Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

No Witnesses.

The bodies were still warm when Hua Cheng stepped over them.

Gunpowder hung heavy in the air—bitter, cloying—clinging to his bulletproof vest like a second skin.
The corridor stank of blood and scorched silk; Jun Wu always did have a taste for the extravagant.
Above, crystal chandeliers trembled ever so slightly, disturbed by the echoes of gunfire that had rung out just minutes before.

“Clear,” came a voice in his earpiece.

Hua Cheng didn’t answer.

He was already moving, boots soundless against polished marble, crimson coat trailing behind him like a whisper of violence.
The compound was supposed to be empty now. No survivors. No hostages.
Just one final sweep before they torched the place and erased it from memory.

And yet—

A sound.
Muffled. Sharp.
A struggle.

He stopped. Tilted his head. Listened.

Down the hall.
Double doors. Thick. Gilded. The kind that screamed someone important is inside.

But what he heard wasn’t fear.
It was resistance.

He moved.

The door groaned open under his boot, the hinges squealing in protest.
The scent hit first—opulent perfume, sour sweat, the sharp sting of fear… and underneath it all, something sweeter.
Roses? No.
Wine. And something decaying beneath layers of silk.

Then he saw them.

A man—broad, sweating—gripping someone by the wrist, dragging him forward by force.

And the one being dragged—

Hua Cheng’s breath caught.

Not because of the situation. He’d seen worse. He was worse.
But because the figure at the center of it all didn’t belong in this world.

A delicate face, hauntingly still.
Skin pale, a soft flush blooming across his cheeks like he’d just stepped out of a fever dream.
Golden eyes—clear and distant, glinting like something rare, something precious, something painfully out of place.

He wasn’t wearing much. Just an oversized white shirt—clearly not his—and loose drawstring pants that clung to narrow hips. Barefoot. Silent.

The implication hit hard. Too hard. Too obvious.

So this was what Jun Wu kept hidden in his palace.
This was the kind of entertainment Heaven’s revered leader reserved for himself.

All that dignity. All that false virtue.
And behind closed doors—this?

Hua Cheng clicked his tongue, the bitterness rising in his throat.

“Fucking hypocrite,” he muttered.

But when he looked again—really looked—at that face, at the aching stillness of it, the quiet kind of beauty that didn’t ask to be seen but couldn’t be ignored…

He hesitated. Just for a second.

And thought,

Well.

Can’t blame him.

Still, that didn’t change the rules.

No witnesses.

He stepped forward.

And then—
the man shouted something incoherent, panic flaring in his bloodshot eyes as he lurched forward, grimy hands shooting up to seize the beauty by the throat, dragging him close like a shield, gun raised with the trembling urgency of someone who had already lost and knew it.

Hua Cheng didn’t think.
He didn’t need to.

A single shot rang out, clean and final. The bullet struck the man between the eyes, and he dropped like a puppet with its strings severed, skull cracking against the concrete, blood spilling out in thick, slow ripples—pooling beneath his head like a grotesque halo, something dark and blooming in a place that had never known light.

But the beauty didn’t scream.
Didn’t stumble back.
Didn’t even blink.

He just stood there, perfectly still, and turned his gaze toward Hua Cheng with a quiet, unreadable expression—neither shocked nor grateful, neither afraid nor relieved—as though this moment had already happened a thousand times in his mind, and he’d simply been waiting for reality to catch up.

As though Hua Cheng, blood-stained and breathless, was not a stranger, not a rescuer, not even a threat—but merely the next inevitable chapter in a story he’d long since stopped hoping would end differently.

Hua Cheng kept the gun raised, hands steady in spite of the adrenaline surging through his veins, unsure if he was still in danger or if he was looking at something far more dangerous than a man with a weapon.

The beauty moved then—not hurried, not startled—but with a calm that felt older than the room itself. He knelt beside the corpse, fingers reaching out with a kind of reverence that felt entirely out of place in a scene like this. Two fingertips pressed gently against the dead man’s eyelids, closing them with a care that suggested he’d done this before—too many times, maybe. Enough that it had become a ritual, not for the dead, but for the living who still had to carry the memory.

There was no sorrow in his face.
But there was a softness. A silence.

The kind of aching gentleness one might find in a forgotten shrine, where the incense has long since burned out and the offerings have crumbled to dust, but the space still holds something sacred, something waiting to be remembered.

The dim light caught his profile just so—casting long shadows over lowered lashes, gilding his skin in warm tones that didn’t quite belong to life, and dusting his cheeks in a flush that wasn’t from warmth or fear, but something more fragile. More faded. Like the ghost of a blush.

And in that moment, standing amid blood and smoke, Hua Cheng thought he looked almost holy.

He didn’t lower the gun.
Couldn’t.
Not yet.

But he didn’t fire again, either.

The beauty stood slowly, every movement fluid and precise, untouched by the death that clung to the room like mist. He turned fully toward Hua Cheng, and for a moment, their eyes locked—something heavy and immeasurable passing between them.

There was no plea in that gaze.
No demand for mercy.
No flinch of fear.

Only a calm that felt unnatural.
A weariness that didn’t belong to someone so young.
A silence that pressed like a hand over the mouth of something that had once screamed itself raw.

And then—just barely, just once—the corner of his mouth lifted.

Not in a smile, not really.
More like the echo of one.
A fleeting twitch, delicate and strange, caught somewhere between resignation and recognition—like someone who had never learned what it meant to be saved, and now wasn’t sure whether to mourn or laugh.
It lingered for just a second too long.
Long enough to feel like a memory.

And then, as if surrendering to whatever came next, he closed his eyes.
Peacefully.
Without fear.
Like someone ready to die.

Hua Cheng’s finger stayed on the trigger.
His jaw tightened. A sharp breath caught in his throat.
Something cold—like water, like dread—slid down his spine and settled deep in his chest.

He stared.

Not at the target. Not anymore.
But at the person standing there—at the softness of his face, the way his lashes brushed against pale skin, the stillness that wasn’t weakness but quiet resignation.

Indifferent, almost—like the question didn’t need an answer.

And for the first time in years—he hesitated.

Just long enough for the weight in his chest to shift.
To change into something he couldn’t name.

Then he moved.

No warning. No thought.
Just instinct.

He stepped forward, grabbed the man by the waist, and heaved him up—
slung him over his shoulder like cargo. One smooth motion. Efficient. Merciless.

The man let out a shocked breath as the world tilted beneath him.

“Wait—! What—! Put me down!”

He kicked his legs, fists pounding uselessly against Hua Cheng’s back.

“Where are you taking me?!”

No response.

Hua Cheng adjusted his grip, one arm locking firm around the man’s thighs.
He didn’t slow. Didn’t explain.
Just headed straight for the balcony, boots heavy, pace unbothered.

The doors slammed open with a gust of wind.

He stopped just long enough to pull off his bulletproof vest and shove it over the man’s upper body.
Buckled it. Tight.

“Hey—what are you doing?!”
“You afraid of heights?”

Hua Cheng’s voice was low. Calm.

But the glint in his eyes said otherwise.

Xie Lian froze.
His breath hitched, just barely.

Then—“Good.”

