The Special Investigation Division (SID) was a mess of half-empty coffee mugs and dusty files when Zhao Yunlan took the desk. He knew the job was a political nightmare, but he didn’t realize he was inheriting a war.
In the depths of Dixing, seated upon a throne of dark obsidian, the Ghost Slayer—known to his people as the Envoy—stared at the flickering monitor showing the surface world. Beside him, his advisor bowed low.
“The new Chief of the SID has been appointed, My Lord. A man named Zhao Yunlan.”
Shen Wei’s eyes, usually hidden behind his mask, flashed with a cold, predatory light. “Another ‘Chief.’ Another human sent to oversee the ‘monsters’ they spent centuries hunting.” He stood up, his dark robes swirling like ink in water. “I will not meet him. I will not acknowledge him. If the SID requires our cooperation, give them nothing but silence. And if this Zhao Yunlan seeks to bridge the gap…”
Shen Wei paused, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Make him regret ever stepping into the light. If he wants to lead the SID, let him learn that the shadows do not welcome him.”
Part 2: The First Encounter
Two weeks later, Zhao Yunlan found himself in a cold, abandoned warehouse on the edge of Dragon City, chasing a lead on a stolen Dark Energy artifact. He wasn’t alone. Out of the darkness stepped three figures in high-collared black coats—the Envoy’s elite guard.
“I’m Chief Zhao,” Yunlan said, flashing his badge with a confident, if tired, smirk. “I believe we’re looking for the same guy. How about we pool our resources?”
The lead guard didn’t move. Instead, he flicked his wrist, and a pulse of dark energy shattered the crate next to Yunlan’s head. Splinters sprayed across his cheek.
“Dixing does not negotiate with the Surface,” the guard stated flatly. “And the Envoy has specifically requested that you, Chief Zhao, stay out of our sight. Permanently.”
Zhao Yunlan didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink as the dust from the shattered crate settled on his shoulders. Instead, his gaze sharpened, his dark eyes cutting through the gloom of the warehouse like a blade. He adjusted the collar of his leather jacket, standing his ground with a calm, dangerous stillness.
“I have a job to do,” Yunlan said, his voice low and unwavering. “And it isn’t my job to hide. Nowhere in the transition files did it say I’m supposed to play hide-and-seek because your boss is having a bad century.”
He took a slow step forward, the heavy soles of his boots echoing against the concrete. “Dixing and Haixing have a treaty. It was signed in blood and ink to keep the peace. As the Chief of the SID, I am the executor of that treaty, and I demand that Dixing honors its side of the bargain. Cooperation isn’t a favor you’re doing me—it’s the law.”
The lead guard let out a harsh, jagged laugh that rattled in his chest. “A treaty? You speak of laws to us?”
He stepped into the sliver of light filtering through the cracked roof, his expression twisted in a mask of bitter resentment. “Haixing has never kept a single promise. Your ancestors didn’t see a treaty; they saw a hunting license. They hated us. They hunted our people like animals, chased our children into the dark, and slaughtered our elders for sport. The very soil of the surface is fertilized with the bones of Dixingians who just wanted to see the sun.”
The guard’s hand crackled with dark energy again, the air around him distorting with the heat of his rage. “The Envoy has decided that the era of ‘patience’ is over. He will not give you the chance to be like your predecessors. He will not wait for you to sharpen your knife behind a smile.”
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a hiss. “If you cross our path, if you interfere with our justice, you won’t just lose your job, Chief Zhao. You will pay a price that your soul cannot afford.”
Yunlan pressed his lips together, the muscles in his jaw tightening into a hard line. He felt the weight of those words—the sheer, crushing gravity of a history he hadn’t written but was now forced to carry. He looked at the guards, seeing not just soldiers, but the living scars of a thousand years of hatred.
He didn’t back down. He didn’t even look away. “If the Envoy wants to punish the world for the past, tell him he’s looking at the wrong man,” Yunlan said, his voice echoing with a quiet, grim intensity. “But if he wants to make my life hell for trying to do the right thing… tell him I’m a lot harder to break than a wooden crate.”
The guards exchanged a look of cold disdain before dissolving into the shadows, leaving the warehouse unnervingly silent. Yunlan stood alone in the dark, the sting on his cheek a physical reminder that the “war” he had inherited was just beginning.
The following week was not a “war” in the traditional sense; it was a slow, agonizing strangulation of every investigation the SID attempted to touch.
It started with the Liang-Case. A rogue Dixingian had been seen using sonic abilities to rob banks, but every time Yunlan and his team arrived at a scene, the trail was bone-cold. Evidence bags would go missing from locked trunks. Witnesses who had been terrified and talkative suddenly turned mute, their eyes darting to the shadows as if they could see the Envoy’s reach lingering in the corners of the room.
The Sabotage
At the SID headquarters, the atmosphere was thick with frustration. Da Qing slammed a folder onto Yunlan’s desk, his cat-like eyes flashing with irritation.
“It happened again, Lao Zhao. The surveillance footage from the North Alley? It’s gone. Not deleted—wiped with dark energy. The sensors didn’t even pick up a breach until the hardware had already melted.”
Yunlan didn’t look up from the map he was studying. He looked exhausted; the dark circles under his eyes were deepening, and he hadn’t slept more than four hours a night since the warehouse encounter. “The Envoy is thorough,” he muttered, his voice gravelly. “He doesn’t just want to stop us. He wants to humiliate us. He wants to prove the SID is a relic that can’t protect anyone.”
“It’s working,” Lin Jing added from his workstation, spinning around in his chair. “My equipment is malfunctioning every time I try to calibrate for Dixian energy signatures. It’s like someone is ‘pinging’ my lab from the underside, just enough to scramble the frequencies. I can’t track a single lead if the instruments keep lying to me.”
Reports to the Dark Throne
Deep beneath the earth, in the silent, cold halls of the Dixingian Palace, the air was still. Shen Wei sat by a low table, a brush in his hand as he practiced calligraphy. He looked the picture of scholarly calm, but the ink on the paper was thick and jagged.
A shadow flickered near the door. The lead guard from the warehouse knelt, his head bowed.
“Report,” Shen Wei said, his voice a silken thread in the silence.
“The Chief is struggling, My Lord. We have successfully intercepted three of their primary suspects. We didn’t kill them—we simply… relocated them before the SID could make an arrest. Their tech expert is chasing ghosts, and their Deputy is losing his temper.”
Shen Wei’s hand paused. The tip of the brush hovered over the paper, a drop of black ink trembling before it fell, blooming like a dark flower. “And Zhao Yunlan? Does he look ready to resign?”
The guard hesitated. “No, My Lord. That is the… unexpected part. Despite the failures, he stays at his desk until dawn.”
A flicker of something—not quite anger, but a sharp, biting curiosity—crossed Shen Wei’s face. He set the brush down, his fingers curling slightly.
“Should we escalate?” the guard asked. “We could make the ‘accidents’ more… physical.”
Shen Wei looked at the drop of ink on his paper. “Yes. I want him to suffer. I want him to feel the futility first. I want him to understand that every effort he makes to ‘fix’ this world only highlights how broken it truly is. Let him exhaust himself. Let him realize that Haixing’s golden boy is powerless and at our mercy.”
Part 3: The Weight of the Crown
The escalation began not with a roar, but with a series of “unfortunate events” that turned Zhao Yunlan’s life into a grueling gauntlet.
It started with the city’s infrastructure. A localized blackout hit the SID headquarters, but only the SID. For thirty-six hours, Yunlan worked by the flickering light of battery-powered lanterns, the heating system dead in the middle of a biting autumn chill. Every time Lin Jing tried to reset the breakers, a surge of dark energy—precise and mocking—would fry the new fuses.
Then came the physical toll.
Yunlan was walking to his car late one Tuesday night, his mind spinning with dead-end leads, when the air around him suddenly thickened. It felt like walking into a wall of invisible water. The pressure increased until his lungs burned, gasping for air that felt as heavy as lead. He stumbled, his knees hitting the asphalt with a sickening crack.
