Morning returned, cold and steel-blue, but the city woke differently.
Something had shifted.
In Longhai's rumor channels—in shadow markets, alley bars, private chat rooms—news of Yin Blade's defeat didn't spread like scandal. It moved like gravity.
Not official.
Not confirmed.
But undeniable.
Crimson Circle Private Gallery
Xu Shanyue stood before a canvas of red brushwork—ancient calligraphy etched by a monk who once fled the imperial sword.
Guo Yuwei watched her from behind. "He made it through the blade."
Xu gave a quiet smile, more tension than joy.
"No. He bent the blade."
She turned.
"If Luo Zixuan wants to keep the illusion of control, he has to act. But the longer he waits, the more Lin Feng becomes the center of gravity."
"You want to warn Luo?"
"No," she said simply. "I want to watch him fall."
The East Pearl – Private Dining Room, Noon
A half-dozen mid-tier family leaders sat across from Lin Feng, eyes wary.
None were first-tier Silver Circle, but they were important enough to sway loyalties and slow movement. The kind of people who watched battles from hilltops—and joined winners late.
"You've made waves," said the man in the middle, Lin Zhihao, a logistics magnate. "But waves aren't enough to shift docks."
Lin Feng sipped his tea.
"I'm not here to beg for a fleet," he said. "I'm offering a current."
Another merchant scoffed. "What kind of current?"
Lin Feng laid a folder on the table. Inside: photos, documents, deeds.
Names of abandoned properties sitting on Silver Circle portfolios. And beneath each—his plan to rezone them under historic preservation status.
Every one would freeze Silver Circle development—and open new routes for commerce and control.
"You back me," he said evenly, "and the city will see your names on progress, not demolition."
Zhihao raised an eyebrow. "You're asking us to choose a side."
"No," Lin Feng replied. "I'm giving you a chance to be on the right side before it's obvious."
Silence.
Then, slowly, Zhihao nodded.
"Three names," he said. "I'll bring them to your side by week's end."
Lin Feng nodded once. "That's all I need."
That Evening – Luo Zixuan's Villa
Greycoat stood at the window, watching stormclouds build over the river.
"They're calling it a strategic embarrassment," he said. "Half your allies have gone quiet."
Luo stood motionless, back turned.
"What do you want me to do?" Greycoat asked.
Luo's voice was calm—dangerously so.
"Let him win another inch."
Greycoat blinked. "Sir?"
Luo turned at last, a faint smirk on his lips.
"And when he does, I'll take ten feet of blood in return."
Midnight – An Anonymous Envelope Delivered to Lin Feng
No name. No seal.
Inside: a photo of Zhao Fan in the hospital, wires running into his arms. But this time, someone had scribbled in silver ink across the bottom.
"Every inch has its price."
Lin Feng stared at it for a long time.
Then he placed it into a fireproof case—not to burn, but to keep.
Next to it, he slipped in a second sheet of paper.
An old map of the city tunnels, now marked with a new note:
"Let's begin the reclamation."