Hua Cheng bared his teeth in a crooked smirk.
Just enough to catch the edge of a fang beneath his lip—sharp, white, gleaming like something meant to bite.
His grip around the man’s waist tightened by a fraction.

And then they dropped.

The wire snapped taut with a violent jerk, and the world tilted hard beneath them.

Air screamed in their ears, roaring past with the weight of gravity unleashed.
Wind tore at Hua Cheng’s crimson coat, sent it flaring out like blood caught in a storm.
The night around them blurred into streaks of shadow and distant city light.

Xie Lian cried out—sharp, involuntary.

His arms shot up before he could think, wrapping tight around Hua Cheng’s shoulders.
Fingers curled into thick fabric, clutching desperately like he might fall through the air if he didn’t hold on.

He was light.

Too light.

His bare feet swayed slightly with the wind, and his breath came in short bursts against Hua Cheng’s collarbone.
His heart was thudding hard—Hua Cheng could feel it, quick and fluttering like a bird trying to escape a cage.

But he didn’t say anything.

Didn’t look down.

One hand on the wire, the other braced firm against the small of Xie Lian’s thighs, Hua Cheng controlled the descent with unshakable precision.
The line hissed and burned faint heat into his glove, but his eyes never moved.

Focused. Cold.

He just held on.

Not gently.

But securely.
The ground rushed up to meet them.
The landing hit with a muted thump, feet braced and knees bent.

Smooth. Controlled.
Too smooth for something that had felt like free fall.

Hua Cheng unhooked the wire in one practiced motion, the metal releasing with a clean, mechanical snap.

He didn’t pause.
Didn’t even look down.

He simply shifted his grip around the lean, unresisting body in his arms—like it weighed nothing at all—and turned toward the black SUV idling a few meters away.

Two figures stepped out to meet him.

One stood silent, face unreadable as always.
The other let out a long, theatrical groan.

“…Fuck,” He Xuan muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Hua Cheng didn’t respond.
He didn’t even slow down.

Still pinned under one arm, Xie Lian twisted, struggling to regain some dignity.
“Let me down!”

No answer.

He Xuan squinted, taking in the scene: the oversized shirt, the bare feet, the too-pretty face flushed with embarrassment.

Then he jabbed a thumb toward him.
“What, you stealing people’s mistresses now? Didn’t think that was your type.”

“I’m not a mistress,” Xie Lian snapped, sharp and indignant.

“Yeah. Right,” He Xuan deadpanned.
“Half-dressed, wearing another man’s shirt, dragged out of some secret facility ? Sure you’re not a kept boy.”

Xie Lian opened his mouth.
Then closed it.

A flush crept up the sides of his neck, burning hot across the tips of his ears.
Yin Yu, meanwhile, remained perfectly expressionless.
But his eyes darted to Hua Cheng. Then to Xie Lian. Then back.
There was something in the way he looked like he wanted to say something, but hadn’t been updated on what expression was legally allowed in this situation.

His eyebrows twitched. Once. Almost apologetically.

Hua Cheng didn’t stop walking.

“Get in,” he said.

“Hold on,” Xie Lian snapped. “I’m not—”

But it was too late.

With the same brutal efficiency as before, Hua Cheng opened the car door, shoved him inside, and slammed it shut behind him.

He Xuan raised both hands, half amused, half resigned.
“Hey. Not judging. Just didn’t realize you were into the ‘holy-and-abused’ aesthetic.”

Inside the car, Xie Lian sat stiff as a statue, seething.

Outside, Hua Cheng rounded the front and muttered to the wind:

“Drive.”

Yin Yu wordlessly slid into the driver’s seat.

He Xuan sighed and climbed in next to him.

As the car rolled into the night, silence settled—
thick with tension, indignation, and one very offended not-mistress radiating silent fury in the back seat.

Chapter Text

Paradise Manor loomed like a palace carved from shadow.
Dark marble stretched across the floors, veined with gold. Columns rose into the blackened heights above, half-swallowed by dim chandeliers that flickered like dying stars.
The air was thick—velvet and cold. Expensive. Dangerous.
It was a place that whispered: this is where power lives, and mercy does not.

Hua Cheng didn’t say a word as he pulled the stranger forward.
His grip wasn’t rough, but it wasn’t gentle, either.

The man didn’t resist.
Not exactly.
But he didn’t comply, either.

He walked only because he was being dragged.
His wrist remained trapped in Hua Cheng’s grasp, and he stared at that hand with quiet fury, refusing to meet his captor’s eyes.

Not even once.

A voice rang out down the hall, light and bright as a bell.

“You’re back already?!”

They came running, light on their feet, the soft hem of a pale, flowing dress fluttering behind them.
Their emerald green eyes sparkled with joy, and their entire presence was like a spring breeze let loose in a room of gunpowder.

“Wow, that was fast! Was there not much resistance?”
He Xuan didn’t spare them a glance as he spoke, voice low and even, edged with disinterest.

“Wasn’t much. Had another… issue.”

He gave a small jerk of his chin toward the man Hua Cheng was pulling along—his hand wrapped around the other’s wrist in an unyielding grip, dragging him forward step by step. The man didn’t resist, but there was no strength in his gait, no balance—just the quiet stumble of someone being led, not quite present.

Shi Qingxuan followed the motion with a glance, still half-smiling.

Until they saw his face.

Their steps slowed, then stopped altogether. The smile slipped without ceremony, the edges fading until there was nothing left.

They stared.

Just long enough for it to feel wrong.

The tilt of the head. That jawline.
The fall of dark lashes over familiar golden eyes, held low in a gaze that didn’t rise to meet them.

It took a moment—just one—but something shifted in their expression. Subtle. A breath held too long. A stillness that settled in the space between recognition and disbelief.

Their lips parted slightly, as if about to speak, but the words didn’t come. When their voice finally did emerge, it was quiet, measured, barely above a whisper

“You… Your Highness?!”

The man didn’t react at first.
His eyes were still fixed downward—staring coldly at the hand Hua Cheng had wrapped around his wrist like a shackle.
His jaw was tight. His posture, rigid.

But those two words—Your Highness—seemed to slice through whatever fog he was under.
A sharp inhale.

His whole body tensed.
Not like a prisoner, but like a soldier caught off-guard.

Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his head.

And golden eyes met emerald green.

“Your Highness?” Hua Cheng repeated, low and sharp.

And finally, for the first time since they met, the man looked at him.

Shimmering. Piercing. Unapologetic.

Then, without a word, he yanked his wrist free and muttered, cold and quiet.

“Don’t call me that.”

He Xuan snorted.
“Maybe it’s Jun Wu’s kink thing.”

Yin Yu, who had been silent until now, finally opened his mouth.

“His Highness,” he said, slowly, like correcting a child, “is not Jun Wu’s mistress. Or his… boy toy. Or whatever.”

Hua Cheng raised an eyebrow, eyes flicking to him.

“You knew him?”

Shi Qingxuan let out a strained laugh, rubbing the back of their neck.

“Ha… no, no, of course not. But that’s—that’s the Crown Prince. The most likely successor of ‘Heaven.’”

Silence.

“Fuck, Hua Cheng,” He Xuan burst out. “You stole Jun Wu’s golden boy right under his nose?”

Hua Cheng didn’t respond right away.