There was no one there. Just the cold laughter of the wind and the faint, unmistakable scent of ozone and ancient earth.
“Trying to… squeeze me out?” Yunlan wheezed, forcing himself to stand despite the agonizing pressure on his chest. He looked up at the dark sky, his vision blurring. “You’ll have to… try harder… your Majesty!”
The pressure vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving him trembling and bruised, his ribs aching with every breath. It was a warning—a physical manifestation of the Envoy’s disdain.
The Silent Siege
Inside the SID, the team was falling apart. Zhu Hong’s scales were itching with stress, and Chu Shuzhi—usually the stoic enforcer—was pacing like a caged tiger.
“They’re messing with our food supplies now, Boss,” Da Qing growled, tossing a bag of blackened, withered fruit onto the table. “Everything brought into this building rots within an hour. They’re starving us out.”
Yunlan sat at the head of the table, his face pale, a bandage wrapped around his hand from where a coffee pot had “randomly” exploded in his grip that morning. He looked like a man made of glass held together by sheer stubbornness.
“He wants us to quit,” Yunlan said, his voice a low rasp. “He wants us to run back to the Ministry and tell them that Dixing is untamable. He wants to justify his isolation with our failure.”
“Lao Zhao, look at yourself,” Lin Jing whispered. “You’re shaking. You haven’t eaten, you’re covered in bruises, and the Minister is breathing down our necks about the ‘lack of progress.’ Maybe… maybe we should take a step back?”
Yunlan looked at his team. He saw their fear, their exhaustion. Then he looked at the files of the Dixingian refugees—the ones the Envoy’s guard had “relocated”—and he thought of the history the guard had thrown in his face. The blood, the hunting, the screams of children in the dark.
“No,” Yunlan said, his eyes burning with a sudden, fierce light. “If I quit, the next guy they send might actually be the hunter the Envoy thinks I am. I’m the only thing standing between a cold war and a bloodbath.”
The Envoy’s Observation
In the obsidian palace, Shen Wei watched the reports through a scrying pool of dark liquid. He saw Zhao Yunlan limping through the SID halls. He saw him leaning against a wall, clutching his side where the atmospheric pressure had bruised his ribs. He saw the man’s hands shaking as he lit a cigarette, only to have the flame extinguished by a phantom draft.
“He still refuses to submit?” Shen Wei asked. His voice was calm, but there was an edge of frustration he couldn’t quite mask.
“He is stubborn, My Lord,” the Captain of the Guard replied. “We have disrupted his sleep with subsonic frequencies. We have soured his food. We have ensured that every step he takes on Haixing soil feels like treading on glass. By all rights, a human should have collapsed days ago.”
Shen Wei stood, walking toward the pool. He looked at the image of Yunlan—exhausted, hurt, yet still marking points on a map, still talking to his team with a crooked, defiant smile.
“Why?” Shen Wei whispered to the empty air. “Why endure such pain for a system that has already failed you? Does he truly believe he is different from those who came before?”
“Perhaps he needs a more direct reminder of his mortality,” the guard suggested, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade.
Shen Wei stared at Yunlan’s image for a long time. For the first time in centuries, the Envoy felt a flicker of something other than cold rage. It was an intrusive, unwelcome spark of respect.
“No,” Shen Wei commanded, his voice hardening. “Increase the gravity in his living quarters. If he wishes to carry the weight of the world, let him feel every ounce of it. But do not kill him. I want to see the moment his spirit finally breaks. I want to see the light go out of those defiant eyes.”
The Breaking Point
That night, Yunlan didn’t even make it to his bed. The moment he stepped into his apartment, the gravity tripled. His legs gave out instantly, and he crashed to the floor, the wind knocked out of him.
He lay there, pinned to the hardwood, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Every movement was an alpine climb. He could hear the wood creaking under the artificial weight.
He dragged himself inch by inch toward the phone on the low table, his fingernails scratching against the floorboards. Tears of pure physical frustration pricked his eyes, but he refused to let them fall.
“Is this… all you’ve got?” he gasped into the silent, heavy room. “I’ve had… worse hangovers… you masked… bastard!”
He managed to reach the table, but instead of calling for help, he pulled down a file he had brought home—a list of missing Dixingian children from thirty years ago. He opened it with trembling fingers, the pages feeling like they were made of lead.
He wouldn’t leave. He wouldn’t give Shen Wei the satisfaction of a vacancy.
Deep in the shadows of the room, a pair of eyes watched him. Not the guard. For the first time, drawn by a curiosity he couldn’t suppress, the Envoy himself had stepped through the veil to witness this human’s final stand.
Shen Wei stood in the corner, invisible, masked, and silent. He watched the “Chief” struggle to simply breathe, yet use his remaining strength to read the names of the people Haixing had wronged.
The Envoy’s hand twitched beneath his sleeve. This was not the “Golden Boy” he expected. This was something else entirely.
The weight in the room was suffocating, a physical hand pressing Yunlan into the floorboards. His lungs felt thin, his heartbeat a frantic drumming in his ears. But through the haze of exhaustion and pain, a prickle of intuition—the same instinct that had made him the youngest Chief in SID history—crawled up his spine.
The air didn’t just feel heavy; it felt occupied.
Yunlan forced his head to turn, his neck muscles straining against the artificial gravity. His cheek was pressed against the cold wood, but his eyes searched the darkness of his living room.
“You guys… really don’t have… a hobby, do you?” Yunlan managed to choke out, a grimace of a smile flickering on his pale face.
In the corner, the shadows didn’t just shift; they folded. A figure stepped forward, draped in robes so black they seemed to drink the meager light from the streetlamps outside. The mask was silver, cold, and impassive, reflecting the moonlight in a way that made the figure look like a ghost.
Yunlan’s breath hitched. This one was different. The guards he’d met in the warehouse were aggressive, loud in their hatred. This man was a void of absolute silence. The power rolling off him wasn’t just a pulse; it was a tide.
An elite guard, Yunlan thought, his mind racing through the pain. The Envoy must be getting impatient if he sent his personal shadow to watch me crawl.
“Did you come… to finish it?” Yunlan asked, his voice a gravelly whisper. He used every ounce of strength to push himself up onto his elbows. The gravity roared in protest, sending a spike of white-hot pain through his bruised ribs, but he refused to stay pinned like an insect. “Or are you just here… to make sure… I’m properly miserable?”
Shen Wei stood perfectly still. From behind the mask, his eyes traced the Tremor in Yunlan’s arms. He watched the way the human’s jaw locked with effort, the way his sweat-soaked hair clung to his forehead. He saw the file of missing Dixingians lying open just inches from Yunlan’s hand.
The Envoy didn’t speak. He couldn’t. To speak was to risk his authority, to acknowledge a creature that his entire realm demanded he despise.
“Silence, huh?” Yunlan let out a wet, hacking cough, but his eyes remained locked on the masked figure. “Typical. Your boss… the Great Envoy… he’s a coward, isn’t he? Sending you to do the dirty work… while he sits on a throne… nursing a grudge from the last century.”
A sharp coldness flared in the room. The gravity intensified for a split second—a reflexive spark of Shen Wei’s irritation—and Yunlan’s elbow gave way, his chin hitting the floor with a dull thud.
“Yeah… that’s right,” Yunlan gasped, gasping for air. “Hit a man… while he’s down. Very noble. Does the Envoy… know you’re picking on… a simple civil servant? Or is this… part of the ‘training’?”
Shen Wei took a step forward. The movement was fluid, ghostly. He stopped just a few feet from where Yunlan lay. He looked down at the human—this “Chief” who should have been begging for mercy, who should have signed the resignation papers days ago.
Instead, Yunlan reached out. Not for a weapon. His trembling fingers brushed the edge of the file on the floor.
“Tell your Master…” Yunlan panted, his vision swimming. “Tell him I’m not… the men who came before me. I don’t want… a war. I want… names. I want to know… who we lost. So I can… fix it.”
Shen Wei looked at the file. He recognized the names. They were his people. People Haixing had labeled as ‘monsters’ and erased.
