. Flowers are always most beautiful," she added softly, "just before they are trampled."
The castle fell silent again—anticipation coiling through its stones like a held breath.
The auditorium filled with a low, restless murmur—boots shifting, uniforms whispering, datapads dimmed and stilled. Rows upon rows of officers and staff stood at attention beneath the cold wash of overhead lights. At the front dais stood President Zhang Wei, his posture rigid, flanked by his son, Zhang Ji, and the assembled High Council. Their expressions were carved from the same austere stone: severe, unyielding, ceremonious.
Captain Robert felt the air thicken around him. His jaw tightened as an unease crept up his spine.
Why summon everyone at this hour? he wondered. Not for condolences. Not for protocol.
His eyes flicked to the dais. Don't tell me…
Zhang Ji stepped forward, his voice carrying with the crisp authority of a blade drawn cleanly from its sheath.
"Dear ladies and gentlemen—officers of the SSCBF," he began. "You have been gathered here this morning for a singular purpose. A task. A mission."
The room stilled.
"You are all aware of the deaths of our High Council chairmen—leaders of our own organisation." His gaze hardened. "They were murdered by the former Chief of the SSCBF—Wen-Li."
A ripple went through the hall, like wind disturbing a field of brittle grass.
"She is currently harboured by the Shin-Zhang Corporation," Zhang Ji continued, voice unflinching, "an organisation led by Madam Di-Xian—formerly of this very Bureau. After her departure, she founded a clandestine agency operating beneath the visible strata of law and governance. You may know it by its codename: the Crimson Lotus."
A beat.
"The operatives under her command include the assassin known as Agent-90."
The name landed like a dropped blade.
Captain Robert's breath caught. His fingers curled slowly into a fist at his side, knuckles paling. Across the hall, Captain Lingaong Xuein—newly returned from medical leave—felt her heart lurch. Her lips parted slightly, colour draining from her face as disbelief and dread warred behind her eyes.
Captain Lingaong Xuemin's expression hardened into something feral; his jaw clenched, a muscle ticking as restrained fury flickered behind his stare. Beside him, Captain Feng Shaoyun's brows knit together, her posture stiffening as though bracing for an impact she had long foreseen.
Qu Yexun's eyes narrowed, calculating, while Yang Shaoyong exhaled sharply through his nose, shoulders drawing back—soldierly resolve eclipsing shock.
Ping Lianhua stood frozen, fingers pressed unconsciously to her lips, eyes wide with a tremor of disbelief. Gu Zhaoyue's gaze dropped for a heartbeat, lashes lowering as if struck by a private grief.
Tao-Ren swallowed hard, spine straightening as though discipline alone could anchor her. Beside her, Demitin Koğlulanci—fearless, immovable—pulled her hair into a tighter bun, her eyes gleaming with a predatory focus that welcomed combat even as her expression betrayed unease.
Sakim Massersi let out a low, rumbling breath, hefting his riot shield one-handed as if testing its weight against what was to come. Nearby, Koizumoto Daishoji adjusted his glove with meticulous care, face unreadable, eyes already distant—as though tracking targets only he could see.
Louisese Langermans' lips pressed into a thin line, shoulders squaring. Commander Krieg's reaction was subtler—his eyes darkened, a shadow crossing his features like a storm cloud passing over still water.
Lan Qian's pulse thundered in her ears; her fingers trembled before she stilled them. Nightingale's face went pale, eyes burning with a conflicted blaze—anger, disbelief, and something dangerously close to heartbreak.
So it begins, Robert thought grimly. He caught Krieg's eye across the hall. The commander gave the faintest nod. They both knew. This was not justice. This was escalation.
President Zhang Wei stepped forward then, his presence commanding silence without effort.
"This organisation will not be defied," he declared. "We will not allow traitors to dismantle what generations have built. You are hereby ordered to prepare for full operational engagement against the Crimson Lotus."
His voice rose, sharp and absolute.
"Wen-Li will be apprehended and brought to justice. Madam Di-Xian's network will be dismantled. No hesitation. No mercy."
A pause—deliberate, weighty.
"Prepare yourselves."
Across the auditorium, officers straightened, salutes snapped into place, nods exchanged—some resolute, some reluctant, some haunted. The sound of readiness rippled outward, disciplined and inexorable.
And above it all, unseen yet unmistakable, the air felt charged— as though two great flowers, long rooted in the same soil, were finally being forced to bloom into war.
At the Shin-Zhang Corporation, the air had thickened into something almost tangible—an oppressive hush, as though the building itself were holding its breath. Outside, the wind rose, threading through the open heights of the tower and setting Madam Di-Xian's long crimson hair into slow, deliberate motion, like a banner unfurling before war. The ambient lights dimmed a fraction, casting elongated shadows across polished stone and steel.
Her crimson eyes swept the chamber—measured, unblinking—locking onto her agents one by one: Alvi, Naomi, Elara, Hecate, Hella, Jun, Farhan, Masud, Roy, Gonda, Nolan and Agent-90. Each stood straighter beneath her gaze, spines aligning as if drawn by an invisible command. Finally, her attention settled on Wen-Li.
Madam Di-Xian spoke at last. Her voice was calm, precise—yet edged with iron.
"Prepare yourselves, my agents," she said. "The battle has begun."
The words landed like a tolling bell. No one spoke. Instead, they nodded in unison, faces set with solemn determination. Jun's jaw tightened; Hella's fingers flexed as if already recalling the weight of a weapon. Elara's eyes glinted with a dangerous lucidity, while Gonda rolled his shoulders once, loosening tension like a beast readying to charge. Nolan reloading the revolvers, Agent-90 remained still, unreadable, a statue carved from intent.
Madam Di-Xian continued, pacing slowly before them, the hem of her coat whispering against the floor.
"This will not be a skirmish fought with old blades," she said. "You will receive upgrades. Reinforcements. Parabellum—for when words, laws, and mercy fail."
A murmur of assent moved through the room, low and restrained.
Wen-Li stepped forward then. Her posture was respectful, yet there was a tremor beneath her composure—something profoundly human.
"Madam," she said quietly, "I have a favour to ask."
Di-Xian halted and turned, one brow lifting in measured interest. "Go on, Wen-Li. Speak."
The agents glanced towards her—some curious, some wary. Agent-90 did not turn; his gaze remained fixed ahead, as if already standing on a battlefield only he could see.
Wen-Li drew a slow breath. "Please," she said, voice softened by concern, "do not hurt my people."
For a heartbeat, silence reigned.
Then Madam Di-Xian stepped closer. Her presence was neither cruel nor comforting—it was absolute. She regarded Wen-Li with an expression that blended severity and something almost maternal.