Instead, his gaze returned to the man beside him—really looking this time, taking in the shape of him now that the blood and smoke had settled just enough to reveal what was beneath.

Up close, he looked young. Too young.

Barely past boyhood, if that.
And beautiful—strikingly so—but not in any way that suited a place like this. There was something too fragile in the lines of his face, too untouched, as if the violence around them hadn’t quite managed to reach him yet.

The gold of his eyes caught the low light, clear and unwavering even in silence.
There was no fear there.
Only a quiet, exhausted kind of resistance—etched into the set of his shoulders, the tightness of his breath, the way he refused to look away.

And this, Hua Cheng thought, was supposed to be Heaven’s next ruler?

The thought was absurd. Almost laughable.

But before he could say anything, the man’s expression twisted. Something bitter curling at the corner of his mouth, as if the words had already reached him and left a familiar taste behind.

“I’m none of that anymore.”

His voice was rough, flat with finality. Not angry. Just tired.

Hua Cheng’s reply came after a beat, low and even.

“What do you mean?”

The man didn’t answer.

His lips pressed into a thin line, jaw locked tight, like whatever answer he might have given had long since been buried, and now he wasn’t sure it was worth digging up.

Then, cautiously, like stepping into a minefield—he spoke.

“I heard His Highness was… exiled. After a mission went wrong.”
He hesitated.
“They call him the ‘Fallen Prince’ now. When I joined Heaven, I was told he no longer participated in operations. That only Jun Wu was allowed to see him.”

He Xuan scoffed, dry as dust.
“Yeah, that just makes the boy toy theory more convincing.”

Xie Lian snapped his gaze toward him, eyes narrowing.

“I said I’m not.”

Hua Cheng hadn’t looked away from him once.
His voice was low, steady.

“Then what were you doing in his private suite?”

Xie Lian met his gaze, chin tilted up, eyes glinting gold and defiance.

“Why should I tell you?”

Hua Cheng’s brow twitched—just slightly.

The tension crackled.
Thick enough to choke on.

Shi Qingxuan, still hovering awkwardly by the doorway, let out a nervous laugh.

“Haha… o-okay! How about we all just—take a breath? We’ve all had a long day, right?”
They darted toward Xie Lian, hands flailing in a desperate attempt to change the subject.
“Your Highness! Let me show you to a room! Somewhere you can rest. Yes. Rest is good. Everyone loves rest!”

Xie Lian didn’t move.

Neither did Hua Cheng.

They were still locked in that moment, golden fire meeting blood-red steel.

Shi Qingxuan coughed lightly and took a small step back.

“…I’ll just go make the bed, then.“

Xie Lian sat curled up on the edge of the bed, face buried in his knees, barely breathing.
The room was quiet, almost too quiet.
Shi Qingxuan had been kind—but kindness was no key. No way out.
Not here.

He inhaled deeply, then slowly stood. His movements were stiff, measured.
He began searching the room.

Every drawer. Every shadow. Behind the curtains. Under the bed.
He didn’t expect to find a door, but he looked anyway.

No vents wide enough to squeeze through.
No unlocked windows.
No visible cameras, but that meant nothing.

Assume you’re being watched.

He needed to act natural. No suspicion.

Eventually, he gave up.
With a low sigh, he reached up and began unwrapping the white bandage from around his neck.

The fabric unwound slowly, revealing a dark tattoo that curled like smoke across pale skin.
Sharp black ink against a white throat—a mark of something old, and hidden.

He was about to peel off the oversized shirt when he heard a knock.

Quickly, too quickly, he rewrapped the bandage, tightening it around his neck with trembling fingers.
He opened the door.

And froze.

On the other side stood a man dressed in black—tall, sharp-featured, devastatingly composed.
Hair dark as ink, skin pale under the dim hallway light, and eyes that glittered with something far more dangerous than cruelty.Xie Lian knew who he was immediately.

Crimson Rain.

The head of Ghost City.
The shadow king.
The name whispered between bloodied teeth in the dark corners of the world.

He had heard stories—everyone in Heaven had.
And unlike most myths, these were not exaggerated.
If anything, they were softened to be spoken aloud.
They said he left no witnesses. That wherever he went, he left only silence behind—silence, and corpses. He didn’t crush his enemies with armies or brute force, but with patience. One by one. He razed cartels, skin traders, assassins’ guilds. And they said—he smiled while doing it. Watched men bleed out and drown in it. And somehow, made it look clean.

The underworld didn’t fear him because he was brutal. They feared him because he was perfect. No hesitation. No mistakes. No remorse.

But no one had warned Xie Lian that he’d look like this.

He wasn’t a butcher. He wasn’t a monster.

He was tall. Composed. Almost elegant. Not the kind of man Xie Lian had been trained to fight—thick-necked thugs and trigger-happy guards—but something else entirely. A blade dressed in silk. Precise where he should’ve been reckless. Cold where he should’ve been human.

His eyes glinted like garnets carved from ice. His face was flawless—painfully so. So symmetrical it hurt to look at. Like someone had sculpted it with love, and forgot to leave in mercy.

Xie Lian’s stomach turned.

It was unfair—this contradiction of grace and violence, of beauty carved over rot. That someone who bled cities dry could wear a face like that.

A phantom weight tightened in his throat. Pressure—cold, familiar. The kind he hadn’t felt in years. A hallway surfaced in his memory. Too quiet. A chair, upturned. White cloth wrapped around necks that had smiled even as they fell.

His parents.

And suddenly, he remembered. Why he’d joined Heaven. Why he’d given up everything just to believe—foolishly, maybe—that a different world was possible. One where men like this didn’t win. One where faces like this couldn’t walk free after painting alleys red.

Now that same face was standing in front of him. 

A man who didn’t flinch from his power. Who used violence like poetry.

And all Xie Lian could feel was the sick rise of bile in his throat. It wasn’t fear. It was hate. It was grief. It was shame.

And it was so quiet, it hurt to breathe.

He narrowed his eyes, lips thinning to a sharp, tight line. His hands didn’t move. His voice didn’t come. He just looked at him. At the man who stood for everything he’d tried to fight. Everything he’d wanted to erase from the world.

Hua Cheng smirked, annoyance flickering across his features as he gave Xie Lian a slow, deliberate once-over.

“Worried the room’s not fit for a prince?”
His voice was smooth, dry, laced with venomous amusement.
“Wouldn’t want your royal petals to wilt in discomfort.”

Xie Lian’s face flushed red, fury rising instantly to his throat.

“Say what you came to say. I don’t feel like listening to your voice for long.”

Hua Cheng’s smile widened, cruel and cold.

“That’s cute. Are you in a position to give orders now, Your Highness?”
He leaned in slightly.
“Or have you gotten so used to being someone’s favorite plaything that you expect everyone to kneel when you speak?”

Xie Lian’s jaw clenched.
Fury burned intensly in his eyes.

“I don’t waste courtesy on criminals.”
His voice was sharp, slicing.
“Funny, how you demand respect when you offer none. Is that how it works in Ghost City? Rule with a gun and expect a throne?”

Hua Cheng barked a laugh.
It echoed, sharp and humorless.