For a heartbeat, the crushing weight in the room lifted just enough for Yunlan to draw a full, shivering breath. The silence between them stretched, thick with things unsaid—a bridge built of pain and stubbornness.
“Go on,” Yunlan whispered, his eyes fluttering shut from pure exhaustion. “Do whatever you… came to do. I’m not… going anywhere.”
Shen Wei raised his hand, dark energy swirling around his fingertips. He could end this now. He could break the human’s mind, send him into a coma, and rid Dixing of the SID’s interference forever.
But his hand hovered, trembling almost imperceptibly. He looked at the bruises on Yunlan’s neck, the exhaustion etched into every line of his face, and the strange, inexplicable fire that refused to go out.
With a flick of his wrist, the oppressive gravity vanished instantly.
Yunlan’s body slumped, the sudden lightness almost as shocking as the pressure. He groaned, his eyes cracking open, but the corner was empty. The masked figure was gone. The only evidence he had been there was a single, black feather-like shard of energy dissolving on the floorboards and the fact that, for the first time in a week, Yunlan could breathe without pain.
He lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling.
The following morning, the atmosphere at the SID reached a breaking point. It wasn’t just the flickering lights or the freezing temperatures anymore. It was personal.
Zhu Hong arrived with her sleeve torn, her eyes bright with a mixture of fear and fury; shadows had followed her home, whispering her name from the gutters. Lin Jing’s specialized computers began screaming with feedback loops that sounded like human weeping, and Da Qing had been nearly crushed by a falling construction crane that had “malfunctioned” as he walked by.
They weren’t being killed, but they were being hunted.
Zhao Yunlan stood in the center of the bullpen, watching his team. He saw the way Lin Jing’s hands shook as he tried to type. He saw the bruise on Da Qing’s shoulder. The anger that had been simmering in him for weeks finally hardened into a cold, diamond-sharp resolve.
“Everyone,” Yunlan said, his voice echoing in the hollow office. “Pack your things. Go home.”
“What?” Da Qing snapped, his tail twitching irritably. “Lao Zhao, we aren’t quitters. If those Dixingian thugs think a little shadow-play is going to—”
“This isn’t a request,” Yunlan interrupted, his gaze level and unyielding. “They are targeting you to get to me. They want to see if I’ll sacrifice my team for my pride. I won’t. You are off the clock until I personally call you back. No field work, no lab work. Stay in Haixing-monitored safe houses. That is an order.”
“You can’t do this alone!” Zhu Hong protested, stepping toward him. “Look at you, Yunlan! You can barely stand. You’re pale, you’re bruised—if we leave, you’re a sitting duck.”
“I am the Chief,” Yunlan said, a ghost of his old, cocky smirk playing on his lips, though it didn’t reach his tired eyes. “And the Chief says: Get out of here before I fire the lot of you for insubordination.”
Reluctantly, one by one, they gathered their things. The silence that followed their departure was heavy, echoing with the absence of the people who made the SID feel like a home rather than a tomb. Yunlan sat at his desk and pulled a stack of cold files toward him. He knew the official channels were dead; his letters to the Dixingian embassy remained unopened, his calls unreturned.
He had no way to call the Envoy. But he knew the Envoy was watching.
The View from the Throne
Deep in the obsidian halls, Shen Wei sat motionless. Before him, the scrying pool showed the empty SID office. He watched as Zhao Yunlan sat alone in the dark, illuminated only by a single desk lamp. The man looked fragile—his shoulders were hunched, and he frequently pressed his hand to his ribs, wincing.
Shen Wei felt a strange, tightening sensation in his chest. He had expected the human to break. He had expected him to beg his superiors for a transfer. He had not expected him to send his shields away and stand alone in the line of fire.
“He is a fool,” Shen Wei whispered, his fingers tightening on the arms of his throne. “A stubborn, arrogant fool.”
“He is weakened, My Lord,” the Captain of the Guard said, stepping out of the shadows. “The ‘Chief’ is at his limit. Tonight, we will ensure he understands the cost of his defiance once and for all.”
Shen Wei didn’t look up. He assumed the Captain meant more gravity, more shadows, more psychological pressure. “Do what you must,” he said, though his voice lacked its usual conviction. “Just… ensure the message is clear.”
The Captain bowed and exited, a cruel glint in his eye that the Envoy, lost in his own conflicting thoughts, failed to notice.
The Escalation
The walk back to Yunlan’s apartment was a nightmare of distorted reality. The streetlights flickered out as he passed, leaving him in pockets of absolute blackness. The air was thick with the smell of wet earth and copper.
Yunlan was halfway across a deserted bridge when they struck.
He didn’t see the elite guards this time. Instead, a wave of pure kinetic energy slammed into his side. It wasn’t the slow pressure of the gravity he had faced before; it was a physical blow, like being hit by a speeding car.
Yunlan was thrown against the stone railing of the bridge. The air left his lungs in a sharp gasp. Before he could recover, the shadows beneath his feet turned solid, wrapping around his ankles and yanking him downward. He hit the pavement hard, the side of his head bouncing off the stone.
“Is that… the best… you’ve got?” Yunlan spat, blood blooming in his mouth.
One of the guards stepped out of the darkness, his hand glowing with a jagged, unstable purple light. This wasn’t the refined power of the “Elite Guard” Yunlan had met in his room. This was raw, malicious violence.
The guard raised his hand, and a bolt of energy tore through the air, striking the ground inches from Yunlan’s face, sending shards of stone into his cheek. Another bolt caught him in the shoulder, the heat searing through his leather jacket and into his skin.
Yunlan cried out, a short, sharp sound of agony, as he rolled onto his back, trying to shield his head. He was exhausted, outmatched, and bleeding.
The Envoy’s Realization
In the palace, Shen Wei jumped to his feet. The scrying pool was showing a scene he hadn’t authorized. He saw his guards—men he had told to intimidate—using lethal levels of dark energy on a defenseless, broken man.
He saw Yunlan’s blood on the pavement.
A sudden, violent surge of cold fury erupted from Shen Wei. The obsidian floor beneath his feet cracked. He had wanted to teach Zhao Yunlan a lesson about power and history, not to participate in a common execution.
More than that, the sight of Yunlan—the man who had looked at the names of Dixing’s lost children while being crushed by gravity—being struck down like an animal ignited a protective instinct Shen Wei didn’t know he possessed.
“Stop,” Shen Wei hissed, but they couldn’t hear him through the pool.
Without a second thought, the Envoy reached for his twin blades and vanished into a swirl of black smoke.
The shadows on the bridge didn’t just feel cold anymore; they felt final.
Yunlan tried to scramble backward, but his limbs were heavy, his coordination shattered by the blow to his head. His vision swam with dark spots. Every time he tried to draw a breath, the metallic tang of blood filled his mouth. He looked up at the three masked figures closing in, their hands crackling with the violet hum of dark energy.
For the first time since taking the job at the SID, a cold, visceral panic seized him. This wasn’t a game of politics or a test of will. This was an execution.
They’re actually going to do it, he thought, his heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against his cracked ribs. They’re going to kill me on a deserted bridge, and no one will even find the body.
“Wait,” Yunlan rasped, his voice breaking as he held up a trembling hand, not to fight, but in a primitive gesture of self-defense. “Just… wait.”
The lead guard didn’t stop. He raised his palm, the dark energy coiling like a viper, ready to strike. Yunlan squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the impact, his entire body tensed for the end. He thought of his team, of the files still sitting on his desk, of the names he would never get to clear.
The air suddenly screamed.
There was a sound like a silk sheet being torn in half, followed by a shockwave of cold so intense it frosted the stone railing. Yunlan opened his eyes just in time to see a blur of black robes materialize between him and his attackers.
The “Elite Guard” from his apartment stood there, his back to Yunlan. He didn’t use a flashy display of violet energy; he simply raised a hand, and the incoming strike from the other guards was swallowed by a void of pure, abyssal black.
“Stand down,” the newcomer commanded. His voice was different now—not a silken thread, but a low, vibrating rumble that made the very air of the bridge tremble.