"My dear Wen-Li," she said, her tone low, resonant, "a gardener does not spare the storm—but she does choose which roots are worth preserving."
Her gaze widened, encompassing the entire room.
"We do not strike to annihilate," she continued. "We strike to endure. Those who stand with us will be shielded by the lotus. Those who trample the garden must accept the thorns."
The metaphor settled into the agents like armour. Alvi nodded slowly, lips pressed in resolve. Farhan's eyes burned with conviction. Even the ever-stoic Masud inclined his head, understanding etched into his features.
Wen-Li bowed her head once, deeply—gratitude and resolve intertwining in the gesture.
Madam Di-Xian turned back to them all, her crimson eyes alight.
"Steel yourselves," she commanded. "The war of flowers is upon us."
And as they dispersed to prepare—boots echoing, weapons arming, systems awakening—the Shin-Zhang Corporation seemed to awaken with them, like a great crimson lotus unfurling its petals, ready at last to face the coming storm.
Meanwhile, within the austere confines of an SSCBF strategy room—its walls bare save for flickering tactical displays and the muted insignia of the Bureau—the atmosphere had curdled into something brittle and grave. The hum of the lights seemed louder than usual, as though the room itself were uneasy with what was being said.
Commander Krieg stood at the centre, arms folded across his chest, his shadow stretching long across the table like a drawn blade.
"This has gone too far," he said at last, his voice low but unyielding. "We are being ordered to stand against Di-Xian… and against our own Chief." His eyes moved from face to face, heavy with judgement. "Are you prepared for that? To raise your hands against our own people?"
Lingaong Xuein inhaled sharply. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the table, knuckles paling. When she spoke, her voice was steady—but only just.
"I don't accept this as justice," she said, eyes flashing. "I won't pretend this is righteous simply because it wears a uniform. Wen-Li is not a butcher, and Di-Xian is not some faceless tyrant. This order feels… manufactured." Her jaw set, defiant as tempered steel. "And I refuse to believe we are blind enough to follow it without question."
Captain Robert scoffed, a humourless sound. He leaned back, hands clasped behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling as though searching for patience.
"With respect, Xuein, I don't share your optimism," he said. "This isn't a mission—it's a literary sacrifice. A story where they expect us to slit our own throats for the sake of appearances." His gaze dropped back to her, sharp and accusing. "They want brother to turn on brother, and they're calling it duty."
Xuein straightened. "Then I'll bring Xuemin into this. He deserves to know what's truly happening. We need his counsel."
"There's no need," Krieg cut in at once, his tone final.
Xuein's eyes widened. "No need?" Her voice cracked, indignation rising. "They are our people—our blood, our comrades—"
"Xuein," Robert interrupted, leaning forward now, elbows on the table. "Do you truly believe your brother will listen?" His words were quiet, but merciless. "To us? To reason?" He shook his head slowly. "He won't. Neither will the Celestial Unit. Demitin, Tao-Ren, Sakim—they've already chosen their side. The President's word has weight, and Wen-Li has been condemned." He spread his hands. "What, exactly, do you propose to do?"
Lan Qian, who had been silent until now, swallowed hard. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, as though she were holding herself together by sheer will.
"This… this feels wrong," she said softly, eyes glistening with restrained distress. "The data vanished. The evidence was erased. None of this aligns." She looked up, resolve flickering behind her fear. "If truth is being buried, then this war is built on a lie."
Nightingale's chair scraped back as she stood abruptly. Her fists were clenched, her shoulders rigid, eyes blazing like a storm about to break.
"I won't fight her," she said, voice trembling with fury and heartbreak. "I won't raise a weapon against Wen-Li. She taught us what justice was. She carried this organisation on her back like Atlas bearing the sky." Her breath hitched. "If that makes me a traitor, so be it."
Robert and Krieg exchanged a glance—brief, heavy, and knowing. They both understood the inevitability of what was coming.
Krieg exhaled slowly, the sound weary, almost mournful. "Leave it to Madam Di-Xian," he said at last. "She will handle what we cannot."
Nightingale turned on him. "Can she?"
Krieg met her gaze, a faint, dangerous smile tugging at his lips. "Are you questioning her resolve?" he asked. "You know her, Nightingale. You know what sort of woman she is." His eyes darkened with something akin to reverence. "She has a will stronger than iron—and a patience sharper than any blade."
"Well, you're talking, or for certain you're talking about Madam Di-Xian, you know?" ask Linagong Xuein with smirk at her lips hearing this everyone hold their lips not to smile or chuckle
"It's not like that." says Commander Krieg, he paused, the smile fading.
"But…" he added quietly.
Lan Qian frowned. "But what, Commander?"
Krieg shook his head once. "Nothing." He straightened, authority settling back onto his shoulders like armour. "Prepare yourselves."
His voice dropped to a grim whisper.
"A war is coming—brother against brother."
And in the sterile light of the room, each of them felt it: the first tremor of an earthquake that would tear their world apart, root and branch, petal and stem.
On the other hand, Gavriel stare at his wrist watch as the time is going to hit at 12:00 pm when it hits he gives a sinister smile, "Now the war begins between the flowers"
Armoured carriers rolled into Zhaoxian City like iron leviathans breaching a dead sea. Their engines growled low and disciplined, the sound swallowed almost at once by an uncanny hush. Helicopters hovered above in slow, predatory orbits, rotor wash scattering dust and loose paper across empty boulevards.
The city did not greet them.
Shops stood shuttered, holographic billboards flickered without purpose, and traffic lights cycled through colours for no one. Not a single pedestrian lingered at crossings; not a bicycle, not a stray animal. Windows stared back, blind and opaque, curtains drawn as though the city itself had chosen to avert its gaze. Even the air felt wrong—too still, too expectant—like the held breath before a guillotine falls. Zhaoxian had not fled in panic; it had withdrawn in instinct, retreating into silence as prey does when it senses a hunter too large to fight.
And there, rising at the city's heart, stood the Shin-Zhang Corporation—its spires veiled in shadow, its façade unreadable, neither welcoming nor afraid.
Beneath it all, in the underground safe zone, the mood was the inverse: alive, taut, purposeful.
Weapons racks lay open like surgical trays. Agents moved with choreographed efficiency—upgrading barrels, slotting smart-cores into rifles, calibrating optics, testing blades whose edges whispered as they were drawn and sheathed. Sparks flared briefly as energy cells were locked into place. This was not chaos; it was ritual.