“Criminals?” he spat. “That’s rich, coming from a Heaven‘s dog.”
His tone turned dark, mocking.
“Do you even know what I cleaned out today? That pretty palace you served so proudly? The branch of Heaven. The same organization you speak so proudly—It turns out they were smuggling children under the guise of charity. Selling them like cattle.”
He stepped forward, voice dropping to a sneer.
“But I’m sure you knew nothing. Heaven’s golden boy. White lotus. Not a drop of blood on you.”

Xie Lian froze. The breath left his lungs all at once, not in a gasp but in a slow, collapsing silence, like something inside him had simply caved in. He opened his mouth to speak—reflexively, instinctively—but no words came. 
The fire in his golden eyes, still burning just moments earlier, dulled at the edges, flickered once, then faded as he dropped his gaze. Not just his eyes—his shoulders, his stance, his entire presence seemed to fold inward, as if all at once, the strength to hold himself together had slipped away. And in that stillness, for the first time, he looked not angry, not proud, but ashamed.
Hua Cheng stood across from him, watching. Waiting. Expecting something—an argument, a sharp word, even a spark of righteous fury. But nothing came. There was only silence. And somehow, in that silence, without the fire or the fight or even the hate… it didn’t feel like victory at all.

Without thinking, he reached into his coat. Pulled something out.

A small bracelet, delicate, black, with a silver butterfly etched into the surface.

He held it out.

“You’re not walking free.”
His voice had lost its edge—only a little.
“It’s just a tracker. Minimal surveillance.”

He had expected a fight. Some resistance, at least. A sharp look, a bitter word—anything.

But Xie Lian only stared at him. Then, without saying a word, he reached out, took the bracelet, and fastened it himself.

No comment. No reaction. Just silence.

Then he turned away.

And closed the door behind him with a quiet, final thud that felt louder than a shout.

Hua Cheng stood there in the hallway, unmoving. Staring at the door that had shut him out.

Xie Lian sank to the floor the moment he stepped into the room, folding in on himself with his face buried in his knees. The coldness of the ground seeped through his skin, a damp chill that seemed to press against his lungs. Everything about this place felt suffocating. The manor, the people in it—the criminals.

Criminals…

But then, Hua Cheng’s voice echoed faintly in his memory. What he had destroyed last night wasn’t some virtuous faction—it was a corrupted branch of Heaven, rotting from the inside. Heaven was a massive organization, sprawling and tangled, and not every corner of it gleamed with righteousness. He had said so himself: some of them were worse than the criminals they claimed to hunt.

Xie Lian knew that better than anyone. He had seen it. Lived it.

And yet hearing it from the lips of a man like him, the leader of a syndicate he was raised to abhor, stirred something heavy and bitter in his chest.

I want to go back.

The thought came unbidden, a reflex, instinctive and childish. But almost as quickly, he shook his head. Back where? To Jun Wu’s suffocating embrace? To Heaven, where he was no longer welcome? Where he was nothing but a fallen heir, a pitiful relic? To a place where even my name is a curse?

No. There was nowhere to return to.

Last night, clinging to Hua Cheng’s shoulders as they descended the darkened cityscape, Xie Lian had caught glimpses of a world he hadn’t seen in years. No chains, no watchers, no bars—just the wind on his face, the city’s neon glow painting color back into his dulled vision. After his demotion, he’d barely been allowed to leave his room without someone’s watchful eyes on him. And worse—those eyes had once belonged to people he called friends.

The night air, sharp and electric, had tasted like freedom. He remembered the way the wind tangled in Hua Cheng’s long black hair, remembered thinking—grudgingly—that he was too beautiful to be real. Graceful, precise, composed. It was irritating.

Especially when that same mouth curled around the words “Your Highness,” in a tone soaked with mockery.

No, he thought as he pulled the sheets over himself with a sigh. I don’t belong here. I’ll leave the moment I see a chance.

With that final thought, exhaustion dragged him under.

Knock knock.

The sound jolted him awake. Xie Lian sat up, heart leaping as the knock came again—gentle, but insistent.

He rose, still drowsy, and opened the door.

A pair of bright emerald eyes met his. A young man stood in the hallway, beaming.

“Good morning, Your Highness! Would you like to come have breakfast with me?”

It took Xie Lian a moment to recognize him—Shi Qingxuan. He’d only heard of him in passing, but he knew they shared a similar background. Despite the unfamiliarity, he felt an odd rush of comfort at seeing a familiar face from the same world.

Shi Qingxuan’s cheerfulness was disarming. Their voice was light, his steps almost springy as he led Xie Lian to the kitchen—a wide, airy space with sleek countertops, soft morning light spilling through frosted windows, and the scent of freshly baked bread in the air. The table was already set with steaming bowls of porridge, fruit, and delicate dishes Xie Lian hadn’t tasted in what felt like centuries.

He sat, still wary, but found himself slowly relaxing under Qingxuan’s warm energy. The other talked easily, jumping between topics with ease and enthusiasm. Xie Lian wasn’t used to that kind of lightness—most of the people he’d spent time with were burdened with silence, like him—but it was… oddly pleasant. He even caught himself smiling.

After a few rounds of small talk, Shi Qingxuan gave him a sheepish grin.

“To be honest, I was shocked when I heard Hua Cheng had just… swept you away like that. Does Jun Wu even know? Are you… okay?”

Xie Lian’s smile faded. A flicker of something unreadable passed through his face, but he shook his head.

“I lost my title a long time ago,” he said quietly. “There’s nothing for me to go back to. So please, just call me Xie Lian.”

Shi Qingxuan’s eyes softened, but they quickly beamed again. “Alright, Xie Lian it is! Let me give you a little tour after breakfast. You haven’t seen half the wonders of this place yet!”

⸻Paradise Manor was more than a stronghold. It was a palace carved out of shadows and silver. The corridors stretched on endlessly, winding through indoor gardens with glass ceilings, training arenas, meditation halls, libraries, even an underground pool that shimmered like liquid moonlight. The scale of it stunned him—it might’ve even been larger than Heaven itself.

It was beautiful in a way that felt almost unholy. And somehow, it made the emptiness inside him ache even more.

Their final stop was the shooting range—an open, echoing chamber with high ceilings and sleek white walls. The air inside smelled faintly of gunpowder.

Shi Qingxuan reached for the door but paused. “Oh. Someone’s already using it.”

Inside, Hua Cheng stood with protective glasses perched on his face, a gun in one hand, utterly relaxed. He didn’t look up, though he must have noticed them. He fired lazily, almost like he was bored—and yet every shot was perfect, clean, final.

Shi Qingxuan gave a nervous laugh. “Haha… maybe we should come back later—”

But Xie Lian had already turned away. Something twisted in his chest at the sight of that face, so unreadable, so infuriatingly calm.

“Let’s go, Qingxuan.”

And then—just as they turned—

A voice, low and languid, drifted through the air like the whisper of a blade.

⸻“Your Highness looks far too delicate for a place like this,” Hua Cheng murmured without looking their way, his tone light, almost amused. “Raised behind ivory walls, worshipped like a god, never had to get his hands dirty. I wonder those pretty hands of yours ever even touched a gun? Or did Heaven decide you were too precious to learn something so crude?”

Xie Lian froze.
For a moment, he didn’t turn around. 
The silence coiled tighter.
Then—Xie Lian moved. Rustle of his shirt the only sound in the room.

