Rain came in whispers that night, tapping the city with the gentleness of a prelude. But Lin Feng knew better.
This wasn't a night for softness.
He stood inside an abandoned printing press building near the southern loop—once part of Longhai's newspaper district, now dust and shadows. Power was rerouted here an hour ago. Cameras disabled. Every streetlamp nearby had been blacked out by a silent, timed surge.
A stage had been built.
Not for a crowd—but for a knife.
Su Qingyue entered through the side door, moving like someone expecting the air itself to cut her. She wore black, no heels, no jewelry—only silence and purpose.
"He's coming," she said.
Lin Feng didn't look up. "He's already here."
Elsewhere – Rooftop Opposite the Press Building
Yin Blade crouched in the rain.
Slim, slight, dressed like a man you'd forget five minutes after meeting. But his presence bent the night around him. Eyes like polished obsidian. Hands bare, unmoving, even as the wind tugged at his coat.
He had been watching Lin Feng for twenty-two hours.
Now, he would end him in one.
He tapped his earpiece once. No answer. Not that he needed one.
He moved.
Inside – Seconds Before
Qian Juxiao adjusted a device in the corner—an electromagnetic snare designed to short concealed weapons. Su Qingyue was by the upper stairs, her phone's screen dim.
Lin Feng stood in the center of the main hall, beside a rusted delivery cart.
"You know," he said calmly, "the mistake elite predators make is assuming everyone else is prey."
The door creaked open.
Yin Blade stepped inside, rain dripping from his coat.
He did not speak. Neither did Lin Feng.
Instead, Yin raised one hand—and dropped something on the floor.
A surgical scalpel.
It spun once, then stilled.
Challenge.
The Dance of Death
Yin Blade moved first.
No flourish. No sound.
He lunged like water breaking glass—low, fast, inhuman.
But Lin Feng was ready. He sidestepped, sweeping the cart toward Yin's legs. A deflection, not a block. Distraction.
The trap snapped.
A magnetic pulse triggered the floor grid—Yin's concealed blade jammed mid-swing, locked to his wrist. His momentum slowed for half a breath. Enough.
Qian dropped from above, baton crackling.
Yin rolled away, grazing metal. His blade snapped free, but his rhythm had broken.
"You studied him," Su Qingyue said from above. "But you didn't study us."
Lin Feng stepped forward. Calm. Precise.
"You came for my blood," he said. "But I brought rain."
Then, in one fluid motion, he drove Yin back with a counter-blade—not steel, but sharpened ceramic.
They clashed, and this time Yin staggered.
One move later, he was on the ground.
Lin Feng didn't kill him.
He simply took a photo.
An Hour Later – Sent to Luo Zixuan
It arrived on Luo's encrypted line.
Yin Blade, unconscious. Bound. Face visible.
Beneath the image, a message typed in calm, deliberate text:
"I catch what you throw. Next time, I throw back."
Luo stared at it for a long time. Then hurled the phone into the wall.
Crimson Enclave, That Night
Xu Shanyue received the same photo five minutes earlier.
She looked at it, then at Guo Yuwei.
"He didn't just survive," she said quietly. "He turned it into leverage."
Guo exhaled. "So what now?"
Xu's voice was cold.
"Now? Now Longhai has a new center of gravity. And we either orbit him... or collide."