The air hung thick with gun smoke and drifting ash. Shuren flicked the half-burned cigarette from her lips, watching the ember trace a red arc through the darkness before it disappeared into the dirt.
She didn't say a word. Not even a glance at the bodies strewn across the courtyard.
She just started walking.
Each step resonated with quiet defiance — the crunch of gravel beneath her boots slicing through the silence like a grim metronome.
Assad and Mya trailed behind her, hesitant yet determined not to lag too far. The moonlight glimmered softly on Shuren's coat, and for a brief moment, it felt like the air itself was bending around her, quivering under the weight of her presence.
Then, more guards emerged.
From the balconies, the hedges, the crumbling stairways leading to the mansion's grand entrance — all armed, all shouting orders over one another.
"Don't let them get closer! FIRE!"
The night erupted into chaos once more.
Bullets screamed through the air… only to twist and bend as they had before.
Some plunged into the ground.
Others arched violently upward.
A few hung suspended in midair, trembling as if caught by invisible strings.
Shuren didn't flinch. She merely tilted her head, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.
The low hum surrounding her deepened — as if the world itself was holding its breath.
Then, in one fluid motion, she reloaded her pistol.
Click.
The sound rang out louder than the gunfire.
She raised it. Fired once. Twice. Then three more times.
Each shot struck true with surgical precision.
A bullet shattered one guard's helmet.
Another struck a man's rifle, ricocheting off and splitting his shoulder open.
A third created a clean hole between a man's eyes before he even realized she had him in her sights.
The courtyard fell silent again — this time, for good.
Shuren exhaled, lowering her pistol. "I told you…" she murmured, smoke curling from her lips, "…weak shit."
Assad stared at her, wide-eyed and speechless, while Mya struggled to steady her breathing.
Neither of them uttered a word.
Inside the mansion, an air of luxury enveloped the space — soft jazz floated gently from an antique gramophone, while the rich scent of whiskey and cigar smoke lingered in the atmosphere.
Zheng Yan lounged in his armchair, a glass of amber liquid swirling in his hand. His sharp, unreadable eyes caught the golden light from the chandelier above.
Standing beside him was Mischa, her posture impeccable and her expression a mystery.
Suddenly, the distant echo of gunfire shattered the tranquility.
Zheng didn't seem taken aback. In fact, he looked mildly amused.
"What's going on outside?" he asked casually, taking a sip of his drink.
Mischa remained unfazed. "I'm not certain, Young Master," she replied, her voice calm and steady. "Would you like me to check it out?"
Zheng Yan offered a faint smile — the kind that hinted he already had a feeling about it.
"No," he said, placing the glass on the armrest. "That wouldn't be wise. Just stay here with me until I give the word or until the issue comes knocking."
"Yes, Young Master, as you wish."
Zheng set the glass down, the soft clink resonating in the quiet room.
"Kinzau, I need you right now."
A panel on the far wall hissed open.
From the shadows, a tall figure stepped forward, the sound of clawed footsteps softly echoing against the marble floor.
It was the same black panther man from Mya's tragic tale.
He halted a few steps away from Zheng Yan, bowing his head in respect.
"Boss," Kinzau said in a deep, steady voice. "What do you need?"
Zheng smiled slightly, crossing one leg over the other. "Kinzau," he began, his tone light yet authoritative, "I need you to make sure the shipment leaves the docks tonight — no delays, no mistakes."
Kinzau's tail flicked once — a subtle indication of his alertness. "Understood."
Zheng's gaze drifted to the large window, where faint flashes of gunfire were still visible outside. "I trust you've heard the commotion out there," he continued. "I don't care who it is — I want it to stay out of our way. The cargo has to go out tonight."
Kinzau gave a single nod. "You can count on it. I'll get the men moving right away and steer clear of the courtyard. We'll go unnoticed."
"Great," Zheng said, rising slowly. He straightened his tie and glanced at the grand staircase that spiraled deeper into the mansion.
Kinzau turned and melted back into the shadows, his voice a low rumble that lingered in the air: "First the shipment. Blood can wait."
Zheng Yan's eyes drifted down to the glass floor beneath him, where merfolk floated like ghostly trophies murmuring figures pressed against the glass, their eyes glistening with an insatiable hunger.
A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face, transforming cruelty into something almost refined.
"Soon, my riches will come splashing in," he said, his voice cool and filled with delight. "Pathetic creatures—worthless, finned scraps—thinking they have the right to share the same air as humans."
He tapped the rim of his glass playfully, as if savoring the sweetness of the thought. "We've used them, sold them, toyed with them. Handy, until they weren't."
His smile turned colder. "And they're not the only ones.
There are far worse things lurking along the coasts and in the shadows—beastkin, half-bloods, the failures the world has cast aside. All of them can be turned into profit." He leaned in, his eyes sparkling with greedy calculation.
"With this shipment, I'll drown the Emperor in gold. Let him choke on it. Let him buy his delusions of power." He raised his glass in a mock toast, his tone dripping with disdain. "
They can all—" he paused, relishing the word, "—suck that."