He stopped before the spare pistol, picked it up without hesitation—his movements fluid, elegant, almost detached. Then, in a single, seamless motion, he loaded the magazine, cocked the slide, and raised the gun.

With one hand.

His other remained loosely at his side, as if this required no more than half his focus.

Shi Qingxuan blinked. “Uh… wait, wha—”

Bang.
The first bullet cracked through the air.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
One after another, rapid and exact, no pause between them, each shot landing perfectly at the center of the target’s head.

Not the torso. The head.

Then—he stepped sideways to the second lane. Still one-handed. Still not looking at anyone. He fired again. A new target flipped into place. He hit the bullseye. Five more. Ten.

His expression never changed.

By the time the final round clicked empty, not a single bullet had missed its mark.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Shi Qingxuan’s mouth had dropped open somewhere in the middle and hadn’t quite found its way closed.

“Holy shit” he finally muttered. 

Xie Lian slowly lowered the gun, placed it back on the bench with quiet precision, and turned, eyes calm but unreadable.

“I don’t like using guns,” he said, more to the air than to anyone in particular. “But that doesn’t mean I never trained.”

Across the room, Hua Cheng still hadn’t moved.

His eyes tracked Xie Lian like a man watching something rare, dangerous, and devastatingly beautiful. There was no mocking now. Only the faintest curve at the edge of his mouth—something that almost resembled a smile, and yet didn’t.

“…Noted,” he said quietly.

Chapter Text

After finishing the last stretch of the tour with Shi Qingxuan, Xie Lian returned to his room. He barely touched his dinner. The house was too quiet, too vast, and for some reason, even silence here had a taste—metallic and stale, like blood dried into iron.

The shower was warm. The steam relaxed his muscles, but not his thoughts. Not the pressure that lingered like a bruise beneath his skin.

He stepped out, skin still damp, towel around his neck. But the moment his hand brushed his throat, the memory returned—cold, involuntary, precise.

His fingers moved to the gauze at his neck and slowly unwound it.

Beneath it, the black ink curled and cut across the skin with flawless symmetry, as though it had grown there naturally. As though he had been born with it.

But he hadn’t. And he would never forget the day it was put there.

⸻He had been made to kneel in the ceremonial hall.
Just a thin white shirt that clung to his skin, soaked through with sweat and cold air. It offered no protection. Not from the needles. Not from the gazes.

Agents had lined the walls in silence, like statues with mouths sewn shut. No one looked him in the eyes. But they all saw. All heard.

A pair of guards held his arms in place. Another forced his chin up, baring the long line of his neck beneath the sweat-damp collar.

He didn’t struggle. He didn’t beg.

The tattooist approached with a small metal tray. Neat rows of long, surgical needles shimmered under the light. The ink was thick, black as night, mixed with a preservative that smelled faintly of iron and resin.

The first puncture made his body seize.

Not from shock, but from precision. It wasn’t just pain—it was pain crafted like art. The needle sliced into the fine, nerve-rich flesh just below the jaw, where the skin was thinnest. The kind of spot meant for kisses or killing.

It burned.

A slow, white-hot sting that didn’t fade but deepened with each pass. The ink wasn’t merely being drawn—it was pushed in, forced under the skin like a violation. One hand gripped the back of his head, steadying it. Another hand worked the needle in delicate, rhythmic movements.

Each motion sent jolts down his spine. His shoulders trembled.

The needle dragged lower, following the curvature of his throat. Every time he inhaled, he could feel it—skin tugging under pressure, the bite of metal inside his flesh. Sweat slid down his temples.
When the tattooist changed needles—longer this time—Xie Lian bit his lip so hard the skin split open. Blood ran over his chin, salty and hot, and still he said nothing.
The pain was not wild or chaotic. It was precise—clinical, almost surgical. Like a dissection, drawn out not for efficiency but for emphasis, each line methodically carved with the intent to be remembered. Minutes bled into hour; time lost its meaning, distorted under the pressure of a thousand pinpricks and the sear of ink soaked into raw flesh. He couldn’t tell how long it lasted. Only that it didn’t stop. He clenched his fists so tightly that his fingernails carved crescent moons into his palms, his body locked in silence, refusing to break.

He didn’t scream. He wouldn’t.

And above it all, on the viewing platform, Jun Wu stood watching. Not with cruelty—not even with judgment—but with a kind of serene, unreadable calm. As if he weren’t witnessing a punishment at all. As if this were something sacred.

A gesture. A statement. A gift.

Everyone saw it. They all understood. Later, they would whisper behind closed doors—not that the Crown Prince had been punished, nor that he had been exiled, like others before him. No, they would say that he had been kept.

Not rejected. Not erased. But favored.

Marked deliberately, visibly—at the throat, where no one could miss it. Not as a traitor. Not even as a warning.

Back in the present, Xie Lian touched the mark again. The skin there was still more sensitive than the rest of his body, even after all this time. It pulsed faintly beneath his fingertips, not from pain—just memory.

He didn’t dry his hair. Didn’t bother dressing fully. He slipped into bed with the mark still exposed, the moonlight brushing across his throat like a second brand.

Sleep pulled him down like water.

And in the dark, the ghost of the needle still dragged fire across his skin.

“They’re civilians,” Xie Lian snapped, voice tight with urgency. “There are children over there. Families. People who have nothing to do with this war. How can I turn away?”

Mu Qing scoffed, folding his arms. His voice was cold, sharp, calculated.
“Think about what’s already happened to us. You really think now’s the time to play hero for strangers? War doesn’t care if someone’s a child or women. If they’re in the way, they die.”

Feng Xin stepped forward, face flushed with anger.
“That’s enough! His Highness has already made the call. It’s not our place to argue with him!”

But Mu Qing ignored him. His gaze was fixed on Xie Lian, his tone lower now.
“You’re going to regret this, Xie Lian.”

⸻

The world shifted.

Suddenly, it was night—too dark. The air was thick with smoke. Screams pierced through it like splinters.

A man in a white mask stood at the center of the chaos, one side laughing, the other crying. He tilted his head, hand brushing Xie Lian’s cheek like a loving parent.

“Such a pretty face. Such a pure heart. Born to be adored, weren’t you, Your Highness?”

Gunfire crackled in the distance.

“You’d sacrifice yourself for them, wouldn’t you? All those innocent little people.”

“Please!” someone screamed behind him. “I don’t want to die!”

“Wait—wait, hold on!” Xie Lian turned toward the crowd, his voice cracking. “Please stay calm! I’ll get you out, I swear I will—”

BANG.

A single shot.

Someone screamed.

And then everything broke.

Blood sprayed across his face. A child collapsed in front of him, eyes still open. Someone else was sobbing, shrieking. More shots. The crowd surged, then fell apart—like paper figures in the wind.

“You said you’d help!”

“LIAR!”

“Murderer!”

Blood soaked the ground, pooling around his ankles. Limbs scattered like fallen branches. Organs spilled like overripe fruit. The smell—copper, rot, smoke—invaded his lungs.

The masked man walked toward him through the chaos, his steps slow and steady. The white of his mask gleamed red with reflected blood.

“You promised to save them,” he said gently “But you couldn’t even save yourself.”