Wen-Li stood apart, reloading her SIO-PX7 tactical handgun. The motion was muscle memory—precise, economical, final. Click. The magazine was seated. Her expression was calm, but it was the calm of deep water, not peace.
At the far end of the chamber, Madam Di-Xian reclined beside a steel table, a glass of dark wine held lightly between her fingers. The liquid caught the low light like garnet. She observed everything without haste, crimson eyes reflecting calculations rather than concern.
She cleared her throat.
"Wen-Li."
"Yes," Wen-Li replied, glancing up at once.
"You will not go out there."
Wen-Li's brow creased, a frown forming before words could follow. But Di-Xian spoke again, her tone measured, inexorable.
"You are the gem of both flowers—the Crimson Lotus and the Petals of Dandelion," she said softly. "If you step onto that field, it will not be a battle. It will be pandemonium." Her gaze sharpened. "You asked me for a favour. This is its shape."
Wen-Li opened her mouth—then closed it. The weight of restraint settled on her shoulders like a cloak she had not chosen. She clasped her hands before her, fingers interlaced, posture disciplined.
"Then what would you have me do?" she asked quietly.
Di-Xian smiled—not kindly, not cruelly, but with the serenity of someone who had already foreseen the outcome.
"Sit with me," she said, lifting her glass slightly. "Watch the performance. Have some wine."
A beat passed.
"…Alright," Wen-Li said at last. "If you say so."
Di-Xian turned to the table and spoke with ceremonial clarity, her voice slipping into traditional Chinese.
"ànxià hóngsè ànniǔ"
(Press the red button.)
"Hǎo de," Wen-Li replied. She pressed it.
Above them, the Shin-Zhang Corporation died into darkness. Neon sigils guttered and went out; the building's luminous veins snapped off one by one until only emergency glows remained—cold, skeletal, watchful.
A voice cut through the comms.
"Madam, we are ready."
Agent-90 stood at the fore of his team, weapons secured, melee steel resting easy in gloved hands. Behind him, agents waited like drawn arrows.
Di-Xian took a final sip of wine. "Good," she said. "Go."
They nodded once and moved. The doors slid shut behind them with a hydraulic finality, sealing the chamber like a tomb—or a womb.
Di-Xian watched the doors for a moment longer, then spoke, almost to herself:
"Let the storm break where it must. The flower does not fear the rain."
Beside her, Wen-Li exhaled softly, eyes distant.
"I have never seen someone like that," she murmured.
Di-Xian's smile returned, thin and knowing.
"Nor will the world forget them."
Nevertheless, within the President's Office at SSCBF headquarters, the air had grown viscous with malevolence, as though the room itself were complicit.
The panoramic windows overlooked the city, yet the lights beyond felt distant, irrelevant—mere decoration for a conversation that had already abandoned morality. President Zhang Wei stood with his back to the room, hands clasped behind him, gazing out as if surveying a kingdom already conquered. His posture was relaxed, almost indulgent.
"The mission we've dispatched the SSCBF on," he said at last, his voice low and contemplative, "is, by every reasonable measure, a suicidal one."
He turned slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting—not into a smile, but into something thinner, sharper.
"What do you think of that, my son?"
Zhang Ji stood near the desk, immaculate as ever, arms folded with deliberate ease. He did not hesitate.
"Yes, Father. Precisely," he replied, a glint of satisfaction flickering in his eyes. "At last, we excise Wen-Li from this organisation—and at the same time, we cull our own ranks." He gave a quiet, almost amused breath. "They will be slaughtered by their own comrades, never realising they've stepped into a snare."
He stepped forward, fingertips brushing the polished surface of the desk.
"The officers have no idea," he continued, voice smooth as oil, "that they are already being threaded into the Sentinel-Helix. Controlled. Directed. Turned." His gaze sharpened. "Just like the Helix itself, they will be erased by the very hands they once trusted."
Zhang Wei finally turned fully to face him. His eyes held no shock—only approval. He adjusted his hair with unhurried vanity, as though straightening a crown.
"You're right, my boy," he said. "Elegant. Efficient." A pause. "So tell me—what is our next movement on the board?"
"So you mean the mind control!" ask Zhang Wei
"Yes, mind control by it, just like the same fate that Vanguard Falls will be the same thing as theirs." he reply
Zhang Ji's lips curved into a chilling smile, one that carried no warmth whatsoever.
"According to the High Chaebols," he replied, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, "we allow the clash to ripen. We let Petals of Dandelion and the Crimson Lotus tear at one another until both bleed themselves hollow." He lifted his gaze, eyes gleaming like knives under candlelight. "And when the battlefield is thick with corpses and confusion… we step in as saviours."
He straightened, the smile lingering like a bad omen.
"We don't just remove obstacles," Zhang Ji concluded. "We inherit the ashes."
For a moment, silence settled between them—dense, reverent, and terrible.
Outside, the city lights flickered faintly, unaware that its guardians were being sacrificed not to necessity, but to ambition.
As the SSCBF assault force breached the perimeter of the Shin-Zhang Corporation, the night itself seemed to recoil.
The compound loomed like a mausoleum of glass and steel, its façade swallowing light rather than reflecting it. The streets surrounding the tower were eerily vacant—no vendors, no traffic, no lingering pedestrians. Doors stood ajar. Signage flickered without purpose. It was as though the city had sensed the coming carnage and withdrawn its breath.
With a curt hand signal, Commander Krieg advanced first, flanked by Captain Robert and ten fully armed officers. Their boots struck the polished marble of the north entrance in disciplined cadence, weapons raised, muzzles steady.
Simultaneously—
South Route: Lieutenant Nightingale led Captain Lingaong Xuein, Lan Qian, and thirty officers through a service corridor choked with shadow.East Route: Captain Lingaong Xuemin, Captain Feng Shaoyue, and the Celestial Unit descended through a reinforced atrium shaft.West Route: Demitin, Tao-Ren, Daishoji, and twenty others breached through the logistics wing.
The moment the doors gave way, canisters were hurled.
Hiss.
A pale nerve gas unfurled like a malignant spirit, crawling along the floor and climbing the air in serpentine tendrils. Neon emergency strips snapped alive, bathing the darkness in fractured reds and violets—night-vision overlays flickering across SSCBF visors.
Every step thereafter was measured. Every breath filtered. Rifles tracked the void ahead.
Then—
Gunfire erupted.
From the north corridor, shadows detached themselves from the walls.
Agent-90 moved first.
Not charging—sliding.
A blur between muzzle flashes, he twisted sideways as rounds stitched the air where his head had been a heartbeat earlier. He closed distance with terrifying economy, seized an SSCBF officer by the vest, and fired once into the man's chest. The impact snapped the body backwards like a marionette with its strings cut.
