Night had already swallowed Buckhead, the most affluent district of Atlanta, but the city below still pulsed with light, golden arteries of traffic, glass towers gleaming like polished blades, and a skyline that never truly slept.
At the heart of it stood Valorian Crown Auction House.
From the outside, it was a masterpiece of neoclassical arrogance, towering Corinthian columns carved from pale stone, bronze doors engraved with mythological beasts, and a domed glass ceiling that reflected the city lights like a second sky.
To the public, Valorian Crown was known as an elite auction house dealing in rare artifacts, antique jewelry, and historic collectibles coveted by billionaires and royalty alike.
To the underworld, however, it was a fortress, a laundering ground, a battlefield.
Tonight, its grand auction hall no longer resembled a place of refinement.
Crystal chandeliers still glowed overhead, refracting light across marble floors but the elegance had been violently interrupted. Chairs lay overturned.
Display cases were shattered. Dark stains marred the pristine white stone, and bodies, men in tailored suits and armed guards were strewn across the vast hall, unmoving, silent witnesses to a massacre that had ended minutes earlier.
The air carried the metallic tang of blood mixed with the sharp scent of gunpowder and expensive cologne.
In the midst of it all stood Qi Xiyue.
He adjusted the cuffs of his tailored Italian black coat, the fabric smooth as liquid shadow against his broad shoulders.
The coat hugged his frame with lethal elegance, emphasizing a tall, lean build that spoke of restrained violence rather than brute force.
On his right index finger, a heavy black ring gleamed faintly under the chandelier light, obsidian in color, engraved with a mysterious looking dragon insignia, its eyes inlaid with a subtle crimson stone.
A symbol feared across continents.
A symbol that meant only one thing.
Power.
Qi Xiyue walked past the bodies as though stepping around fallen furniture.
His leather shoes made soft, measured sounds against the floor, each step precise, controlled, devoid of urgency. He stopped before the floor-to-ceiling window at the end of the hall.
Beyond the glass, Atlanta glittered.
The city looked peaceful from up here.
He clasped his hands behind his back and gazed out into the night, eyes dark and unreadable, the city lights reflecting faintly in them like distant stars swallowed by a black sea.
Behind him, his men moved with quiet efficiency. Guns were lowered. Bloodied gloves were discarded. Orders were carried out in murmurs rather than shouts. No one dared raise their voice in Monarch's presence ever.
One of his subordinates approached from behind, stopping a respectful distance away. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, with scars peeking from beneath his collar. He lowered his head slightly.
"Monarch," he reported. "The resistance has been eliminated. No survivors. The ledger and digital keys have been secured."
Qi Xiyue didn't turn.
"How many attempted to escape?" he asked calmly.
"Three," the subordinate replied. "All intercepted."
A pause.
"Dispose of the bodies quietly," Qi Xiyue said, his voice low, even. "Leave no trace. By morning, Valorian Crown resumes operations under our name."
"Yes, Monarch."
"And the remaining assets?"
"They're being transferred to our offshore accounts as we speak. The auction base is fully under our control."
Qi Xiyue gave a slight nod.
"Good."
There was no praise in his tone. No satisfaction. Only expectations fulfilled.
As the subordinate stepped back, another figure approached from the opposite side.
Unlike the others, Rue moved with an air of intellectual sharpness rather than brute intimidation. He held a sleek tablet in his hands, his expression unusually tense.
"Monarch," Rue said, extending the device. "There's something you should see."
Qi Xiyue accepted the tablet without comment. His gaze dropped to the illuminated screen.
Su Ning.
His eyes skimmed the content with rapid precision, online articles dripping with malice, comment sections overflowing with cruelty, distorted narratives twisted into scandal. The corners of his lips curved slightly.
A quiet chuckle escaped him.
"…She really is trouble," he murmured under his breath.
He exhaled softly, shaking his head as if amused. Trouble truly seemed to follow her wherever she went. Or perhaps… the world simply couldn't tolerate someone who refused to be ordinary.
But then—
The amusement vanished.