Xie Lian jolted awake, breath tearing from his lungs like he’d surfaced too quickly from deep water. The room was dark, but the shadows on the ceiling seemed to pulse, swim, stretch. He was drenched—skin slick with sweat, hair clinging to the sides of his face and neck, sheets twisted around his legs like restraints. The taste of blood was still in his mouth, though he knew he hadn’t bitten his lip this time. His chest heaved with every breath, heart hammering against his ribs in a frantic, desperate rhythm that refused to settle.

For a long moment, he just sat there, fingers gripping the edge of the mattress, trying to tell himself it wasn’t real. The screaming, the gunfire, the blood in his hands. The mask. The child. None of it was real. Not anymore.

But it had been.

The room was too still. Too clean. He couldn’t stay here—not with the echoes crawling under his skin. He pulled the damp fabric of his shirt away from his chest and stood, moving through the hallway with quiet, deliberate steps. The manor at night was nearly silent, its halls vast and dimly lit, shadows stretching long along the marble floors. He didn’t bother with slippers, or a robe. The cool air helped. A little.

He made his way toward the nearest balcony, the one overlooking the east garden—wide and open, bordered by smooth stone and wrought-iron rails. The doors were unlocked. He stepped outside.

The night was deep and blue, the sky thick with clouds that swallowed the moon. The air bit at his damp skin, sharp and clean. He leaned forward against the railing and closed his eyes, letting the chill cut through the lingering heat of the nightmare. His pulse was still too fast.

That was when he noticed the faint smell of smoke.

It wasn’t from a fire. It was cleaner than that—dry and bitter, tinged with something faintly sweet. He opened his eyes.

A few feet to the side, leaning against one of the stone pillars that framed the balcony, was Hua Cheng.

Xie Lian pressed his fingers to his temple, the dull ache behind his eyes refusing to ease. The last thing he wanted was to deal with Hua Cheng’s attitude tonight. But it was Hua Cheng who had arrived first, standing silent and uninvited on the terrace—technically, the intruder here wasn’t him. So, Xie Lian held his tongue, forcing a sigh past his lips and settling into the far end of the stone railing, trying his best to pretend the man wasn’t there at all. He figured they’d simply pass the time in silence until Hua Cheng finished his cigarette and left.

Hua Cheng, ever the provocateur, broke the silence with a smirk.

“Care for a smoke?” he offered, his tone laced with playful mockery.

Xie Lian turned, more surprised by the suddenness than the question itself. The moonlight cast sharp angles on Hua Cheng’s face, highlighting a beauty almost unreal.

“I don’t smoke,” Xie Lian replied flatly.Hua Cheng’s smirk widened, mischief dancing in his eyes.

“Oh? Daddy Jun Wu tell you not to smoke because it’s bad for you?” he teased, his tone dripping with condescension, as if speaking to a child.

Xie Lian’s eye twitched. He took a slow, deep breath, counting silently to ten.
Maybe I should just kill him now and get it over with, he mused, the thought almost comforting.

The throbbing in his skull pulsed harder, dull and insistent, so he simply dropped his head into his folded arms and exhaled into his sleeves.

The cold autumn air clung to their skin like mist, crisp and dry, stirring the edges of his damp hair. Somewhere below, the city glittered in a hundred shades of electric gold, windows blinking like faraway stars. The wind carried faint smells of stone, smoke, and distant rain. It was quiet, almost too quiet—except for the soft crackle of burning tobacco as Hua Cheng lit a second cigarette.

He didn’t leave.

Instead, he lingered—flicking ash into the wind, not looking at Xie Lian, not asking anything. Just existing there beside him like the silence belonged to both of them.

“Why didn’t you kill me?” Xie Lian asked.

The question came without warning. He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. But once it was out, it hung there, suspended between them.

Hua Cheng hesitated, just for a breath, then exhaled slowly through his teeth. The smoke drifted lazily upward.

“I thought you were a civilian,” he said. “You weren’t exactly in a uniform.”

The rest he didn’t say—but it hung there in the silence.
The too-large shirt, the bare feet, the dazed look. The pretty face.

He didn’t look at Hua Cheng as he spoke, but the smirk in his voice was unmistakable.
“It was my face, wasn’t it?”
He let out a small laugh, teasing.
“You saw me and thought, ‘Must be some rich old man’s guilty secret.’”

Hua Cheng’s jaw tensed, just a little.
“…I didn’t say that.”

“But you thought it.”
Xie Lian’s grin widened.
“Don’t worry. I’m used to it.”

There was a pause.

Then Hua Cheng muttered, more annoyed than defensive, “You should be grateful.
That harmless, angelic face of yours is the only reason you’re still standing.”

“So,” Xie Lian said quietly, “if you’d known I was with Heaven, you would’ve killed me?”

Hua Cheng didn’t answer. Maybe he didn’t know. Maybe he didn’t want to know.

But Xie Lian wasn’t interested in the answer anymore. His voice drifted, softer now.
“People take one look at me and think I’ve never had blood on me.”
He let out a breath—half a laugh, if you could call it that.
“Like I’ve never hurt anyone. Never killed.”

His voice stayed even. Almost too even.

“But I have. Maybe even more than you.”

There was no drama to it. No anger.
Just a painful truth, spoken like something he’d told himself too many times already.

He folded his arms and slowly leaned forward, pressing his face into them. Hiding nothing—just tired.

“I wanted to save everyone. It wasn’t some impulsive decision—I made those calls carefully. Over and over again, until I believed in them. And now look at me.”

He let out a humorless breath. “Meanwhile, the leader of a criminal syndicate turns out to be the one rescuing orphans and protecting civilians. I’m not sure if I should laugh or cry.”

He wasn’t sure why he was saying all this. Maybe it was the quiet. Or the cigarette smoke curling through the air. Or the simple, forgotten comfort of being spoken to—really spoken to—for the first time in so long. Since the mark was carved into his skin, no one had dared look at him too long, much less talk to him. No one wanted to be seen with the disgrace of Heaven.Maybe that’s why the words came so easily now. After all, there was nothing left for Hua Cheng to think of him. No reputation left to ruin.

It’s been so long since he had anyone to talk to.

Hua Cheng didn’t respond right away. He just stood there, arms folded, eyes somewhere far beyond the city lights.

Xie Lian hadn’t expected a reply, not really. He leaned back against the railing, letting the words fall behind him like something he didn’t need to carry anymore. It felt strange, the relief of simply saying things out loud.

But just as he shifted, ready to slip back inside and let the night end, Hua Cheng finally spoke.

“Killing’s simple,” he said.
“You did the hard thing.”

The words were quiet. Not soft, not warm—but not sharp either.
Just steady. Like they didn’t need to be anything more than true.

Xie Lian didn’t turn. Didn’t reply.
But for a moment, he stood there—still, like something in him had paused.

Then he stepped inside, and the door closed behind him with a muted click.
Later that night, buried beneath cold sheets, he tried to sleep.
He shut his eyes, turned away from the window, and pressed a hand to his ear—as if that might help.

But the voice remained.
It didn’t echo. It didn’t rise.
It was simply there—quiet, steady, lodged somewhere deep behind his ribs, exactly where his breath always caught.