“Brother?” the attacking guard stammered, his energy flickering out in surprise. “The Captain said the Chief was to be handled. We were told to make an example—”
“I said,” the masked man repeated, stepping forward. The temperature dropped another ten degrees. “Stand. Down.”
The attackers hesitated, looking at one another. There was something in the newcomer’s posture—an absolute, terrifying authority—that overrode their previous orders. Without another word, they dissolved into the shadows, fleeing like smoke in a gale.
Silence returned to the bridge, broken only by Yunlan’s ragged, wet gasps.
The masked figure turned slowly. He didn’t approach. He stayed several paces away, watching Yunlan struggle to sit up.
Yunlan leaned his back against the cold stone of the bridge, clutching his bleeding shoulder. He squinted through the blood running into his eye, recognizing the specific embroidery on the man’s dark sleeves and the familiar, haunting mask.
“You,” Yunlan exhaled, the panic slowly receding, replaced by a dizzying sense of confusion. “The… quiet one. From my living room.”
Shen Wei stared at him. Beneath the mask, his heart was racing. He had almost been too late. The sight of Yunlan—usually so defiant and sharp-tongued—trembling on the ground and waiting for death had struck a chord of guilt in him that was almost physically painful.
“You are injured,” the “Guard” said. His voice was carefully controlled, stripped of the royal cadence he used in Dixing.
“Sharp… observation,” Yunlan managed, a weak, hysterical laugh bubbling up in his throat. He tried to move his arm, but a sharp spike of pain made him hiss and slump back. “Why? Why stop them? Your friends… they seemed pretty set… on finishing the job.”
Shen Wei took a tentative step forward, then stopped, remembering his role. He was supposed to be an elite soldier of the very regime that wanted this man gone.
“The Envoy does not seek your death,” Shen Wei lied, his voice stiff. “The guards… exceeded their authority. They will be disciplined.”
Yunlan looked at him skeptically, his head lolling to the side. “Right. Disciplined. Because Dixing… is so big on… due process.” He closed his eyes for a moment, his face turning an alarming shade of gray. “You’re a weird one… you know that? You break into my house… to watch me suffer… and then you save my life.”
“I did not come to watch you suffer,” Shen Wei whispered, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
Yunlan’s eyes fluttered open. He looked at the masked man, really looked at him, trying to pierce the veil of the silver mask. “Then why? If you’re one of his… why do you keep showing up… when the lights go out?”
Shen Wei didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Instead, he reached into the folds of his robe and pulled out a small, glass vial containing a shimmering blue liquid—a Dixingian essence used for healing deep tissue trauma. He set it on the pavement and slid it across the stone until it tapped against Yunlan’s boot.
“Use it,” Shen Wei commanded. “Unless you wish to prove your stubbornness by bleeding to death on a bridge.”
Yunlan looked at the vial, then back at the “Guard.” “Is it poison?”
Shen Wei watched him in a silence that was heavy, almost suffocating. Yunlan looked down at the vial, his fingers slick with his own blood as he struggled to maintain his grip on the glass. Every instinct trained into him as a law enforcement officer screamed that this was a mistake. You didn’t take candy from strangers, and you certainly didn’t take glowing, unidentified liquids from the elite soldiers of a hostile regime.
But as he tried to shift his weight, his world tilted violently. A sharp, jagged pain flared in his chest, forcing a harsh, hacking cough from his lungs. He felt the warm, metallic slide of blood over his lip, and his vision began to fray at the edges, dissolving into a grey, staticky haze.
The panic from moments ago returned, but colder now. He was alone. His team was gone. The bridge was empty. If he didn’t do something, he wouldn’t even make it to the end of the hour.
“Fine,” Yunlan whispered, his voice barely a breath. “I’ll play… your game.”
He fumbled with the stopper, his hands shaking so violently that the glass clinked against his teeth. With a final, desperate surge of will, he tilted his head back and drained the vial.
The reaction was instantaneous.
It wasn’t a soothing balm. The liquid felt like molten lead sliding down his throat. It hit his stomach and exploded outward, a searing, white-hot fire that raced through his veins and hammered into his injured ribs. Yunlan’s back arched off the cold pavement, a strangled whimpering sound escaping his throat that he was too weak to suppress.
The heat was blinding. It felt as if his very bones were being melted and reshaped. Through the haze of agony, he saw the masked figure take a step toward him, the black robes swirling like a predatory bird.
I was wrong, Yunlan thought, his mind slipping into a terrifying, dark abyss. He didn’t save me. He just wanted to watch the poison work.
His strength vanished. The light from the streetlamps above stretched into long, distorted needles of silver before being swallowed by an absolute, crushing blackness. His head fell back against the stone, and the last thing he felt was the terrifying sensation of falling into a void where the shadows finally won.
The Silent Vigil
Shen Wei stood over the unconscious man, his hand outstretched, frozen in mid-air. He had seen the terror in Yunlan’s eyes right before they closed—the look of a man who realized he had been betrayed.
The “fire” Yunlan felt was the Dixingian energy aggressively knitting together human tissue, a process never meant to be comfortable. Shen Wei knelt beside him, his movements frantic and stripped of his usual royal composure. He reached out, his gloved fingers hovering over Yunlan’s pulse point.
It was steady. Stronger than it had been a moment ago.
“You are not dying, Zhao Yunlan,” Shen Wei murmured, his voice cracking with an emotion he couldn’t name.
He looked around the desolate bridge. He couldn’t leave him here. If his own guards returned, or if a passing Haixing patrol found the Chief of the SID in this state, the political fallout would be catastrophic. But more than that, the thought of leaving Yunlan alone on this cold stone was suddenly, inexplicably intolerable.
Gently, as if handling something made of the thinnest porcelain, the Lord of Dixing reached down and lifted the unconscious human into his arms.
Part 4: The Morning After
Yunlan woke up with a gasp, his eyes snapping open to the familiar sight of his own bedroom ceiling.
He lay perfectly still for a moment, waiting for the agony of the bridge to return. He waited for the burning in his chest, the ache in his shoulder, and the pounding in his head.
Nothing came.
He sat up abruptly, clutching his side, but there was no pain. He pulled back the collar of his shirt, staring at his shoulder in the dim morning light. The skin was smooth. There wasn’t even a scar where the dark energy had scorched him the night before.
“What the…”
He looked toward his bedside table. There, resting on a clean napkin, was the empty glass vial from the bridge. Beside it lay a small, handwritten note on heavy, dark parchment.
The shadows do not always seek to consume. Stay inside today, Chief Zhao.
Yunlan picked up the note, his heart skipping a beat. The handwriting was elegant, precise—like the work of a scholar, not a soldier.
You’re right—I lost track of the fact that he sent his team into hiding for their own safety. Let me correct that and rewrite the scene.
The Central Plaza was a ghost town. Because Zhao Yunlan had ordered his team to stay in safe houses, he was the only SID presence on the scene. He had arrived alone, his breath hitching in his chest as he stepped out of his car and saw the devastation.
The rogue Dixingian stood in the center of the square, a man consumed by his own seismic power. Every time he clenched his fists, the ground buckled. Fissures groaned open, swallowing park benches and streetlamps. The few civilians left in the area were huddled behind a locked subway gate, screaming as the concrete above them began to crack.
“Hey! Over here!” Yunlan yelled, his voice echoing in the unnervingly empty plaza. He didn’t have backup. He didn’t have Lin Jing’s tech or Da Qing’s agility. He only had his service weapon and his own sheer, reckless gall.
The rogue turned, his eyes glowing a sickly, discordant purple. “The Chief of the SID. All alone? No dogs to protect you today?”
“I’m all I need to handle a low-life like you,” Yunlan lied, his heart hammering. He raised his gun, but before he could fire, the rogue slammed his palms into the pavement.
A shockwave of dark energy tore through the ground. The concrete beneath Yunlan’s feet exploded. He was thrown into the air, landing hard on his side. As he scrambled to get up, a second wave of jagged dark energy—sharp as a blade—caught him across his upper arm.
