Azure City never truly slept.
Even at night, when the upper districts dimmed their lights and the skies above the spires dulled into a muted indigo, the city breathed—quietly, deliberately. Information flowed through underground channels like blood through veins, unseen but essential.
Somewhere, someone was always listening.
Lian Ye felt it the moment his boots touched the outer perimeter.
The Ashfall Corridor—a narrow stretch of stone-paved path that cut through the western edge of the Faction Grounds—was empty. Too empty. The corridor connected directly to the West Wing Residences, a place reserved for high-ranking operatives, strategists, and those deemed "assets of long-term value." No guards patrolled openly here. They didn't need to.
The walls themselves were warded.
Lian Ye moved quickly, cloak drawn tight, footsteps light enough that even the wind barely acknowledged him. He had taken a shorter route than the others—cutting through the Black Archive Steps, descending three levels beneath the city before resurfacing through a maintenance lift known only to a handful of senior members.
Speed wasn't the reason.
Instinct was.
By the time Tel Suyin and the rest of the strike team were still navigating the outer transit rails, Lian Ye was already home.
The West Wing rose like a monolith of dark stone and glass, its architecture severe and unwelcoming. Tall, narrow windows reflected the city lights in fractured patterns, making it impossible to tell what lay inside. The entrance hall—Cinder Hall—was silent except for the faint hum of energy seals embedded in the floor.
Lian Ye crossed it without slowing.
His room was located at the far end of the wing, past the Obsidian Gallery, where portraits of past faction leaders hung—faces scratched out, names erased, histories buried. No one spoke of them. No one needed to.
He reached his door.
The moment his fingers brushed the handle—
His breath caught.
It wasn't a sound.
It wasn't a presence in the usual sense.
It was awareness.
Like standing beneath a sky full of eyes.
Lian Ye froze, muscles locking instantly. His pulse spiked, blood roaring in his ears as cold sweat broke across his forehead. The air felt heavier, pressing against his lungs.
His skin prickled as if invisible needles dragged slowly across his back.
Watched.
Not from one direction.
From every angle.
The sensation crawled over him—along the ceiling, the walls, the floor beneath his boots. Even inside his own shadow, something lingered. His instincts screamed, every survival reflex honed through blood and ash urging him to move, to strike, to run—
He acted.
The door flew open and he stepped inside, slamming it shut behind him and immediately activating the internal seals.
The room dimmed as the Ashlock Barrier engaged, sigils flaring briefly along the edges of the walls before fading. Sound dampening followed. Then light filtration. Then spatial isolation. This was the new room assigned to him by the faction after he applied for a room in the West wing. This was so he could easily exit and enter at any time making his work a lot easier.
Only after the final seal clicked into place did Lian Ye allow himself to breathe.
The feeling didn't vanish.
It stayed.
Two minutes.
One hundred and twenty seconds that stretched endlessly.
Lian Ye stood in the center of his room—Chamber of Cinders, as the West Wing records called it—hand hovering near his weapon, eyes scanning reflections in the polished obsidian floor. Nothing moved. Nothing appeared. The oppressive awareness slowly thinned, like fog burned away by morning sun.
And then—
Gone.
Just like that.
The air felt lighter. His heartbeat slowed. His shoulders dropped a fraction.
He exhaled sharply, a sound somewhere between a laugh and a curse.
Yet he didn't question it.
In Azure City, being watched was normal.
What unsettled him was that he didn't know by whom.
He crossed the room and dropped onto the narrow bed positioned against the far wall. The room itself was minimalistic—dark stone walls, a single desk made from scorched wood, shelves lined with folders and sealed documents. One window at the far end of the room. No mirrors. And only a thin strip of dim amber light embedded in the ceiling.
He reached for the folder resting on the desk.
Before his fingers touched it—
Click.
Lian Ye's head snapped up.
The sound came from the wall.
Not mechanical.
Rhythmic.
Click. Click-click. Click.
His eyes narrowed.
Morse code.
The wall opposite the bed—plain stone, unmarked—began emitting faint tapping sounds, precise and deliberate. Not loud enough to trigger external sensors. Not sloppy enough to be accidental.
Only one group still used this method.
"The rogues," Lian Ye murmured.
The Rogue Informants—former members of the Informant Faction who had severed official ties yet continued operating in the shadows. Unpredictable. Dangerous. Useful.
The clicking continued.
"WE HAVE DISCUSSED.
WE CAN OFFER MORE.
DETAILS BEYOND THE PREVIOUS FILE.
ANOTHER ATTEMPT.
HIGHER SUCCESS PROBABILITY."
Lian Ye leaned back against the wall, eyes half-lidded as he listened. His fingers drummed once against his knee.
Assassination.
Again.