And even when sleep finally came, slow and reluctant,
it followed him down.

Xie Lian shuffled sleepily toward the kitchen, eyes barely open. Life at Paradise Manor had become strangely familiar by now—luxurious, even, compared to the years spent locked away under Jun Wu’s surveillance. He still wasn’t allowed to leave freely, but at least here, he wasn’t trapped in a single room.

As he stepped into the kitchen, he spotted Hua Cheng already sitting at the table, eating as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Xie Lian sighed internally. For some reason, his schedule kept overlapping with this ill-tempered mafia boss.

He considered ignoring him—like usual—but then that quiet voice from the other night echoed back in his mind. If he was being generous, it had almost sounded like comfort. Clearing his throat, he tried a tentative greeting.

“Didn’t think you were the breakfast type.”

Hua Cheng gave him a glance, then returned to his food without a word.

Asshole.

Embarrassed, Xie Lian flushed and turned toward the stove. Why did he even bother?

He grabbed two eggs from the fridge and cracked them into a pan. His eyes drifted to a nearby jar of powdered ginger.

Would that make it taste better?

The sting of being ignored faded quickly. Excited by the idea, Xie Lian reached for the spices and began tossing in whatever looked interesting. Back in Heaven, he’d once poisoned 40 agents with a single meal and had been banned from the kitchen ever since. But here—no one was stopping him. With a spark in his eyes, he embraced the culinary freedom.

Hua Cheng, still seated, watched in silence. His mouth opened a few times—perhaps to intervene—but each time, he closed it again.

When the cooking was done, the “eggs” had turned an alarming shade of purple. Even Xie Lian wasn’t sure what went wrong. He sighed, staring down at the dish with a defeated expression.

Then a fork appeared beside him, scooping a generous bite.

He turned, stunned, to see Hua Cheng calmly lifting the bizarre creation to his mouth. There was no hesitation. No fear.

Xie Lian panicked. The last thing he needed was a reputation for poisoning the mafia boss. But before he could say anything, Hua Cheng chewed slowly. Thoughtfully. As if actually tasting it.

Then, after a pause, he swallowed and looked at Xie Lian.“…Not bad,” he said. “Try adding more salt next time.”

He scooped another helping into a bowl and walked back to his seat without comment.

Xie Lian stood there, speechless.

Someone had eaten his food. And complimented it.

That had never happened before.

Just then, Shi Qingxuan burst into the kitchen, dramatically fanning the air.

“Who’s brewing poison in here? What is that smell?”

Today, Their beautiful face was lightly done up, makeup subtle but stunning.

He Xuan followed behind, glancing toward Hua Cheng with a raised brow.

“Since when do you eat breakfast? I thought you always said it made you sluggish.”

Hua Cheng paused mid-bite. Then resumed eating without looking up.

“I eat. Just not like you, who raids the entire fridge every morning.”

His tone was sharper than usual.

He Xuan rolled his eyes. “Someone’s in a mood.”

Xie Lian stood for a moment, staring silently at Hua Cheng. But soon, Yin Yu entered the kitchen, face drawn with fatigue and dark circles under his eyes. He moved with practiced silence, gathered a simple breakfast, and sat down at the far end of the table with a cup of coffee that looked more like liquid asphalt.

He gave a faint nod of greeting to the others, then spoke—calm, efficient, and all business.

“Chengzhu, we’ve begun investigating the human trafficking ring you ordered. It’s definitely tied to a Heaven branch, but we can’t confirm whether the cell you dismantled was the only one. According to the children we rescued, there were at least two other vans on the day of their abduction. We’ll need to follow up.”

Hua Cheng didn’t look up from his breakfast. “We’ll go over it in the tactical briefing later,” he said flatly. “Either way, we’re going to tear the rest of it out by the roots.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Let me join the briefing.”

Every head in the kitchen turned except for He Xuan, who continued inhaling his towering plate of food like nothing had happened.

Xie Lian’s voice was calm. Even. But the room went tense in an instant. Shi Qingxuan glanced between the two, visibly unsettled. Yin Yu paused mid-sip, not looking up. The silence was the kind that made the air feel heavy.

Hua Cheng didn’t respond right away. He leaned back slightly, crossed one leg over the other, and gave Xie Lian a long, assessing look. His expression was unreadable, but there was nothing soft in his gaze.

“You want to join?” he said at last. “And what exactly am I supposed to trust you with?”

Xie Lian didn’t flinch. He folded his arms across his chest, expression steady.

“If this is a Heaven branch, then it falls under my jurisdiction. No one knows that system better than I do. If a cell tied to my organization is behind this, then I bear responsibility too.” His voice sharpened. “Besides, you’re part of a criminal syndicate. Who knows what kind of methods you’re planning to use. Someone should be there to keep you in check.”

There was a pause, just long enough to register the words.

“And anyway,” he added dryly, “it’s not like Heaven has much use for me anymore. So there is no reason for me to betray you.”

The logic was clean, even if the irony stung.

Before anyone could respond, a voice cut in from the side.

“Hey, just checking—this purple thing is safe to eat, right? Like, it’s not actual poison?”

He Xuan was holding a forkful of Xie Lian’s suspicious-looking breakfast, halfway to his mouth.

There was a moment of stillness.

And then Hua Cheng, who until now had said nothing, arched a brow, a glint of annoyed amusement curling at the corner of his mouth.

“Fancy that. Your Highness offering his divine presence to a lowly criminal operation. Should I be honored?” His tone was all silk and sharp teeth. “Will we be graced with your legendary skills, chosen heir of Heaven?”

Xie Lian’s eye twitched. His ears were hot.
Oh he was so going to kill hua cheng.
But he managed to grit out the words.
“Sure. And I’ll get to see for myself if you’re really as impressive as the rumors claim.”
The air crackled.
A flicker of something electric passed between them.
Neither moved. Neither blinked. The tension was nearly visible, like the shimmer of heat before a fire.

“I’m serious,” He Xuan said again in the background. “I’m eating it. I’m doing it.”

“Fine,” Hua Cheng said.

“Fine!” Xie Lian shot back.

They both stood up at once, chairs scraping sharply against the floor.

Behind them, something fell with a heavy thud.

Shi Qingxuan let out a strangled cry. “He Xuan?! Oh no—HE XUAN?! Someone call an ambulance! He’s not breathing!”

Yin Yu calmly continued chewing his toast.

Hua Cheng and Xie Lian stared at each other, a silent storm brewing across the table.
Their eyes didn’t waver, didn’t blink—just locked in a standstill that felt like it might explode.

He Xuan sighed through his teeth, shaking his head.
“Either fight or get a room. Just pick one, for god’s sake.”

Hua Cheng turned slowly to glare at him, like he was already calculating the most painful way to silence him.
Xie Lian, on the other hand, flushed violently to the tips of his ears and ducked his head, pretending to focus on the table instead.

Yin Yu cleared his throat, mercifully redirecting the room.
“The second location,” he began, rising from his chair and pulling up a projected file, “was identified in the western port sector. It appears to be a branch extension of Heaven—though unofficial, clearly still operating under their former infrastructure.”

He clicked to the next slide.
“From what we can gather, Jun Wu’s oversight didn’t reach this far. The transactions likely took place in Qi Rong’s territory. They were compensated with drugs, trafficked victims, possibly both.”