“Agh!” Yunlan hissed, clutching his arm as the necrotic energy began to burn through his leather jacket and into his skin. The wound didn’t bleed like a normal cut; it smoked with a cold, black haze.
He tried to steady his aim, but his vision was swimming. The rogue stepped closer, raising both hands for a final, crushing blow. “Die in the ruins of your city, human.”
The Observer’s Breaking Point
Deep in the shadows of a nearby clock tower, a portal of swirling ink bled into the air.
Shen Wei stood within the darkness, his knuckles white as he gripped his sleeves. He had watched through the scrying pool as Yunlan ignored his warning. He had watched him drive to the plaza alone, knowing he had no backup.
“Foolish… stubborn man,” Shen Wei hissed. He had spent his own essence the night before to save this human, and now he was watching him bleed again.
As the rogue raised his arms to deliver the strike that would surely crush Yunlan’s chest, Shen Wei felt a surge of cold fury that eclipsed his reason. If Yunlan died here, it wouldn’t be a political victory for Dixing; it would be a personal failure that Shen Wei could not endure.
“Enough,” the Envoy whispered.
The Intervention
Just as the rogue brought his hands down, a pillar of absolute shadow erupted from the ground between him and Yunlan.
The air turned so cold that Yunlan’s breath became a thick mist. The rogue’s seismic wave didn’t just stop; it hit the wall of shadow and shattered like glass against steel.
From the heart of the darkness, the “Elite Guard” stepped out. He didn’t wait for a parley. He didn’t even draw a weapon.
With a movement that was nothing more than a blur of black silk, the Guard was in front of the rogue. He seized the man by the throat, lifting him off the ground with one hand. The dark energy surrounding the Guard’s fingers was so intense it hummed with a low, predatory growl—a level of power that made the rogue’s seismic abilities look like a candle next to a bonfire.
“You have forgotten your place,” the Guard said, his voice a terrifying, echoing rumble. “And you have overstepped your bounds.”
With a casual, brutal flick, the Guard slammed the rogue into the concrete. The impact was so great it knocked the man unconscious instantly, his purple glow flickering out into nothingness.
The Guard stood over the fallen criminal, his robes billowing in the sudden, freezing wind. Then, slowly, he turned toward Yunlan.
Yunlan was slumped against a piece of upturned asphalt, gasping for air, his hand pressed firmly against the smoking gash on his arm. He looked up at the silver mask, his eyes wide and bright with a mixture of shock and a strange, defiant spark of recognition.
“You again,” Yunlan panted, a pained, crooked grin stretching across his pale face. “You’re… really bad at… staying away, aren’t you?”
The Guard didn’t move. He stared at the fresh blood seeping through Yunlan’s fingers. For a second, the mask tilted, and the air around the Guard flickered with an intense, suffocating wave of frustration and—unbelievably—concern.
“I told you,” the Guard said, his voice tight and strained, “to stay inside.”
The Guard’s reaction was instantaneous and violent. He moved toward Yunlan with a speed that felt like a physical blow, his hand snapping out to catch Yunlan’s injured arm.
His grip wasn’t a comfort; it was a vice. His fingers dug into the raw, smoking gash with a harsh, unyielding pressure born of pure, unadulterated fury.
“Agh!” Yunlan let out a sharp, strangled cry of pain, his body jerking as he tried to pull away. ”
Shen Wei was trembling with rage. He didn’t care about being gentle. He wanted Yunlan to feel the weight of his own recklessness.
Then, the energy shifted.
A surge of power flowed from the Guard’s hand into Yunlan’s torn flesh. To Yunlan, it didn’t feel like the warmth of a doctor’s touch; it felt like a torrent of cold fire. It was an icy, stinging heat that raced through his muscle and bone, stitching him back together with a brutal efficiency. Yunlan bit his lip, his eyes watering from the sheer agony of the sensation, until finally, the Guard let go.
The wound was gone. Not even a smudge of soot remained on his skin.
Without a word, the Guard turned his back on Yunlan. He walked over to the unconscious rogue, grabbing the man by the collar of his coat as if he weighed nothing. With his free hand, the Guard tore a vertical line through the air, and a swirling portal of ink-black shadows groaned open, smelling of ancient stone and stagnant air.
He was stepping into the darkness, ready to vanish back into the depths of Dixing, when Yunlan’s voice cracked through the silence of the plaza.
“Stop!”
The Guard froze. His shoulders remained tense, his back a rigid wall of black silk, but he didn’t step through.
“Stop,” Yunlan repeated, more quietly this time. He pushed himself up from the ground, his legs a bit shaky but his gaze fixed firmly on the silver mask. “I know you think I’m just another Haixing bureaucrat playing at being a hero. I know what my people did to yours. I know the history.”
He took a step forward, his hands open at his sides to show he wasn’t reaching for his weapon.
“But please,” Yunlan said, his voice dropping to a low, sincere tone that held no trace of his usual bravado. “Listen to me. I am not the enemy. I didn’t take this job to hunt your people. I took it to stop the cycle.”
The Guard didn’t move, but the portal flickered, reflecting the conflict in Shen Wei’s heart.
“I’m trying to bridge the gap,” Yunlan continued, his eyes pleading with the back of the masked man. “I want justice—real justice. For the people on the surface and the people in the shadows. If you keep shutting me out, if your Envoy keeps treating me like a target, we’re just going to keep bleeding until there’s nothing left. Don’t let him make that mistake.”
Shen Wei stood at the precipice of the dark, his heart hammering against his ribs. He wanted to turn around. He wanted to take off the mask and tell this man that he had been heard. He wanted to tell him that for the first time in ten thousand years, a Lord of the Shadows felt a flicker of hope.
Instead, he tightened his grip on the prisoner.
“The Envoy does not believe in bridges,” the Guard said, his voice hollow and cold, though it lacked the sharp edge of his earlier anger. “He only believes in the depth of the chasm.”
He stepped into the portal, the shadows swallowing him and the rogue in a single, silent heartbeat. The portal collapsed into a thin line and then vanished, leaving Zhao Yunlan alone in the middle of the broken plaza.
Yunlan looked at his healed arm, the fabric of his jacket still torn but the skin beneath it perfect.
“You’ saved me again,” he whispered to the empty air. “Maybe, there is still hope.”
The walk back to the SID was a blurred sequence of heavy footsteps and echoing silence. Dragon City felt like a graveyard, and the headquarters—once a place of chaotic laughter and the smell of instant noodles—was now a hollow shell.
The air inside was freezing. Without his team, the heating system sat dormant, and the darkness of the office felt oppressive. Yunlan didn’t bother turning on the main lights. He didn’t have the energy to face the sight of the empty desks and the dust settling on the equipment.
He stumbled toward his office, his legs feeling like they were made of lead. Every joint in his body ached, a lingering side effect of the “cold fire” healing that had stitched his flesh but left his spirit battered. He sank into his leather chair, the familiar creak of the springs the only sound in the room.
He leaned his head back against the headrest, staring up into the shadows of the ceiling. His stomach let out a sharp, twisting cramp—a dull, gnawing pain that reminded him he hadn’t had a proper meal in days. He tried to remember the last thing he had eaten, but his mind was a fog of purple energy, silver masks, and the smell of ozone.
He knew there was a stash of crackers in the breakroom. He knew he should get up, find some water, and perhaps call Da Qing just to hear a friendly voice.
But he couldn’t move.
The sheer weight of the last few weeks—the psychological warfare, the physical sabotage, the constant threat of death—finally came crashing down on him. He felt as though the gravity the Envoy had used to crush him had never truly gone away; it was just sitting inside his bones now, pulling him deeper into the chair.
“I’m so tired,” he whispered, the words barely audible in the vast, empty room.
His eyes drifted shut. He didn’t have the strength to be the bridge anymore. He didn’t have the strength to be the Chief. For the first time, the defiance that usually burned in his chest was nothing but a pile of cold ash. He felt small, fragile, and utterly alone in a war between worlds that didn’t care if he lived or died.
The Gilded Cage
The silence of the SID headquarters was no longer peaceful; it was a physical weight, pressing against Yunlan’s chest as he drifted into an uneasy consciousness. His stomach cramped violently, a sharp reminder that his body was running on fumes.
