The wind carried the faint scent of sugar-roasted chestnuts and early summer jasmine through the cobbled paths of Yueting Bridge.
Laughter echoed from a group of children running past with colorful pinwheels in hand, while couples lounged on picnic mats, sharing quiet moments beneath the shaded canopy of blooming flame trees.
Vendors lined the nearby walkways with ice creams, sketchpads, and soft toys, their stalls painted in pastel shades. The place buzzed with the cheerfulness of weekend leisure—an ordinary, vibrant hub of life.
But Shen Yuhuan wasn't here to laugh or lounge.
She had arrived thirty minutes early.
Her heels clicked softly against the stone floor as she paused beside the carved balustrade overlooking the river.
Her eyes scanned every passerby—families, couples, friends—searching for a face, a sign, someone who might look at her a beat too long.
She clutched her handbag a little tighter as her heart thumped an uneven rhythm beneath her crisp coat.
She didn't know who had left her that note.
Only that it promised the truth.
And the only way to protect Fuyue.
She breathed in deeply. Stay calm.
What she didn't know was that four pairs of eyes were watching her from various points around the plaza—discreet, invisible to the untrained eye.
One leaned against a telephone pole with a cigarette, pretending to scroll through his phone. Another adjusted sunglasses while sipping from a takeaway cup.
A third sat with a woman at a nearby bench, their soft banter a cover for the quiet transmission in his earpiece.
"She's standing still," one murmured into the small mic by his collar. "Waiting. No contact yet."
"Keep the perimeter tight," another voice replied, the clipped tone of a man used to control. "Our boss said not to lose her."
Shen Yuhuan had no idea she was under surveillance.
A gust of wind blew her hair slightly, and she turned abruptly—only to bump into someone behind her.
"I'm so sorry," she said automatically, giving a quick nod.
The man, tall and faceless in her tense gaze, gave a short nod before walking away. Shen Yuhuan turned back to the plaza and waited.
Twenty minutes passed, but still no one approached.
After another fifteen minutes, a sinking feeling told her she'd been scammed.
Her legs ached from standing, so she quietly made her way to a small eatery just a few meters down the bridge—a warm, earthy spot with hanging vines and carved wooden seats, tucked slightly away from the central bustle.
A soft chime rang as she stepped inside.
She sat by the window, ordered a bubble tea, and tried to keep her hands from trembling. Her face filled with disappointment.
When the drink came, she sipped it slowly, barely tasting the tapioca pearls.
After a few minutes, she stood up and walked to the counter, paid in cash, then asked quietly, "Excuse me, where's the washroom?"
The young waiter gestured down a corridor. "Last door to the left, ma'am."
"Thank you," she said, before walking off.
Outside, the man with the earpiece murmured, "She's gone into the restroom. Still no contact. Standing by."
Two minutes.
Five minutes.
Seven minutes.
Still no sign of her.
The man shifted uncomfortably. Something didn't feel right.
He turned slightly and pressed down on the earpiece. "Ten minutes. No movement. Send Laila in. Discreetly."
A young woman in a denim jacket stood from a nearby bench and walked casually into the eatery. Her steps quickened the moment she entered the hallway. She knocked once on the restroom door.
No answer.
She opened it slowly.
Empty.
Nothing but a faint scent of citrus soap and the low whir of an exhaust fan.
"Target lost," she hissed into her mic. "She's gone."
Outside, the man straightened sharply, pulling his cap lower over his eyes. He scanned the plaza, the bridge, the crowd.
"She was just here—how the hell did she vanish?"
But Shen Yuhuan was nowhere to be seen.
All that remained was the quiet tap of wind chimes, and the last remnant of a bubble tea cup left on the table.
Far away, a silent transmission buzzed through the earpiece of the subordinate. He turned sharply toward the man sitting at the head of the office chair.
"Sir, we lost Shen Yuhuan," the subordinate reported.
The man said nothing.
His gaze fell again on the photo frame beside him, his hand softly brushing over the edge. A slow smile crept up his face, hidden in the shadow.
So the game has begun.
***
Arya stepped lightly onto the moss-streaked stone steps of Astra Pavilion, her boots making barely a sound. The early morning mist still clung to the edges of the tiled roof, but she had no time to admire the view.
Before she could take another step, a group of young men blocked her path, forming a loose wall. Their uniforms bore insignias from different houses, different nations. A mark of the Academy's diversity.
The midday sun beat down on the red-tiled steps of Astra Pavillion, nestled in the inner sanctum of the sacred grounds of Shaantvan Academy—a secluded, near-mythical institution whispered of in only the most powerful circles. Hidden deep in the southernmost coast of the world, it was a place where bloodlines meant everything—and survival even more.
Arya walked up the granite steps without pause.
Her stride was steady. Controlled. Lethal.
Her long, dark cloak rippled with each step, and the crimson veil over her lower face fluttered slightly in the breeze, revealing only her sharp eyes—eyes that burned like a storm restrained.
The long staff she carried rested easily in one hand, tapping softly against the stone.
But every person in the vicinity felt the weight of its presence.
A group of students—five young men—stepped forward to block her path, forming a loose wall. Their uniforms bore insignias from different houses, different nations. A mark of the Academy's diversity.
Her gaze shifted, unimpressed.
"Move," Arya said flatly.
The first to speak was a tall man with sandy blond hair and sharp cheekbones—Elric Vaughan from the Novareth House. "You're not permitted inside the Pavilion, Arya," he said, puffing his chest a little.
Arya didn't answer. Her expression remained blank.
Beside him, a leaner boy with silver-dyed hair and olive skin—Takuma Reiji, a prodigy from Kitorai—added, "What business do you have in the Court of the Crimson Lotus anyway? That's restricted."
Her silence unnerved them.
But then came Miguel Saavedra, the impulsive Solmaran brawler whose mouth always moved faster than his mind. "Don't act like you don't know why the Third Elder barred you. You nearly gave him a heart attack last time, Arya. What are you planning this time—blow up his garden again?"
A few of them chuckled nervously, but their laughter was brittle.
Arya's eyes, calm and glinting like frost under firelight, rested on each one of them. Her silence was louder than their accusations.
Miguel continued, emboldened. "We know you, Arya. You bulldoze through everything like a beast with a stick. Just because you're good at fighting doesn't mean—"
"I suggest you move," Arya interrupted at last. Her voice was soft, almost amused, but there was an unmistakable warning underneath.
Takuma stepped forward this time, his voice firmer. "You've defied too many rules already. You were exiled from the Third Elder's Hall for a reason. Entering again would mean permanent expulsion, even from Shaantvan."
Arya tilted her head, a playful curl in her gaze.
Another boy—Mikhail Antonov, a proud Drovaskan student with a military family background—finally snapped. "I won't let you pass. Even if I have to fight you. Even if I die doing so."
Arya turned to him slowly. The tip of her staff lowered—just slightly—and her fingers curled in warning. The boys behind Mikhail shifted nervously.
"Really?" she asked, her voice almost teasing, eyes twinkling behind the veil. She raised a single hand.
And just before her fingers reached him—
"Arya. Stop!"