Farhan and Masud emerged with him, synchronised and lethal—covering angles, suppressing fire, advancing through chaos as if rehearsed a thousand times.
"CONTACT FRONT!" Robert barked, dragging Krieg behind a pillar as bullets screamed past, sparking against armoured plating.
Rounds hammered their cover, relentless. SSCBF armour absorbed the punishment, but the force rattled bone and resolve alike. Officers returned fire, the corridor becoming a crucible of smoke, ricochet, and screams—oaths breaking with every fallen body.
At South Route
Nightingale slowed her unit with a raised fist.
The corridor here felt wrong—too quiet, too pristine. Steam curled from ruptured pipes, drifting like funeral incense.
"She has to be here," Nightingale murmured, her voice taut. "Wen-Li wouldn't abandon this place."
Lan Qian swallowed, fingers trembling on her rifle. "If she's inside… then this isn't a battle. It's a tragedy."
Lingaong Xuein said nothing, her jaw set, eyes hard—torn between duty and blood.
The officers spread out—
—and death fell from above.
A shadow dropped soundlessly from the ceiling framework.
Two SSCBF officers barely had time to look up before steel kissed flesh. A blade flashed—once, twice—precise, economical. Both bodies collapsed without a sound, crimson blooming across the floor like spilled ink.
"CONTACT!" Nightingale shouted.
The unit pivoted as one.
At the far end of the corridor stood a man in immaculate white.
A gentleman's suit, unblemished by blood. Crimson hair fell neatly against his temples. Spectacles caught the neon light, lenses glowing faintly red. In his hand rested a sword—not raised, not threatening—merely present.
The air around him felt heavier, as if etiquette itself had been weaponised.
Nightingale's breath caught.
"…Jun."
He bared his teeth—not a smile, but something feral, restrained by discipline.
"So," Jun replied softly, voice polished and venomous, "you chose the wrong door."
Around them, alarms wailed. Gunfire thundered from distant corridors. The Shin-Zhang Corporation burned from within—broken oaths igniting a world already soaked in fuel.
And this—
This was only the opening movement.
Steel whispered as Jun adjusted his grip.
Nightingale raised her weapon, heart pounding—not with fear, but with grief sharpened into resolve.
West Route
The blast doors groaned apart and Demitin surged through first, compact rifle braced against her shoulder, her hair bound tight like a drawn wire. Tao-Ren moved at her flank, eyes sharp, steps soundless. Behind them came Daishoji with surgical calm, Sakim a living bulwark with his riot shield raised one-handed, and Louisese scanning angles with predatory patience. Twenty officers flowed in after them, a disciplined tide.
Then—
A single gunshot cracked the air.
It was not loud so much as final.
Two officers at the rear simply came apart. Upper torsos ruptured, armour torn open as though peeled by an invisible hand. Blood atomised, misting the corridor walls in a grotesque fresco.
Demitin froze for half a heartbeat, pupils contracting.
"Sniper—no," Tao-Ren corrected through clenched teeth, "—executioner."
Sakim swung his shield up instinctively, boots digging in. Louisese swore under his breath, a rare fracture in his composure.
Before orders could be barked, the darkness answered them with fire.
Roy emerged from behind a cargo stack, rifle barking in controlled bursts. Hella and Hecate flanked him like twin calamities, movements mirrored, expressions glacial. Elara vaulted from a mezzanine railing, landing in a crouch, pistols already singing.
Gunfire became a storm.
Demitin rolled sideways, rounds chewing sparks from the floor where her head had been. She came up firing, jaw set, eyes burning. Tao-Ren advanced low, shots precise, her movements economical—violence distilled into mathematics.
Daishoji adjusted his grip with ritual calm, returning fire in measured cadence. Sakim absorbed rounds on his shield, the impacts ringing like a bell tolling for the dead, before he charged, a human battering ram cleaving space through chaos.
Louisese ducked behind a forklift, breath steady, murmuring, "They're not defending. They're curating."
Roy's lips twitched—almost a smile—as bullets danced past him.
"Welcome to the garden," he replied.
East Route — Atrium Shaft
Captain Lingaong Xuemin descended last, boots touching down with disciplined restraint. The atrium was vast, cathedral-like, its glass fractured into jagged constellations overhead. Emergency lights bled crimson down marble columns.
Feng Shaoyue lifted her chin, sensing it first.
"Too quiet," she warned.
The warning came too late.
Alvi dropped from above like a falling blade.
She struck Ping Lianhua with ruthless precision—an elbow to the temple, followed by a nerve-locking twist that folded Ping to the floor, senseless before she could cry out.
"LIANHUA!" Gu Zhaoyue shouted, raising her weapon.
Alvi was already moving.
A flash—too fast for thought—and her shot landed squarely in Gu Zhaoyue's abdomen. Armour failed. Gu collapsed, breath ripped from her lungs, eyes wide with disbelief.
Yang Shaoyong reacted on instinct, shield snapping up—
CLANG.
Steel met steel in a shower of sparks as Nolan's katana kissed the shield's edge. The impact reverberated through Yang's arms, numbing them to the bone.
Xuemin's voice cut through the chaos.
"Close ranks! Don't—"
Naomi lunged, her movement a whipcrack of intent—
—and Feng Shaoyue stepped between them.
The air howled.
Spectral forms tore themselves into being around Feng—phantom beasts wrought of smoke and sigil-light, their shapes half-remembered nightmares. A chrysalis of shadow unfurled, wings of ancestral malice beating once, twice.
Naomi skidded back, boots screeching against marble, eyes wide—not with fear, but awe.
"…That's not tech," she breathed. "That's heritage."
Feng's gaze was ferocious, reverent.
"Phantom Chrysalis," she intoned. "You tread where you do not belong."
Xuemin tightened his grip on his weapon, heart pounding—not at the beasts, but at the realisation that this war had crossed a threshold that could not be uncrossed.
Across the Shin-Zhang Corporation, violence bloomed with dreadful symmetry.
Agent-90 stood amidst muzzle flashes, expression carved from resolve, movements precise as scripture.
Farhan reloaded without looking, calm as a man reciting prayer.
Jun's blade traced arcs of silver inevitability.
Roy's grin sharpened.
Masud advanced through smoke, eyes steady.
Gonda braced, unyielding.
Nolan's focus was absolute.
Naomi's breath slowed, pain forgotten.
Alvi, Elara, Hella, and Hecate moved as one—deadly, deliberate, unrepentant.
Opposite them—
Commander Krieg's jaw was set like iron.
Captain Robert's eyes burned with bitter clarity.