He forced himself to stand, his legs trembling from the lingering effects of the Dixingian healing that had left his muscles feeling like they had been forged in ice. He made his way to the small breakroom, his mind fixated on the stash of crackers he knew was tucked away in a cupboard.
When he opened the door, the stench hit him like a physical blow.
The crackers weren’t just stale; they were a mass of grey, fuzzy mold that seemed to pulse with a faint, oily light. He reached for a sealed bottle of water on the counter, but as his fingers brushed the plastic, the clear liquid turned a murky, stagnant brown before his eyes.
“Again?” Yunlan rasped, his voice cracking. “You’re really going for the crawl, aren’t you, Your Majesty?”
Desperation finally overrode his pride. He needed to get out. He needed air that didn’t smell like rot and a meal that wasn’t corrupted by spite. He grabbed his leather jacket and stumbled toward the main entrance.
He gripped the heavy brass handles of the double doors and shoved. They didn’t budge. He threw his entire weight against them, but the wood felt as solid as the obsidian walls of the Envoy’s own palace.
Through the frosted glass of the doors, he saw it—a shimmering, translucent veil of ink-black energy clinging to the frame like a spiderweb. It wasn’t just a lock; the building had been severed from the rest of Dragon City.
Hours of Shadows
One hour turned into three. Three turned into six.
Yunlan tried everything. He used a metal chair to strike the reinforced windows, but the impact sent a shockwave of cold energy back through his arms, throwing him across the floor. He tried the fire escape, but the metal door was fused shut, the handle glowing with a dim, mocking purple light.
By the tenth hour, the hunger had transitioned from a gnawing ache to an acute, agonizing fire. His vision began to tunnel. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the silver mask of the “Guard” who had saved him, then punished him with a grip of iron.
He eventually collapsed against the wall beside his desk, his breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches. The single lamp on his desk flickered and died, leaving him in absolute darkness.
“Is this it?” he whispered into the void.
Yunlan eventually collapsed against the wall beside his desk, his breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches. The single lamp on his desk flickered and died, leaving him in absolute darkness.
“You want to kill me like this?” he whispered into the void, his head lolling against the cool plaster.
He reached out, his hand brushing against the empty desk where his team used to sit. He thought of Da Qing’s constant nagging about his health, of Lin Jing’s frantic energy, and Zhu Hong’s silent protection. He had sent them away to keep them safe, and now, the silence they left behind was the cruelest torture of all.
He tried to swallow, but his throat was a desert. The phantom scent of the rotting food in the breakroom seemed to follow him, mocking his empty stomach. Every time his heart beat, it felt like a dull thud against his ribs—a reminder of a life force that was slowly being snuffed out.
The realization settled over him with a terrifying, icy clarity: nobody was coming. The building was a tomb, sealed by a power he couldn’t fight and a hatred he couldn’t reason with. The Envoy wasn’t just testing his resolve anymore; he was simply waiting for the light in Yunlan’s eyes to fade into the dark.
He curled his knees toward his chest, trying to preserve what little warmth remained in his body. His vision began to blur, the edges of the room dissolving into a grey, hazy static.
He had wanted to be a bridge, but as the hunger clawed at his insides and the darkness pressed against his skin, Zhao Yunlan finally felt the true depth of the chasm. He wasn’t a Chief, and he wasn’t a hero. He was just a man, alone in the dark, waiting for his heart to stop.
Shen Wei had been consumed by the cold, bureaucratic demands of the Council all day. The elders were restless, their demands for more aggressive posturing against the surface world ringing in his ears like a persistent ache. It was only when the moon reached its zenith that he finally found a moment of silence.
He moved toward the scrying pool in the center of his private sanctum, the dark water rippling at his touch. What he saw there made his blood turn to ice.
Yunlan was slumped in the half-darkness of the SID, the single desk lamp casting long, skeletal shadows across his pale face. He wasn’t moving. He looked less like a defiant Chief and more like a ghost haunted by his own office.
Without a second of hesitation, Shen Wei tore a rift in the air. The black ink of his portal bled into the SID bullpen, and he stepped through, his heart hammering against his ribs.
At the sound of the portal, Yunlan painfully forced his head up. His eyes, clouded and sunken, found the silver mask of his “guard.” But there was no relief in his gaze—only a hollow, jagged bitterness.
“Are you… here to watch me die?” Yunlan’s voice was a dry rasp, the words catching in his parched throat. He could barely force them out. “You’re in luck. You won’t… have to wait much longer.”
Shen Wei crossed the room in three blurred strides. He dropped to his knees before Yunlan, his gloved hand pressing firmly against the center of the man’s chest. Yunlan let out a pathetic, broken whimper as the “cold fire” of Shen Wei’s healing energy began to surge through him.
Shen Wei let the energy flow for a moment, his brow furrowing behind the mask. He searched for a wound, a poison, a curse—anything tangible. But he found nothing broken. And yet, Yunlan was slipping away.
“What is it?” Shen Wei demanded, his voice ringing with the sharp, crystalline authority of the Envoy. He had fallen into his command tone without realizing it. “What is wrong with you?”
Yunlan flinched at the sound, a tremor running through his frail frame. Then, he let out a laugh—low, tired, and utterly soul-crushing.
“As if you didn’t know,” Yunlan whispered. “I actually believed… I really thought you wanted to help. That there was hope. That we could bridge the chasm.” He looked at the mask with a gaze that saw nothing but betrayal. “But I get it now. Dixing doesn’t want a bridge. And to tear it down for good… you’re going to kill me.”
“The Envoy did not order your death!” Shen Wei protested, his voice tight with a sudden, desperate fear.
Yunlan smiled weakly, a ghost of his former bravado. “Semantics. Whether Dixing kills me directly or simply seals me in a building with rotted food and poisoned water until I rot myself… the end is the same. And my successor… he’ll know. He’ll know you want no peace.”
Shen Wei swore, a low, guttural curse in the language of the depths. He didn’t explain. He didn’t argue. He simply gathered Yunlan’s limp body into his arms, opened a new portal, and stepped through.
Yunlan was too caught off guard and far too weak to resist. Before his mind could process the shift in the air, the cold dampness of the SID was gone, replaced by the heavy, dark energy of the underground.
Shen Wei brought him directly to his private quarters—a place no human had ever seen. He laid Yunlan gently onto the soft silk of his bed, then hurried to the door, barking orders to a servant to bring light, digestible food and a nourishing broth immediately.
With quick, frantic movements, Shen Wei went to a side table, grabbed a carafe, and poured a clear liquid into a cup.
Yunlan watched him with eyes wide with alarm. The tension was draining what little strength he had left. When Shen Wei returned to his side and pressed the cup to his lips, Yunlan hesitated for a fraction of a second—but his thirst was a physical agony he could no longer ignore.
He drank greedily, but after only a few swallows, Shen Wei pulled the cup away.
A sound of pure, raw despair escaped Yunlan’s throat. His trembling hands flew up, clawing at the guard’s hand, trying to pull the cup back to his mouth. But the guard’s grip was like iron; he wouldn’t let Yunlan move it an inch.
Two hot tears tracked through the dust on Yunlan’s cheeks. He closed his eyes, his heart breaking. He understood now. This was the new torture. To give him the water he so desperately needed, only to mock him by taking it away.
He heard the guard’s voice from what felt like a vast distance, but the words were just a blur of sound through the fog of his misery.
Then, the cup was at his lips again. Another small sip. And then it was taken away once more.
Gradually, as the rhythm repeated, the words began to pierce through the haze.
“Slowly… only small sips. Yes, one after the other. Not too much at once, or your body will reject it.”
Yunlan’s hands stopped fighting. He leaned his head back against the pillows, his eyes fixed on the silver mask as he realized the guard wasn’t mocking him—he was pacing him. Slowly, sip by painful sip, the entire cup was drained, and for the first time in days, the fire in Yunlan’s throat began to fade.