He thought they were scared and would go into hiding, but who knew they would never stop circling him with offers like this—information, leverage, routes, weaknesses. Every attempt came with a price. Every success would bind him deeper into webs he didn't fully control.
The clicking paused.
Then resumed.
TIME SENSITIVE.
INTERFERENCE DETECTED.
DECISION REQUIRED.
Lian Ye closed his eyes.
He thought of the cold sensation at his door.
Of eyes he couldn't see.
Of strings tightening quietly around his throat.
"No," he said softly.
He didn't reply.
He didn't signal acknowledgment.
He didn't engage.
Silence.
The clicking hesitated—as if confused—then stopped entirely.
The wall went dead.
Lian Ye opened his eyes, staring at the stone long after the sound vanished.
"Not today," he whispered.
He finally opened the folder.
---
Elsewhere, in the Eastern Transit Gate, Tel Suyin arrived with the others.
The gates hissed open, releasing the team into the inner district of Azure City. Neon lights from distant sectors reflected faintly against the polished stone paths, while the towering structures overhead blocked most of the sky.
The mood was fractured.
Jinhai walked near the back, expression neutral but eyes sharp. Two others argued quietly near the front—one frustrated, one bitter. Another operative seemed entirely uninterested, already lost in thought.
Failure had a way of dividing people.
They passed through Hollow Square, a wide plaza surrounded by inactive vendor stalls normally bustling, tonight it was nearly empty.
Tel Suyin stopped.
"Only Jinhai," he said.
His voice was calm. Low. Final.
The others slowed, exchanging looks—annoyance, curiosity, resignation flickering across their faces.
"But... shouldn't we come along to give our own side of the report" someone asked.
Tel didn't answer.
They lingered for a moment longer, then bowed and then one by one peeled away, disappearing down different corridors until only Tel Suyin and Jinhai remained.
The silence between them was heavier than the city air.
They began walking toward the Veiled Passage, a narrow hallway that led directly to the Central Meeting Chamber. The walls here were layered with sound-absorbing material, rendering conversations private by default.
Halfway through, Tel spoke.
"He's going to disregard it."
Jinhai stiffened.
"The mission," Tel continued, voice barely above a whisper. "Hei Zhen will discard it entirely."
Jinhai stopped walking.
Tel didn't.
"You know his pattern," Tel said. "Once he decides something doesn't align with the information he got, he won't debate it. Not today."
Jinhai turned, eyes narrowing. "Then why am I here?"
Tel stopped.
Slowly, he faced him.
"For insurance."
Jinhai's jaw tightened. "You want me to attack again."
"Yes."
"Without authorization?"
"No, with my authorisation. You forget I'm the vice captain," Tel corrected calmly.
Jinhai's hands clenched at his sides. For a brief moment, something raw flashed across his face—anger, uncertainty, calculation.
He inhaled. Exhaled.
Then asked, "Why me?"
Tel studied him.
"Is it because I'm next in line for vice-captain?" Jinhai continued. "Or is there another reason?"
Their eyes locked.
The air between them sharpened.
Tel adjusted his glasses, pushing them back up the bridge of his nose. "I'll be asking the Informant Faction's God Eye for the next confirmed location."
Jinhai's breath hitched.
"All you have to do," Tel said evenly, "is be there."
A pause.
"Attack," Tel went on. "Kill him if possible. If not—bring back anything of note. Anything."
Jinhai stared at him, searching for something—hesitation, doubt, regret.
He found none.
"…Understood," Jinhai said finally.
They resumed walking.
The Central Meeting Chamber was circular, its walls etched with faint sigils long since rendered inert. A massive stone table dominated the center, surrounded by mismatched chairs—none assigned, none symbolic.
Hei Zhen sat alone.
Not at the head.
Not anywhere important.
Just… there.
Eyes closed. Head tilted slightly forward. Hands resting loosely on the table.
He looked like a man asleep.
Tel Suyin stopped three steps inside the room.
"Captain," he said.
Hei Zhen's eyes snapped open.
The shift was instant. Sharp. Like a blade sliding free of its sheath.
"What do you want?" Hei Zhen asked, voice flat.
They briefed him.
The target's abilities.
The information from the informant faction.
The implications.
Hei Zhen listened without interruption, gaze unfocused, as if looking past them rather than at them.
When they finished, silence stretched.
Then— "Drop it," Hei Zhen said.
Tel's eyes widened slightly.
"I'll take it from here," Hei Zhen continued.
"I'll determine whether this continues or ends. Entirely."
Tel opened his mouth.
Closed it.
For a moment, it looked like he might argue.
Instead, he bowed—just slightly—and turned away.
Outside the chamber, Tel adjusted his glasses again.
"Don't forget the mission," he said to Jinhai.
Then he walked off, pace quickening as he disappeared into the North Residential Spine, leaving Jinhai standing alone in the dim corridor.
Jinhai stared after him.