Shen Yuhuan had dropped everything to call the hospital right away. Dr. Luo had calmed her down, gently explaining that it was a trauma-triggered panic episode. Fuyue had been sedated and was now resting.
Shen Yuhuan had clenched her fists till her knuckles turned white. She couldn't return. Not yet. Not until she found anything that could bring her Fuyue and the company back from the edge.
And her brother...
Dr. Luo had updated her just today morning. Shen Weimin's vitals were stable, but his brain activity was erratic. Chances of waking up? Low. But not impossible.
"There's one hope," Dr. Luo had told her, his voice grave but not hopeless. "A man known only by reputation. Some call him a miracle doctor, Dr. Nox. No patient of his has ever died under his care. But... finding him is nearly impossible. He has no clinic. No address. No digital footprint. Only a few elites know how to reach him. No one even know the gender of the doctor."
A breath shuddered from her lungs. She rubbed her temples. The world felt like it was closing in, inch by inch.
Where was he? Why was that man—the one who had looked at Fuyue as if she held his soul in her hands—why was he silent now? Gone like smoke.
His voice had been filled with urgency the last time they spoke.
"Miss Shen, I've found something—a solid lead. This could be what we need to save Qinglan Corporation. I'll be back on the morning flight tomorrow."
But tomorrow came and went.
No calls. No messages. His phone went dead. He never returned.
The weight of failure pressed down on Shen Yuhuan's chest.
And then—
A cup clinked softly against her table.
She looked up. A waiter gave her a courteous nod before turning away to take other orders. It wasn't until she reached for the cup that she noticed the slip of paper, barely tucked under the saucer.
Her breath caught.
She opened it with trembling fingers.
The handwriting was sharp. Clean. Purposeful.
"Come to Yueting Bridge at 10 a.m. tomorrow if you want to find the truth."
Shen Yuhuan stared at it. The paper crinkled slightly under her grip. Her heart, sluggish just moments ago, now pounded with the sudden burn of adrenaline.
She rose quickly, eyes scanning the room, and spotted the waiter again, taking an order from a nearby table.
She rushed toward him, grabbing his wrist, startling not just the waiter but the customers around them.
"This note," she said sharply. "Who gave this to you?"
The waiter blinked, startled but composed. "A gentleman. He came in about ten minutes ago. Said it was important and asked me to leave it with your drink. He left before you even saw him."
"What did he look like?"
The waiter frowned, searching his memory. "I didn't get a good look. He wore a hood... maybe sunglasses? I thought it was odd, but he paid extra."
Shen Yuhuan was already moving, bursting out through the café's glass doors into the street.
Nothing.
Just the crowd of Xingzhou—blurred faces, indifferent movements, life moving on as if nothing had happened.
Her hands trembled as she stared down at the paper again.
Her eyes locked onto the last line.
"This is the only way to protect Fuyue."
Her breath hitched.
She pressed the note against her chest, as if trying to steady the wild thrum of her heart.
Who was it?
How did they know?
And what truth?
The storm within her surged. She didn't know who had left that note—or what waited for her at Yueting Bridge tomorrow.
But one thing was clear:
There were still pieces to this story she hadn't seen.
And if it meant protecting Fuyue...
She would go.
Even if it led her straight into the fire.
***
The sound of crashing waves echoed in the background — a rhythmic, eternal hymn sung by the southern seas.
The sun bathed the coastline in a golden hue, the scent of salt and wildflowers blending in the air.
It was a land far removed from the bloodstained cities of power, nestled deep in the southern end of the world, where modern chaos couldn't reach.
And in the clearing by the edge of the sea cliffs, a young woman moved like the wind.
Her bare feet met the stone floor with trained precision, her long staff slicing the air in a series of strikes that were fluid yet brutal.
Her body was light, her stance fierce — controlled power unleashed with every turn.
A long red veil covered her face from below the eyes, and her raven hair, damp with sweat, clung to her nape and brow.
Only her eyes were visible — eyes as sharp and unreadable as honed steel.
"Arya."
The voice called from behind, soft but clear. Feminine. Familiar.
Arya didn't turn.
Instead, her movements intensified, the whoosh of the long staff cutting sharper arcs through the air.
The ends of her red scarf flared behind her like wings, and droplets of sweat glistened on her forehead like fallen stars.
Before the next strike could land, a hand reached out and blocked the staff's arc mid-air — gently, but firmly.
Arya's eyes flicked toward the intruder, breath shallow but steady.
The other woman smiled. She was fair-skinned with soft eyes and long black hair tied into a low braid.
Simpler in appearance, but with a warmth that felt out of place in Arya's world.
"What are you doing here, Lina?" Arya asked, her voice low and even, almost too calm. She didn't lower her staff, nor did she step back.
Lina tilted her head playfully, as if she hadn't just interrupted a deadly practice session. "Fourth Elder is looking for you again. He said it's time."
Arya's gaze narrowed beneath the red veil.
"I'm not going," she said flatly.
Lina sighed. She'd heard this too many times to be surprised.
"You can't keep doing this," she said, stepping forward and placing her own stick across Arya's to stop her movements again. "You train like the world's about to end, but you won't even walk the fifty steps it takes to enter the temple."
Arya yanked the staff back. Her frustration crackled in the air.
"I said I'm not going."
"And I said Fourth Elder is asking," Lina countered gently. "He doesn't ask twice."
Arya didn't reply, but the silence that followed was heavier than words. Her stance remained defensive, but her eyes had darkened.
Lina studied her for a moment. Her voice softened. "I know you're angry. I know what happened still burns inside you. But she—your elder sister—she made a choice."
Arya stilled. Her fingers clenched tighter around the staff.
"She didn't choose," Arya snapped, her voice sharper now. "Don't romanticize it, Lina."
Lina's smile faded.
"There was no choice," Arya continued, breathing hard. "She was forced. Into everything. And all they did was stand there and watch.
Call it destiny, duty, karma—whatever suits them best. But don't expect me to kneel in that place again. I won't play pretend."
Her staff hit the ground with a dull clang as she flung it away.
Lina didn't stop her when Arya turned and walked away — stiff-backed, proud, but crumbling inside with every step.
The breeze tugged at Arya's scarf as she strode toward the edge of the cliff, the ocean winds wild around her. Her shadow stretched long behind her, chasing her like a memory she couldn't escape.
Lina remained where she was, her eyes full of worry. She picked up the discarded staff, holding it with both hands.
"She still hasn't let go," she whispered.
Behind her, the temple bells echoed faintly in the distance — a sound that once meant peace, now a blade that Arya refused to touch.