As the last drop of water vanished, Yunlan’s strength gave out completely. His head fell back against the pillows, his breathing shallow but less frantic. He didn’t know whose room this was, or what part of the underground he had been dragged to; he only knew the air was thick with the scent of old parchment and cold stone. He was in the heart of the enemy’s territory.
Shen Wei stood over him, his hand still hovering near Yunlan’s shoulder. Behind the silver mask, his eyes were etched with a deep, aching concern. He watched the way Yunlan’s pulse fluttered at his throat—so fragile, so dangerously close to stopping.
A soft knock at the door broke the silence. A servant entered, keeping their head bowed low, and placed a tray with a bowl of clear, steaming broth and a small portion of soft grains on the bedside table before retreating in haste.
Shen Wei sat on the edge of the bed. He reached out and gently shook Yunlan’s shoulder. “Chief Zhao. You must eat.”
Yunlan stirred, drifting back from the edge of unconsciousness. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused and glazed. When he saw the masked figure leaning over him, a flicker of that old, stubborn defiance tried to spark in his gaze, but it was quickly extinguished by his own exhaustion.
With practiced patience, Shen Wei began to feed him. He offered a single spoonful of the broth at a time, waiting for Yunlan to swallow before offering the next. He moved with a tenderness that contradicted every nightmare Yunlan had ever had about the “monsters” of Dixing.
Yunlan took the food mechanically. His mind was a chaotic swirl of confusion. Why heal me only to starve me? Why starve me only to feed me? Nothing made sense. He tried to keep his eyes fixed on the silver mask, trying to read the intent behind those cold, metallic features, but the warmth of the food was making his eyelids heavy. The world was narrowing down to the rhythmic clink of the spoon against the bowl and the steady presence of the man beside him.
When the bowl was finally empty, Shen Wei set the tray aside. He turned back to find Yunlan struggling, his head nodding as he fought a losing battle against sleep. Even in this state, Yunlan was trying to remain a sentry, trying to stay awake in a den of lions.
“Stop,” Shen Wei said softly, his voice losing some of its sharp edge. He placed his gloved hand flat against Yunlan’s chest, right over his heart. The steady, cool thrum of his energy began to seep through the fabric of Yunlan’s shirt, acting like a balm on his frayed nerves.
“Sleep,” Shen Wei commanded. It wasn’t the harsh order of a ruler, but a quiet, irresistible necessity.
Yunlan’s resistance crumbled. He couldn’t hold the weight of his own head anymore. His eyes drifted shut, and he slumped back into the depths of the mattress. As he spiraled down into a deep, dreamless sleep—a sleep of both exhaustion and the beginning of true healing—the last thing he felt was the strange, steady warmth of the hand resting over his heart.
The transition from sleep to wakefulness was slow, like climbing out of a deep, dark well. When Yunlan finally opened his eyes, the heavy, suffocating fog in his mind had cleared. The gnawing fire in his stomach had subsided into a dull, manageable hunger, and the phantom aches in his limbs had retreated to a faint hum. He felt weak—terribly so—but he was finally, undeniably, himself again.
He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling. It wasn’t the cracked plaster of the SID or the familiar shadows of his apartment. This ceiling was high, vaulted, and crafted from a deep, polished stone that seemed to shimmer with a faint, internal light.
Slowly, Yunlan propped himself up on his elbows. His gaze swept the room, and his heart skipped a beat.
This wasn’t a guard’s barracks. The bed he lay on was draped in heavy, dark silks. The furniture was made of ancient, dark wood, carved with intricate patterns of clouds and dragons. Every object in the room—from the jade tea set on the low table to the tall, elegant floor lamps—spoke of immense wealth, ancient lineage, and absolute authority. It was a place of quiet, terrifying elegance.
His breath hitched as his eyes landed on the figure at the far end of the room.
The “guard” was there, seated at a massive desk overflowing with scrolls and stacks of official reports. He had removed his heavy outer robes, wearing a simpler but no less exquisite tunic. The silver mask was still in place, catching the dim light of the room as he bent over his work, his hand moving with fluid, scholarly grace as he brushed ink onto a page.
Yunlan watched him for a long minute. He looked at the sheer volume of reports, the way the man carried himself even in private, and the effortless power that seemed to radiate from him even in silence.
A cold, hollow dread began to coil in Yunlan’s chest, sharper than any hunger he had felt. He wasn’t in a prison cell. He wasn’t in a safe house. He was in the inner sanctum of the very power that had been trying to break him.
“You’re not a guard,” Yunlan whispered, his voice still thin but carrying a new, jagged edge of realization.
The scratching of the brush stopped instantly. The masked man didn’t turn around immediately, but the air in the room seemed to grow heavy, the shadows stretching toward the bed as if responding to his mood.
Yunlan’s grip tightened on the silk sheets. “A guard doesn’t have a desk covered in the bureaucracy of an empire. A guard doesn’t sleep in a palace.” He swallowed hard, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the silver mask. “You’re the Envoy.”
The figure at the desk slowly set the brush down and turned. The silver mask offered no expression, but the tilt of the head was different now—no longer the helpful protector, but the sovereign of the depths.
The Envoy looked up from his work, his posture straightening. “You are awake,” he said simply.
He rose from the desk, his movements fluid and silent as a shadow. He walked to the side table, poured a fresh cup of water, and carried it back to the bed.
Yunlan stared at the silver chalice for a long moment, then looked up, searching for the eyes behind the mask. He tried to pierce through the metal, looking for a hint of the man who had held him so gently the night before. Shen Wei said nothing. Slowly, cautiously, Yunlan reached out and took the cup, his fingers brushing against the Envoy’s gloved hand. The silence between them was heavy.
Once the cup was in Yunlan’s hand, Shen Wei turned away and walked to the heavy oak door. He spoke a few low words to a servant waiting in the corridor, ordering a meal to be brought immediately.
Finally, the Envoy returned. He didn’t return to his desk; instead, he sat down on the edge of the bed, mere inches from where Yunlan lay.
Yunlan’s eyes narrowed, tracking every movement. He looked down at the water in his hand, then at the powerful figure sitting so close to him, and then at the grandeur of the room. He remembered the desperate hours in the sealed building, the “guard” who had appeared out of nowhere, and the way this man had carried him into the very heart of Dixing—an act of such reckless intimacy it defied every rule of their warring worlds.
The pieces of the puzzle finally clicked into place, the realization hitting him with the force of a physical blow.
“You don’t want me dead,” Yunlan said, the surprise coloring his raspy voice.
Shen Wei remained still, his silhouette dark against the lamplight. He didn’t look away. “No,” he said, his voice quiet but unshakable. “I do not.”
Shen Wei remained still, his voice dropping to a low, melodic cadence. “I never intended for you to die, Zhao Yunlan. My goal was never to spill your blood. I simply did not want another Chief who treats our treaty like a suggestion and his badge like a hunting license.”
Yunlan opened his mouth to protest, but the Envoy shook his head sharply, silencing him.
“Yes, you told me your intentions were different,” Shen Wei continued, his tone weary. “But I have heard those same hollow promises from too many men before you to believe them. I wanted to drive you away. I wanted you to quit before you could cause more damage.”
He paused, his gloved fingers tightening slightly on the edge of the mattress. “But hear me: I never gave the order to seriously injure you—let alone kill you. The first time, my guards exceeded their authority; they let their hatred cloud their discipline. And the second time… you were only meant to be confined. There was water in that building, Zhao Yunlan. You simply did not find it.”
Yunlan looked at him, his eyes widening in genuine shock. He let out a dry, self-deprecating laugh that turned into a cough. He lowered his head, his shoulders slumping with a sudden, heavy shame. “So… it was my own fault then,” he whispered. “I was too stupid to find a tap.”
“No,” Shen Wei countered firmly, shaking his head. “It was the fault of Dixing that you were no longer in a condition to find it. You were pushed past the point of endurance, and that responsibility lies with me.” He looked directly at Yunlan, the silver mask glinting. “I gave the command to drive you into the abyss. And for that… I am sorry.”