So completely, so suddenly, that it felt as though the air itself froze.
The temperature in the auction hall dropped perceptibly. Conversations ceased mid-sentence. Movements slowed. Even the most hardened men felt a chill crawl up their spines.
Qi Xiyue's eyes darkened with something far dangerous.
Cold intent.
He stared at one particular headline longer than the rest, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. His fingers curled around the tablet, the dragon ring catching the light as his grip tightened.
Rue swallowed uncomfortably.
Without another word, Qi Xiyue handed the tablet back.
"Clean the hall," he ordered quietly. "Take full control of the auction base. Anyone who so much as whispers about tonight without permission, deal with them."
Rue straightened. "Understood Monarch."
Qi Xiyue turned away from the window.
His coat swept behind him like a shadow as he strode toward the exit. No one dared follow too closely.
Within moments, he was gone.
Later that night, in a private estate on the outskirts of Atlanta, a mansion stood isolated, surrounded by towering iron gates and acres of dark woodland. Security cameras were hidden among the trees.
The estate itself was a blend of old-world aristocracy and modern fortress, stone walls, sharp angles, and a presence that radiated quiet menace.
The doors of the inner corridor slid open without a sound.
Qi Xiyue stepped into his study, the faint scent of warm water and clean spice trailing behind him. His hair was still damp, dark strands falling carelessly against his temples, clinging to his skin in a way that made him look dangerously unguarded.
Droplets slid slowly from his hairline, tracing a path along the sharp line of his jaw before disappearing beneath the open collar of his shirt.
Unlike the rigid authority he wore outside, he wore a dark black shirt, the fabric thin and soft, clinging subtly to his body. The top few buttons were undone, revealing a glimpse of his broad, muscled chest, skin marked by faint scars that told silent stories of battles survived. His Adam's apple bobbed as he loosened the collar further, the motion unhurried, controlled—yet impossibly intimate in its casual confidence.
The shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows.
On his left arm, dark, intricate tattoos coiled along his forearm, winding upward in a complex pattern, ancient symbols, blades, and a dragon whose head disappeared beneath the fabric at his shoulder.
The ink continued across his collarbone, brushing the surface of his chest, and crept up the side of his neck, disappearing just beneath his jawline.
The contrast between the cold authority of the markings and the warmth of his skin made the sight all the more striking.
Power was etched into him undeniably.
His trousers sat low on his hips, tailored to perfection, emphasizing his long legs and powerful build. Every step he took carried weight, the kind that made rooms fall silent without him needing to say a word. Even relaxed, even alone, he radiated danger, refined, restrained, and lethal.
The room beyond was steeped in shadow and mystery. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, filled with old tomes, encrypted files, and leather-bound ledgers.
A massive desk carved from dark walnut sat at the center, its surface immaculate. One wall was glass, overlooking the moonlit forest beyond.
The faint glow of a single antique lamp cast warm light across the room, contrasting sharply with the darkness outside.
Qi Xiyue crossed the room and poured himself a drink, the amber liquid catching the low light as it swirled lazily in the crystal glass. He leaned back against the desk, one hand braced behind him, the other lifting the glass to his lips.
He picked up his phone.
The screen lit up, illuminating his sharp features.
His thumb hovered.
One contact sat at the top of his recent calls.
'Little Trouble'.
For a brief moment, so brief it would have gone unnoticed by anyone else, Qi Xiyue hesitated.
His mind drifted, unbidden.
He had never been someone who cared.
Emotion was a weakness he'd cut out of himself long ago, buried beneath blood and power and survival. He had ruled without hesitation, punished without remorse, and lived without attachments.
Yet now—
Su Ning's calm eyes, her infuriating composure, the way she stood alone against the world without ever looking fragile taunted him.
He found himself wondering if she'd eaten.
If she was angry.
If she was hurt.
The realization unsettled him.
A low, dark chuckle slipped from his throat.
"How troublesome," he muttered.
And yet… he didn't pull his hand away.
Qi Xiyue lifted the phone, pressed the call button, and slowly brought it to his ear.