He paused, scanning the room.
“The victims were mostly teenagers—runaways, or from unstable homes. No records. No one looking for them.”

A sharp tsk from Hua Cheng broke the silence.
“Qi rong? All that effort, wasted on gutting some low-life maggots. Filthy work for trash that doesn’t even deserve a bullet.”

Yin Yu didn’t react. He simply nodded and flipped to another file.
“On the surface, it appears this was orchestrated by Qi rong. But during the last sweep, several of his subordinates told us the same thing—they were just following orders. Even Qi rong, they said, was a middleman.”

He looked up.
“The true architect behind it—was White No-Face.”

The name fell like a blade into the room.

Xie Lian’s eyes dilated.
His hand twitched. For a moment, his breath caught.

White No-Face.
The name echoed through the darkest parts of his memory, untouched and unhealed.

Even now, it hollowed out his chest.

Across the table, Hua Cheng’s gaze shifted—sharp and calculating, then softening for just a second.

“But the western dock is closed off,” Hua Cheng said quietly, changing the subject..

His voice was calm, but the air in the meeting room shifted—subtle, heavy with tension.

“The other routes are locked down with patrols and thermal sensors, two layers deep. If something still got through…” He tapped the center screen. “Then it used a route no one thought to watch.”

Xie Lian crossed his arms, nodding slightly as his eyes skimmed over the reports.
“The victims are already gone. The only tangible lead we have left is the drug shipment. If we can figure out where it came from—and how it moved—everything else follows.”

He Xuan leaned in. “There’s a container plant near the dock. What if there’s some hidden access—like a drain tunnel or false wall?”

“No,” Yin Yu cut in firmly.
“That facility only allows access to one administrator. No security breach, no evidence of falsified entry logs. The CCTV shows one confirmed visit. Just one.”
He flipped to another page.
“And the kicker? There’s nearly a one-hour gap between when the administrator left and when the drugs were confirmed to have shipped.”

A heavy silence settled over the room, thick with unspoken questions and mounting tension.

Xie Lian stared down at the schematics spread before him. The blueprints were crisp, the inked lines detailing every corner of the facility.

One entrance. No signs of tampering. No hidden tunnels.

A sealed harbor. No recorded routes in or out.

Yet, inexplicably, the drugs had moved.

It defied logic.

Then—

A sharp click echoed as a pen cap snapped into place.

Two voices broke the silence in perfect unison.

“The chimney.”

Heads snapped up, eyes widening in realization.

Hua Cheng and Xie Lian found themselves locked in each other’s gaze, surprise flickering between them.

“The chimney,” Xie Lian repeated, his voice measured and contemplative. “Most assume it’s solely for exhaust. But older factories—especially those constructed in the ’70s—often incorporated modified vertical shafts for light freight. Compact air-duct tubing repurposed into drop funnels. They’ve fallen out of use, but the structures remain.”

Hua Cheng nodded, picking it up seamlessly.
“And the admin only entered once. If the drugs were dropped through the chimney at a scheduled time—he just had to be there to ‘find’ them.”
He gestured toward the screen.
“And think about it. The container systems are fully automated. Once the load meets the weight threshold, the machine handles the rest.”

Xie Lian stepped in.
“So he wasn’t carrying it. Just staging it. The drugs were already there when he entered. He placed them, timed the system—and walked out. That hour-long gap?”

“Explained,” Hua Cheng said simply. “That time wasn’t dead space. It was transit.”

He Xuan’s mouth dropped open as realization dawned.
“Holy shit.”

“Exactly.”
Hua Cheng gave him a flat look.
“Ground-level. Nothing above ground.”
Xie Lian placed his hand on the old blueprint spread across the table.
“This plant was built on top of a former freight rail yard.
Subterranean rail lines were used to move bulk containers between docks. Most of them were shut down decades ago—
but not all of them were dismantled. Some were preserved for emergency logistics.”

He tapped a line on the blueprint, running his finger along a faded track.
“This one, It leads directly to an old maintenance dock. A decommissioned pier labeled as a ’repair zone for scheduled vessels.’”

Hua Cheng smirked slightly.
“Unofficial. Unguarded.
The kind of place no one checks because no one’s supposed to be there.”

Xie Lian nodded.
“The drugs were loaded into that line. Slipped out beneath our feet.
By the time anyone checked the cargo manifest—if they even bothered—it was long gone.
Disguised as emergency supplies. Sent off on a ship no one was watching.”

“And the ship?” Hua Cheng added.
“Registered as under repair. Cameras were down because of the storm. Port logs listed it as stationary.
No one even knew it left.”

Xie Lian leaned back, folding his arms.
“We kept looking sideways. They used vertical and underground.”

The room fell silent.

Then, slowly, He Xuan leaned back and let out a long, tired breath.
“Is this how you guys flirt now? Because honestly, it’s kind of disturbing.”

“I’m doubling your debt,” Hua Cheng said, his voice tight with fury.

Xie Lian’s face flushed all the way to his neck, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
He Xuan merely shrugged, while Yin Yu cleared his throat and changed the subject.

“Xie Lian, since you used to be part of Heaven, you’re probably familiar with their operation routes. Do you have any guesses where they might move next?”

Xie Lian felt a small sense of gratitude that Yin Yu had chosen to call him by name rather than “Your Highness.”
He hesitated slightly, his words trailing off.
“No, I was rarely involved in low-level missions. My role was mostly focused on clearing out headquarters. And after I lost my rank, I wasn’t allowed to participate in any operations at all… Jun Wu didn’t permit me to hear mission briefings from other agents.”
Though he had been kept, being treated like a ghost as if he were invisible, still left a bitter taste in his mouth.
It was a punishment he had deserved. But for someone who once made helping others the purpose of his life, it felt as though he had lost his reason to live.

Hua Cheng leaned back in his chair, looking bored as he drawled lazily.

“Ah yes. He didn’t kick you out. Just stripped your title and kept you on a leash. Had someone babysitting you 24/7. Then locked you up in a fancy little palace. All because he adores you so much, that Jun wu of yours."

Even He Xuan, who had been mostly indifferent until now, glanced sideways at Xie Lian at the sarcasm laced in Hua Cheng’s voice.

With a loud thud, Xie Lian slammed the mission files down and turned to him, smiling sweetly.

“Do you have something you want to say?”

The words were laced with a quiet, deadly edge, despite the beauty of his expression.
But Hua Cheng remained completely unfazed, shrugging one shoulder.

“Not really. Just reminded me of a bird I used to keep. Poor thing died from overprotection.”

His lips curled in a faint, mocking smile.

Xie Lian’s eyes narrowed.

“I’m not a pet.”

"Who knows?" Hua Cheng smirked. “Maybe he's planning to tame you. Forever.”

The room’s atmosphere grew noticeably colder, as if a chill had seeped in, making even the sound of breathing feel heavy. Xie Lian’s expression subtly hardened, his eyes burning with quiet fury. Yin Yu, caught in the thick tension between the two, shifted uneasily, casting cautious glances at them.

Xie Lian smiled politely. Very politely.

Oh, he was definitely going to kill Hua Cheng.

With maximum suffering!