Yunlan looked up, his breath catching. He searched the Envoy’s masked face, trying to reconcile the image of the ruthless Emperor who had ordered his torment with the man who was now sitting at his bedside, offering an apology.
“Well,” Yunlan said softly, his voice trembling with a mixture of exhaustion and defeat. “You’ve reached your goal then. I understand now that I cannot stand against your will. If you want me gone… I will resign. I’ll leave the SID.”
Yunlan lowered his head and closed his eyes. The weight of it all settling him. He had tried so hard to be the bridge, to heal the rift between their worlds, but he realized now that a single man—no matter how determined—could not withstand the Emperor of Dixing.
Shen Wei stared at him in a stunned, heavy silence. He looked at the man who had survived the “cold fire,” who had faced the elite guards without flinching, and who had worked until his body gave out. This man, who had never once backed down, was now offering to surrender.
“Why?” Shen Wei asked, his voice laced with disbelief. “You never gave up, no matter how much pressure we applied. Why now? Why give up everything you fought for?”
Yunlan opened his eyes, and for the first time, Shen Wei saw the utter lack of hope in them.
“Because,” Yunlan answered, his voice cracking. “If you were there the whole time… if you were the one watching me in my apartment, on the bridge, at the marketplace, and in my office. If you were the one who saw me at my worst and still helped me, still saved me… and yet, after seeing all of that, you still cannot believe that I am sincere? If even you aren’t willing to give me a chance, then there is no hope left for me.”
The words struck Shen Wei with more force than any physical blow ever could. He sat frozen, the silence of the room suddenly ringing in his ears.
Yunlan was surrendering. But it wasn’t because of the terrifying might of Dixing, or because the Emperor had demanded it. It was because the man behind the throne—the man behind the mask—had proven himself incapable of seeing the truth. Yunlan was giving up because he believed that if the person who had watched him in his most private, vulnerable moments still couldn’t find a reason to trust him, then the cause was truly lost.
Shen Wei’s mind raced, reeling from the raw honesty of Yunlan’s despair. Was it true? Had he really been so blind?
Deep down, he knew the answer was more complex. He remembered the quiet moments in Yunlan’s apartment, the way his resolve had wavered when he saw the man’s exhaustion. He remembered the bridge and the marketplace, noticing the way Yunlan spoke to his people and even to the shadows. He had begun to see the sincerity then, but he had fought against it. He had clung to his doubt like a shield, refusing to believe, refusing to trust, because trust was a luxury the Ruler of Dixing could not afford.
But as he looked at the man lying broken on his bed—seeing the hollow eyes and the slumped shoulders of a hero who had finally run out of light—the weight of his own cynicism became unbearable. He saw the price Yunlan had paid for Shen Wei’s refusal to believe.
To his own profound and sudden surprise, a wave of fierce rejection rose within him. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want Yunlan to pay the ultimate price. He didn’t want the SID badge to be laid down in defeat, and he realized, with a clarity that terrified him, that he didn’t want to lose that man.
Shen Wei’s hand, still resting on Yunlan’s chest, began to tremble.
“No! I don´t want you gone,” Shen Wei said, his voice no longer that of a cold sovereign, but thick with an emotion he couldn’t quite suppress.
He stood up abruptly, the movement startled and sharp. He turned his back to the bed, his shoulders tense.
“If I truly wanted you gone,” Shen Wei whispered, his voice vibrating with a sudden, desperate intensity, “I would have left you in that building, Zhao Yunlan.”
He turned back slightly, the edge of the silver mask glinting in the dim light.
“I did not believe you, coult not belive you, because I was afraid to be wrong,” he admitted, the confession sounding like a jagged tear in the silence. “But you have proven yourself over and over again. And seeing it, seeing you like this… ” He trailed off, his gaze fixed on Yunlan’s pale face. “No, I don´t want you gone. The bridge is not torn down yet. Not unless you can no longer believe, and are the one to walk away from it.”
Yunlan stared at the Emperor of Dixing, his gaze wide and disbelieving. He searched the silence, listening for a hint of mockery or a hidden trap, but found only the heavy, vibrating truth of Shen Wei’s confession.
He swallowed hard, his throat tight. He had been ready to give up. And for a terrifying heartbeat, he looked inward and wondered if he even had the strength to stand up again. Could he really go back to being the Chief? Could he continue to build that bridge between Haixing and Dixing using nothing but his own willpower, his stubborn faith, and his own blood?
But as he looked at the figure standing by his bed—the man who had descended from his throne to feed him sip by sip —a new realization dawned on him.
He didn’t have to build the bridge alone!
Yunlan looked up at the towering figure before him, his breath hitching in his chest. The realization was so profound, so counter to everything he had experienced since taking office, that he felt a desperate need for confirmation. With a hand that still trembled slightly from lingering weakness, he reached out toward the Envoy.
“You are on my side, Your Majesty?” he asked, his voice hesitant, searching for the solid ground beneath the impossible truth.
Shen Wei did not hesitate. He stepped back to the bedside and reached out, his gloved hand closing firmly and protectively around Yunlan’s. The grip was no longer meant to restrain or to threaten; it was an anchor.
“Always,” Shen Wei said, his voice ringing with a fierce, unwavering conviction.
The days Yunlan remained in the Envoy’s private quarters as the guest of the Sovereign.
Shen Wei took him through the winding, obsidian corridors of the palace and the bustling streets of the underground city. He introduced Yunlan to high-ranking council members and humble street guards alike. To everyone they met, the Envoy’s message was the same, delivered with the absolute authority of the throne:
“This is the new Chief of the SID,” Shen Wei would declare, his hand often resting briefly on Yunlan’s shoulder. “He is our ally. You are to work with him. You are to trust him as you trust me.”
For the first time in centuries, the people of Dixing saw their Ruler standing side-by-side with a human, not in conflict, but in a shared purpose.
When the time finally came for Yunlan to return to the surface, the air between them had changed. They stood near the portal that would take Yunlan back to the SID headquarters—back to his team and the sunlight of Dragon City.
Shen Wei handed him a small, dark stone that pulsed with a faint, rhythmic violet light. “If you are in danger, or if you find yourself blocked by the bureaucrats of my world or the arrogance of the guards, use this,” Shen Wei instructed. “I will hear you.”
He looked at Yunlan, the silver mask hiding his face but his eyes burning with a new, unspoken promise. “Whatever difficulties arise, whatever help, contact me. I will do everything in my power to ensure you do not have to carry this weight alone again.”
A New Dawn
When Yunlan stepped through the portal, the familiar, slightly dusty air of the SID headquarters rushed to meet him. The heavy, suffocating silence was gone. The ink-black barrier that had severed the building from the world had vanished, and the golden light of a new morning poured through the high windows, dancing across the floorboards.
He walked through the bullpen slowly, his boots clicking rhythmically against the tile. For the first time in weeks, the shadows in the corners didn’t feel suffocating He didn’t feel the crushing weight of despair, or the hollow ache of isolation. Instead, a steady pulse of confidence and hope thrummed in his chest—a quiet strength he hadn’t felt since he first took the job.
As he reached the door to his private office, he paused. He took a deep, bracing breath, steeling himself for the stench of the rotted food and the stagnant water he had left behind in his desperation.
He pushed the door open.
The smell of decay was gone. Instead, the air was light, carrying the faint, welcoming scent of sandalwood. The office was immaculate. His desk had been polished until the wood glowed; his chair was tucked neatly into place, and every file and pen was arranged with loving precision. It was as if the darkness of the past had been nothing more than a bad dream, scrubbed away by a careful hand.
In the center of his desk sat a large, woven gift basket. It was overflowing with fresh fruit, soft bread, and bottles of clear, sparkling water.
Yunlan approached the desk slowly, a faint, disbelieving smile playing on his lips. He reached out and picked up a small, heavy card nestled among the grapes. The paper was thick and cream-colored, and on it, written in the elegant, sweeping calligraphy the emperor, was only a single word:
Always.
Yunlan traced the ink with his thumb, his heart full. He sat down in his chair, leaned back, and for the first time in a very long time, he didn’t feel like a man fighting a war. He felt like a man building a future.