Nightingale swallowed grief and raised her weapon.
Lan Qian steadied her hands, fear transmuted into resolve.
Lingaong Xuein's face was a battlefield of loyalty and fury.
Xuemin clenched his teeth.
Feng Shaoyue stood defiant.
Yang Shaoyong braced.
Gu Zhaoyue bled but breathed.
Qu Yexun narrowed his eyes.
Demitin wiped blood from her cheek and advanced.
Tao-Ren recalculated.
Daishoji exhaled.
Sakim lifted his shield again.
Louisese chambered another round.
Crimson Lotus.
Petals of Dandelion.
Broken oaths collided.
A burning world answered.
Commander Krieg vaulted over a toppled security console, coat flaring like a torn banner. His rifle barked in disciplined bursts, each shot measured, each breath rationed. Captain Robert slid in beside him, back to back, reloading with fingers that did not tremble, though his jaw was locked so tightly it ached.
"Hold formation!" Krieg roared, voice carrying iron authority.
Too late.
Agent-90 moved through the gunfire like an omission in reality. Bullets passed where he had been, not where he was. His coat was shredded, skin marked, yet his eyes were unnervingly lucid—cold stars in a stormless sky.
He closed the distance with an SSCBF officer in two steps. A feint. A twist of the wrist. The officer folded, weapon clattering away, breath stolen as if by an invisible hand.
Farhan covered Agent-90's flank, firing from the hip, calm as a man pruning branches rather than ending lives. Masud advanced behind them, shotgun cradled, each discharge reshaping the corridor into splinters and ruin.
Robert caught sight of Agent-90 and felt something curdle in his chest—not fear, but recognition.
"He's not fighting us," Robert muttered. "He's editing us."
Krieg grimaced. "Then don't give him lines to cut."
Jun stood motionless beneath flickering neon, white suit unmarred, sword held loosely at his side. Blood dripped from the blade's edge, pattering softly against the floor—an obscene metronome.
Nightingale raised her weapon, hands steady despite the tremor in her breath. Her eyes burned, grief compressed into fury.
"Jun," she called, voice sharp. "You don't stand our way."
Jun's smile was thin, almost regretful.
"We all chose our gardens," he replied. "Some of us simply water them with blood."
He moved.
The space between them collapsed. Two officers lunged—Jun passed between them like a whispered thought, blade flashing once, twice. They fell without sound, expressions frozen in confusion, as though the world had simply stopped explaining itself.
Lan Qian fired, shots precise, forcing Jun back a step. Her face was pale but resolute, teeth clenched hard enough to crack enamel.
Lingaong Xuein surged forward, baton striking, rage lending weight to her blows. Jun parried effortlessly, steel singing against steel, sparks blooming like malignant flowers.
"You hesitate," Jun observed quietly. "That's love."
Xuein snarled and struck harder.
Sakim charged again, riot shield raised, a walking fortress. Hella's rounds slammed into it, ricocheting in showers of sparks. Her expression didn't change; she simply adjusted her angle, circling, hunting for the man behind the wall.
Demitin slid on one knee across the floor, firing upward, her braid whipping behind her. Tao-Ren mirrored her movement on the opposite flank—parallel trajectories, shared intent.
Elara vaulted over a crate, landing between them, pistols flaring. Demitin twisted aside, a bullet tearing fabric instead of flesh. She came up snarling, knife flashing, the two women colliding in a brutal, intimate exchange—elbow, knee, forearm—violence reduced to anatomy and will.
Daishoji exhaled slowly, sighting down his weapon. He fired once. Roy's shoulder snapped back, armour screaming, but Roy only laughed, teeth bared, eyes alight.
"Good," Roy said. "Now it's interesting."
Louisese ducked, reappeared, returned fire, his face a mask of professional disdain.
"This isn't a battle," he muttered. "It's a thesis."
The phantom beasts around Feng Shaoyue prowled, half-formed jaws snapping at reality itself. Naomi darted between their shadows, Reflex Override burning through her veins, pain reduced to background static.
She struck at Feng—too slow.
A spectral claw raked the air where Naomi's head had been a heartbeat before. Naomi skidded, rolled, came up breathless but grinning.
"Right," she said hoarsely. "No touching the summoner."
Nolan moved in synchrony, blade flickering, Adaptive Combat Logic recalibrating with every exchange. Yang Shaoyong braced, shield up, muscles screaming as blow after blow rained down.
Xuemin shouted commands, trying to stitch order into chaos, but the battlefield refused to be sewn.
Above them, glass finally gave way.
The atrium roof collapsed in a thunderous cascade, moonlight and debris raining down like judgement. Everyone froze for a fraction of a second—then moved again, faster, harder, desperation sharpening every motion.
Across all routes, faces hardened.
Eyes burned.
Lungs screamed.
This was no longer law against shadow.
No longer order against rebellion.
It was loyalty against loyalty.
Belief against belief.
Like two constellations colliding—beautiful and catastrophic.
Agent-90 slid across shattered glass, boots skimming sparks, coat flaring behind him like a torn standard. He fired mid-movement, not aiming so much as deciding—and the bullet obeyed. An SSCBF officer staggered, armour punctured, eyes wide with disbelief rather than pain.
Krieg felt it then.
Not fear.
Not even dread.
Recognition.
"This isn't tactics," Krieg growled, bracing behind a fractured pillar. "This is inevitability."
Agent-90 vaulted the pillar anyway.
Krieg barely blocked in time, rifle butt colliding with Agent-90's forearm. The impact rang like struck steel. Both men froze for a breath—two philosophies meeting at the fulcrum of violence.
Agent-90's expression did not harden.
It emptied.
"You taught us to protect the people," he said quietly. "Not the throne."
Then he moved.
A shoulder strike. A sweep. Krieg hit the floor hard, breath punched from his lungs, the world tilting. Before Agent-90 could finish it, Robert fired—forcing distance, desperation etched into every line of his face.
"Fall back!" Robert barked, though his voice lacked conviction.
Masud advanced, relentless, forcing the SSCBF unit to scatter. Farhan covered him, jaw set, eyes sorrowful rather than savage.
They were not enjoying this.
Which somehow made it worse.
Jun's sword sang again.
Nightingale blocked—barely—the shock travelling up her arms, teeth clenching, eyes blazing. Rainwater from ruptured pipes cascaded around them, turning the floor slick, treacherous.
"You don't even look at us like enemies anymore," Nightingale spat. "Just obstacles."
Jun paused, blade hovering an inch from her throat.
"That's mercy," he replied softly.
Lan Qian fired.
Jun twisted.
The bullet grazed his sleeve instead of his heart.
