Chapter 11

The message had been sent.

House Zhao, for all its wealth and arrogance, had received a simple, undeniable truth: Shen Tian was not someone they could crush so easily.

The slums whispered of his defiance. Some called him reckless. Others saw an opportunity. In a world where power dictated survival, a lone figure standing against a noble house was an anomaly—one that people either feared or wanted to follow.

But Shen Tian did not act for their approval.

This was a game of inevitability.

And he intended to win.

Jiang Hao paced in the dimly lit room, arms crossed. "They won't let this go."

Shen Tian sat calmly, his eyes half-closed in meditation. "Of course not."

Jiang Hao scoffed. "You don't seem worried."

"I'm not."

Jiang Hao shook his head. "They'll escalate. You know that, right?"

Shen Tian finally opened his eyes. "That's what I want."

Jiang Hao paused, studying him. "…You're planning something."

A faint smirk tugged at Shen Tian's lips. "House Zhao holds influence through fear and control. The moment they start flailing to deal with a 'nobody' from the slums, that control weakens."

Jiang Hao frowned. "So what, you're just going to let them come at you?"

Shen Tian leaned back against the wall. "No. I'm going to choose how they come at me."

The first strike came at dawn.

The slums, restless and loud as always, barely noticed the group moving through its outskirts. They weren't wearing the insignias of House Zhao, but Shen Tian saw through the deception.

Hired hands. Mercenaries.

A dozen men spread out, blocking the alley leading to Shen Tian's hideout. Their leader, a burly man with a scar across his nose, stepped forward.

"You should've stayed in the dirt where you belong," he sneered.

Shen Tian sighed. "Are we really doing this?"

The scarred man grinned. "You'll be dead soon. Does it matter?"

Shen Tian's gaze flickered over their positioning. They were professionals—not mere street thugs. Their formation left little room to escape, forcing a direct confrontation.

But Shen Tian had no intention of running.

The Phantom Veins Sutra hummed within him, strengthening his body. He had been patient. He had trained in silence.

Now, it was time to test his progress.

The first mercenary lunged.

Shen Tian sidestepped smoothly, catching the man's wrist and twisting. A sharp cry rang out as the weapon clattered to the ground.

The next opponent swung from behind—fast, precise. Shen Tian barely tilted his head, letting the strike pass just inches from his face. With a swift motion, he struck at a nerve point on the attacker's arm. The man staggered, his grip loosening.

Two down.

The others hesitated.

Too slow.

Shen Tian advanced before they could regroup. He wasn't the strongest—not yet—but his technique was flawless. Every step, every strike, every evasion flowed seamlessly.

A kick to the knee sent another mercenary crashing to the ground. A well-placed palm strike to the chest winded another.

The scarred leader's smirk faltered.

"You—"

Shen Tian moved before he could finish.

A single, controlled strike to the man's throat. Not enough to kill—just enough to send him gasping for breath.

Silence fell over the alley.

Shen Tian looked down at the fallen mercenaries. "Tell House Zhao…" He crouched, gripping the leader's chin and forcing him to look up. "…that they need to do better."

The man shuddered under his gaze. Then, nodding frantically, he scrambled away, his remaining forces following in a broken retreat.

Shen Tian exhaled.

Not a challenge.

But a message.

Jiang Hao arrived shortly after. His eyes widened at the scene of the battered mercenaries groaning on the ground.

"…Remind me never to get on your bad side."

Shen Tian wiped the sweat from his brow. "Noted."

Jiang Hao shook his head. "That won't be the last of them."

"I know." Shen Tian's gaze drifted toward the distant skyline of Broken Sky City.

House Zhao would not take this humiliation lightly. They would strike back—harder, with more force.

But that was exactly what Shen Tian wanted.

Let them come.

Because soon, he wouldn't just be defending himself.

He would be making his own move.