Xuein struck then—full force, baton cracking against Jun's ribs. He staggered, surprise flashing across his face like a crack in porcelain.
For the first time—
Jun bled.
A thin line at his lip.
His smile vanished.
"So," he murmured, eyes darkening. "You chose."
He exploded forward.
Steel met flesh. Flesh met the wall. Nightingale was thrown back, slamming hard, vision blooming white. She forced herself upright, blood trickling from her brow, fury keeping her standing.
Her inner monologue burned:
I won't lose her again. I won't lose her again.
Sakim roared, shield first, smashing through cover like a living siege engine. Roy leapt onto the shield itself, boots skidding, firing downward at point-blank range.
Demitin intercepted—knife flashing, cutting Roy's thigh. He hissed, twisted, laughed through clenched teeth.
Tao-Ren vaulted overhead, firing mid-arc, landing behind Elara. Their exchange was savage and wordless—knees, elbows, gunstocks—combat reduced to rhythm and instinct.
Daishoji exhaled slowly, impossibly calm, and took a shot that split the air between Hella and Hecate. They separated instantly, movements mirroring, eyes sharp, predatory.
Louisese reloaded, sweat streaking his temple.
"This place burns like an oath broken aloud," he muttered.
The corridor shook.
Ceiling panels collapsed.
Fire suppression systems failed.
Water, sparks, blood—everything became indistinguishable.
Naomi moved like a stutter in time—too fast, then suddenly still, breath hitching as pain threatened to surface. She crushed it down, forced another surge.
She darted past a spectral beast, slid under its jaw, and struck Feng Shaoyue's wrist. The summoner recoiled, eyes flaring, chanting under her breath as sigils ignited along her arms.
Xuemin shouted, voice hoarse, trying to hold the Celestial Unit together, but the battlefield refused to be sewn.
Above them, shadows thickened—ancestral forms pressing closer, reality buckling like overheated glass.
Naomi glanced at Nolan, breathless.
"Still think this ends cleanly?"
Nolan's mouth twitched—not quite a smile.
"It never does."
The Crimson Lotus fought with sorrow sharpened into steel.
The Petals of Dandelion fought with duty curdled into doubt.
Agent-90 landed from the mezzanine in a crouch, concrete splintering beneath his boots. Dust billowed like a funeral veil. He rose through it with dreadful serenity, silhouette sharpened by emergency strobes.
Krieg forced himself upright, blood at the corner of his mouth, armour dented, spine protesting every movement. He lifted his rifle again—hands steady by discipline alone.
"You could still stand down," Krieg said, voice hoarse but resolute. "This doesn't have to become a massacre."
Agent-90 tilted his head, almost curious.
"This stopped being a battle," he replied quietly, "the moment truth was requisitioned and buried."
Then he vanished.
Not ran—folded out of sight.
A blur. A displacement. A whisper of displaced air.
An SSCBF officer barely had time to gasp before Agent-90 was behind him, a single shot fired at impossible proximity. The body fell without drama, as if reality itself had quietly removed it.
Robert shouted a command that fractured mid-syllable as Masud's round shattered the light panel above him. Darkness swallowed half the corridor.
Farhan advanced through the gloom, firing only when necessary, eyes tight with something perilously close to regret. Every movement he made was economical—no flourish, no malice—only inevitability.
Krieg watched his unit fracture, fall back in fragments, and felt something in his chest splinter.
We trained them, he thought.
And now they have surpassed us.
Nightingale staggered to her feet, blood matting her fringe, vision swimming. The corridor pulsed red and blue, alarms howling like wounded animals.
Jun stood opposite her, sword lowered, rainwater dripping from the blade. His red eyes flickered—something unreadable crossing his face.
"You still hesitate," he said. "That's why you'll lose."
She laughed. A raw, broken sound.
"I'm not hesitating," she replied. "I'm remembering."
She moved. Not with technique—with conviction.
Lan Qian covered her flank, firing in controlled bursts. Xuein struck from the side, baton flashing, forcing Jun back a step—then another.
Jun's jaw tightened.
So they could push him after all.
He exhaled sharply, stance shifting—lighter now, more dangerous. The air around him seemed to sharpen, as though the corridor itself leaned away.
"You're fighting ghosts," Jun said softly. "And ghosts don't bleed."
Nightingale wiped blood from her eye, smiled thinly.
"Then why are you trembling?"
For the briefest instant—
He was.
Sakim slammed his shield down, crushing Elara's cover into powder. The impact reverberated like a cathedral bell struck by a god. Hella leapt, spinning, rounds snapping past Sakim's head. Tao-Ren intercepted mid-motion, her blade flashing upward—steel kissed steel, sparks erupting like fireworks at a funeral.
Demitin ducked beneath Roy's strike, drove her knee into his ribs, then spun away as Hecate's shot tore through the space her head had occupied a heartbeat earlier.
Daishoji fired once.
One shot.
Hella's shoulder burst crimson, the force spinning her into a wall. She snarled through the pain, eyes alight, feral.
Louisese reloaded with shaking hands, sweat stinging his eyes.
"They're not retreating," he muttered. "They're circling."
Roy grinned, blood on his teeth.
"Good," he said. "I hate straight lines."
The corridor collapsed behind them.
No way back.
Only forward—into fire, into ruin.
Naomi skidded across the floor, boots screaming, barely avoiding a spectral claw that gouged concrete like wet clay. Her breath came ragged, pain screaming at the edges of her consciousness.
She crushed it down.
Later.
Nolan pivoted, katana humming, slicing through an incoming drone as Xuemin barked orders, desperately trying to keep the Celestial Unit from disintegrating under the pressure.
Feng Shaoyue raised both hands—sigils blazing—her Phantom Chrysalis unfurling fully now. Ethereal beasts clawed their way into being, howling without sound, warping the air around them.
Naomi stared, awe and fury colliding.
"Alright," she breathed. "That's new."
She charged anyway.
Nolan's eyes flicked, recalculating in real time.
"Don't engage head-on," he warned. "They're anchored to her pulse."
Naomi grinned despite herself, blood at the corner of her mouth.
"Who said anything about head-on?"
She vanished sideways—reappearing beneath one of the beasts, driving her blade upward into the sigil-thread binding it. The construct screamed silently and detonated into shards of light.
Feng reeled.
Xuemin shouted.
The atrium shook.
Deep beneath the Shin-Zhang Corporation, the safezone glowed with cold, artificial tranquillity—glass walls, cascading data, wine decanting in slow, indifferent spirals. A sanctuary carved from foresight and sin.
And yet, the screens screamed.
Wen-Li stood rigid before the central monitor wall, hands clenched so tightly the leather of her fingerless gloves creaked. Reflected in her eyes were corridors aflame, bodies colliding, comrades tearing at one another like beasts unchained.
Her breath came shallow.
Not fear— revulsion.
Outside, the war had lost its grammar.
SSCBF officers moved with unnatural synchronicity, heads snapping in unison, limbs jerking as though tugged by invisible marionette strings. Some turned—too suddenly, too smoothly—and raised their weapons not at the Crimson Lotus…
…but at their own command.
Krieg barely ducked as one of his lieutenants opened fire on him point-blank, eyes glassy, mouth slack, expression emptied of self.
Wen-Li took a step forward, as if sheer will might carry her through reinforced steel and distance alike.
"Outside they are still fighting," she said, voice trembling—not weak, but overloaded, like a blade about to fracture. "And we sit here, drinking wine, watching chaos unfold like theatre?"
She turned sharply on Madam Di-Xian, eyes blazing.
"I cannot stand it. Do something, Madam. Stop it."
For a moment, the only sound was the soft clink of crystal as Di-Xian set her glass down.
She did not rise. She did not rush. She merely looked.
Madam Di-Xian's crimson eyes reflected not panic, but calculation—the gaze of someone reading a storm the way others read scripture.
"Still," she said coolly, almost indulgently, "and watch the show."
She lifted the glass again, unhurried, the wine catching the light like liquefied rubies.
Wen-Li stared at her, incredulous, fury cresting.
"You call this a show?" Wen-Li hissed. "They are tearing each other apart—people I trained, people I—"
"I know," Di-Xian interrupted softly.
That single sentence landed heavier than a shout.
Her eyes flicked back to the monitors—and then narrowed.
Something had changed.
Her posture shifted. Barely perceptible. But lethal minds notice infinitesimals.
The SSCBF officers on screen began to move wrongly—angles too precise, pauses too uniform. One soldier convulsed briefly before straightening, weapon snapping to target with mechanical obedience.
Di-Xian's lips thinned.
"So," she murmured. "They've finally deployed it."
She reached for the intercom.
"Agent-90," Madam Di-Xian said, her voice calm but edged now with iron. "Something is wrong."
The camera cut to the North Route. Agent-90 rolled behind shattered cover as two SSCBF officers—his former allies—advanced on Krieg with expressionless faces, fingers squeezing triggers in perfect rhythm.
"They're moving strangely," Di-Xian continued. "Too synchronised. Too obedient."
A soldier turned and shot his own squadmate without hesitation.
Wen-Li's hand flew to her mouth.
"No…" she whispered. "That's not training."
Di-Xian's gaze hardened.
"They are no longer acting under command," she said. "They are being piloted."
She leaned closer to the intercom, voice sharpening into a blade.
"90. The SSCBF officers are compromised. They are about to execute Commander Krieg and the remaining captains."
A beat.
Then Agent-90's voice crackled back, low, furious, threaded with something colder.
"I see it."
On the monitor, he rose from cover—not charging forward this time, but stepping between Krieg and the advancing SSCBF line, weapon lowered, body squared.
The controlled soldiers hesitated for a fraction of a second.
Not confusion.
Recalibration.
Wen-Li felt it then—a pressure behind her eyes, like the atmosphere before lightning.
"Madam…" she said hoarsely. "What did they do to them?"
Madam Di-Xian did not look away from the screen.
"Sentinel-Helix," she replied. "A crown without a king. A mind without mercy."
She finally stood.
The room seemed to contract around her.
"This war," she said quietly, almost to herself, "has just crossed from tragedy into abomination."
On the screens, SSCBF rifles rose in perfect alignment.
Agent-90 did not move.
He simply lifted his head
And nods with deadliness
The moment stretched—elastic, trembling—then snapped.
Agent-90 straightened amidst the gunfire, blood streaking his temple, his coat shredded, his eyes cold with a clarity that bordered on inhuman. He tapped his comm once, twice. The channel opened across every corridor, every fractured theatre of violence.
His voice carried—not loud, not frantic—absolute.
"Crimson Lotus," he said evenly. "Change of doctrine."
Around the complex, his comrades paused mid-motion: fingers hovering at triggers, blades half-raised, eyes flicking with predatory focus.
"Do not kill the following," Agent-90 continued, each name pronounced like a seal carved into stone. "Commander Krieg. Captain Robert. Nightingale. Lan Qian. Lingaong Xuein. Xuemin. Feng Shaoyue. Yang Shaoyong. Gu Zhaoyue. Qu Yexun. Demitin. Tao-Ren. Daishoji. Sakim. Louisese."
A fractional pause.
"Everyone else—" his eyes hardened, "—is already dead."
No bravado.
No cruelty.
Just truth.
Across the battlefield, the Crimson Lotus answered not with words, but with motion.
Farhan moved first—vanishing behind a pillar, reappearing behind a pair of Helix-controlled officers. His blade kissed the air once, twice—precise as punctuation. They fell before their bodies understood betrayal.
Jun stepped forward in the south corridor, white suit now splattered with red like a ruined wedding vow. His sword sang—a clean, sorrowful arc. Each strike was mercy disguised as violence.
Roy and Masud advanced shoulder to shoulder, gunfire choreographed like a lethal duet. They didn't spray; they edited—each shot a correction to a corrupted sentence.
Gonda smashed through a reinforced door, roaring not in rage but in resolve, lifting one officer bodily and hurling him into another like discarded armour.
At the west wing, Demitin and Tao-Ren—faces grim, eyes wet but unflinching—moved with brutal synchrony. Knuckles cracked. Bones yielded. They fought not as executioners, but as mourners.
Daishoji knelt briefly beside a fallen SSCBF sniper, closed his eyes for a heartbeat—then rose and fired, calm as snowfall.
Sakim advanced behind his riot shield, absorbing fire meant for others, his jaw clenched, breath measured like a siege engine.
Louisese vaulted a railing, landed, fired once—clean, terminal—then exhaled shakily, whispering a prayer that never reached heaven.
Nolan and Naomi moved like mirrored blades.
Nolan's katana flashed—angles impossible, footwork surgical. He disarmed before he killed, and when killing became inevitable, his face showed nothing but regret sharpened into resolve.
Naomi's body moved beyond pain, beyond fear—Reflex Override burning through her nerves. She slid, struck, vaulted, shielded. When she fired, it was always after a breath—as though apologising to the air.
Alvi, Elara, Hella, and Hecate formed a rotating perimeter—magic and metal interlacing. Each kill was efficient, almost ritualistic, as though sealing a wound rather than opening one.
Commander Krieg was dragged behind cover by Nightingale, her hands shaking but steady enough. Her eyes were wide—horrified, furious, heartbroken—as she watched officers she trained fall like puppets with severed strings.
Lan Qian covered Robert as he reloaded, her jaw tight, tears streaking unnoticed down her cheeks.
"This isn't war," Robert muttered, voice hoarse.
"It's butchery."
"No," Krieg replied grimly, watching Agent-90 move through fire like a revenant.
"It's euthanasia."
Lingaong Xuein pulled Xuemin back just in time as a Helix-controlled officer collapsed at their feet. Feng Shaoyue stood protectively before Yang Shaoyong, spectral echoes of her Phantom Chrysalis fading like dying constellations.
Gu Zhaoyue lowered her weapon slowly, hands trembling.
Qu Yexun swallowed hard, whispering, "They're… free now."
Silence fell—not abruptly, but reluctantly, like a storm realising it has nothing left to destroy.
Smoke curled. Casings clinked as they settled. Neon lights flickered weakly, illuminating bodies that no longer twitched, no longer obeyed commands whispered from afar.
Agent-90 stood alone in the corridor's centre.
He lowered his weapon.
Around him, the Crimson Lotus regrouped—faces drawn, eyes heavy, shoulders bowed beneath invisible weight.
This was not victory.
It was the aftermath.
A battlefield of broken oaths, a world still burning.
Somewhere deep below, Wen-Li watched the feeds go dark—and felt something inside her finally shatter into resolve.
A hiss—soft at first, almost apologetic—crept through the shattered halls.
From the ruptured vents above, a colourless, senseless gas spilled downward like a ghost exhaling. It moved with insidious patience, curling around boots, seeping into armour seams, coiling about throats before anyone could properly curse it.
Commander Krieg was the first to notice. His eyes narrowed; his breath caught.
"Gas—" he began, but the word dissolved unfinished.
One by one, they faltered.
Captain Robert staggered, planting a hand against the wall as though the concrete might anchor him to consciousness. Nightingale's vision fractured into prisms of light; her knees buckled as her thoughts scattered like startled birds. Lan Qian reached for her, missed, and collapsed beside her in a graceless tangle of limbs.
Lingaong Xuein tried to bark an order—discipline out of habit—but the syllables slurred. Xuemin caught her shoulder just as his own strength fled him. Feng Shaoyue's spectral aura flickered once, twice, then guttered out like a candle starved of air.
Yang Shaoyong's shield slipped from nerveless fingers. Gu Zhaoyue dropped to her knees, fighting the fog with stubborn defiance that ultimately meant nothing. Ping Lianhua swayed, eyes glassy, then fell as if sleep itself had struck her from behind.
Qu Yexun, Demitin, Tao-Ren, Daishoji, Sakim, Louisese— all succumbed in turn.
Not slain.
Not conquered.
Spared.
The world folded inward. Sound dulled. Light dimmed. Then—nothing.
An Hour Later, Birdsong.
That was the first thing Nightingale heard—tentative, distant, achingly ordinary.
Her eyelids fluttered open to a canopy of trees, sunlight filtering through leaves like stained glass. The air smelled of moss and damp earth, clean enough to hurt. She pushed herself upright, wincing as her head throbbed, and realised with a jolt—
They were alive.
All of them.
Scattered across a forest clearing, weapons neatly stacked at the perimeter as though by an unseen hand. No Crimson Lotus agents. No Shin-Zhang insignia. No Wen-Li. No Madam Di-Xian.
Only silence, and green.
Commander Krieg rose slowly, brushing soil from his coat. His jaw tightened—not in confusion, but in recognition.
His inner voice spoke with grim clarity:
So… she sorted the chaos. Arranged the board. Removed the poison without shattering the vial.
A pause.
Madam Di-Xian doesn't merely end battles. She concludes them.
Nightingale's chest tightened painfully as she scanned the clearing, hope flaring and dying in the same breath.
I didn't see her, she thought, heart racing with equal parts relief and grief. But she's alive. I know it. At least… at least that much.
Lan Qian sat up beside her, rubbing her temples. "This doesn't feel like capture," she murmured. "It feels like… release."
Lingaong Xuein looked around sharply. "We were extracted," she said, tone clipped. "Cleanly. Whoever did this didn't want witnesses—or martyrs."
Xuemin frowned, crouching as he examined the neatly placed weapons. "Or vengeance," he added quietly.
Feng Shaoyue folded her arms, unease prickling her spine. "We were ready to die in there," she said. "They killed our men… but not us. Why?"
Yang Shaoyong shook his head. "Because we weren't the target."
Gu Zhaoyue helped Ping Lianhua to her feet, her voice breaking as she pulled her into a fierce embrace. "Thank goodness you're safe," she whispered, tears finally spilling over.
"Gu Zhaoyue…?" Ping Lianhua blinked, disoriented. "What happened? Why does my head feel like it's been struck by a bell?"
Demitin cracked her knuckles reflexively. "Last thing I remember, we were advancing."
"And the next," Tao-Ren added dryly, "we're having a picnic with the forest."
Daishoji adjusted his gloves. Sakim scanned the treeline. Louisese exhaled slowly, tension easing from his shoulders.
Qu Yexun broke the hush. "So… how did we get here?"
Commander Krieg stepped forward then, authority settling back onto him like an old coat.
"Enough," he said, firm but not unkind. "Whatever happened, we're alive. And that was not an accident."
Ping Lianhua pressed her palm to her temple again. "But Commander—what happened?"
Gu Zhaoyue squeezed her shoulders. "Later. You're safe."
Feng Shaoyue looked back at Krieg, eyes sharp. "What about the Crimson Lotus? They could've finished us."
Robert answered before Krieg could, his voice weary but grounded.
"At least we're breathing. That's a mercy in itself. Let's go home."
"Home," Feng Shaoyue echoed, unconvinced. "And tell ourselves nothing happened?"
Xuemin placed a steadying hand on her arm. "Calm down. There's more to this than we see."
"I think," Feng Shaoyue whispered, "they're hiding something from us."
"And we'll uncover it," Xuemin replied evenly. "In time."
Lan Qian turned to Krieg. "Commander… what will you tell the President? The High Council?"
Krieg met her gaze, resolve hardening like set steel. "Leave that to me. I'll handle it."
He turned towards the forest path, shoulders squared.
"Alright, everyone," he said at last. "We move. Quietly."
And without another word, they began the long walk back— carrying questions heavier than their weapons, and the unspoken certainty that someone, somewhere, had chosen mercy over annihilation.
For now.