Wolf Escape From Wrath of Dragon, Lenotes: The Knight Divine Warrior

*Disclaimer: This chapter contain mature scene it might disturbs the readers if you have the courage please proceed.

The first light of dawn crept through the veiled windows of the Ji-Gong Palace, casting golden streaks upon the lacquered wooden floors, the air thick with the lingering scent of burning incense.

Within the solitude of his chamber, Pan Zhihaou, the enigmatic monk and advisor to the emperor, adjusted the folds of his dark crimson robe, his fingers brushing over the prayer beads hanging from his waist.

His mornings were ritualistic, precise, an unwavering cycle of meditation and reflection before he faced the political battlefield of the imperial court.

But today—his peace was shattered.

A sharp knock resounded against his door.

Pan Zhihaou's brows furrowed slightly, his head tilting as the silence was interrupted once more by the hurried rap of knuckles against wood.

"Enter." His voice was calm, yet laced with authority.

The heavy doors creaked open, revealing the head servant—Madam Liang Yue (梁月), a woman of steely discipline and unwavering loyalty, draped in the traditional imperial silk of golden and violet hues.

Her face was composed, but her eyes betrayed urgency.

Pan Zhihaou studied her for a brief moment before speaking.

"Madam Liang, it is quite early. What brings you here?"

Liang Yue bowed quickly before straightening, her voice crisp and unwavering.

"My Lord, I bring urgent news. I had forgotten to mention it earlier, but I have reason to believe an unfamiliar guard has entered the palace under false pretenses."

Pan Zhihaou's calm expression faltered, his eyes narrowing.

"A new guard?" His tone was sharp, the weight of suspicion sinking into his voice. "Who?"

Liang Yue hesitated for only a second before detailing the features of the so-called "new recruit."

"A man, tall in stature, with an unusual presence. His movements, though disciplined, lacked the natural rhythm of a trained Ji-Gong soldier. He was seen loitering at the Fragrant Moon Pavilion, speaking with the female attendants."

The air in the chamber turned heavy, like a storm gathering over a tranquil sea.

Pan Zhihaou's fingers stilled over his prayer beads, his mind a torrent of calculations.

An intruder. Inside the palace.

His lips curled into a slow, dark smirk.

"So… the wolf has slipped into the dragon's den."

His gaze flickered back to Madam Liang, his tone cold, measured.

"Inform the guards immediately. Lock down the palace. No one enters. No one leaves."

Madam Liang bowed, nodding swiftly before disappearing down the hallway.

The monk exhaled slowly, before turning toward the golden shrine in the corner of his chamber.

"You are bold, whoever you are," he murmured under his breath. "But boldness alone does not spare a man from the jaws of fate."

A ray of golden morning light streamed through the silk curtains, illuminating the jade ornaments scattered across the vanity table. The gentle sound of wind chimes whispered against the soft hum of the early breeze.

For a moment, all was peaceful.

Then—

"Hey! Wake up!"

Shi Zhao Mei shot upright, her crimson eyes fluttering open as the frantic voice of Weng Jingfei pierced through the delicate serenity of the morning.

Her heart pounded, her mind struggling to catch up with reality as she turned toward her sister, whose face was pale with urgency.

"What?" Shi Zhao Mei's voice was thick with sleep, her long black hair falling in tangled waves over her shoulders. "What in the heavens is wrong with you?"

Weng Jingfei gripped the edge of the silk covers, her voice lowered to a desperate whisper.

"An intruder has infiltrated the palace!"

Shi Zhao Mei's sleep-induced haze evaporated in an instant.

Her back straightened, her fingers clutching the sheets.

"What? When? Where?"

Weng Jingfei glanced toward the door, her voice dropping lower.

"I heard it from Madam Liang Yue. She informed Pan Zhihaou just moments ago. The entire palace is on high alert."

Shi Zhao Mei's breath hitched, a sharp pang of unease twisting in her chest.

An intruder? Infiltrating the imperial palace?

Her mind raced. There was only one man reckless enough to pull something like this.

"No... he wouldn't."

Would he?

Shi Zhao Mei ran a hand through her hair, muttering under her breath.

"That absolute idiot."

Weng Jingfei blinked in confusion. "What?"

Shi Zhao Mei forced a cough, waving a dismissive hand. "Nothing! Just—um—continue."

Weng Jingfei narrowed her eyes but continued.

"The imperial guards have been ordered to gather at the courtyard. No one is allowed to leave until the intruder is caught."

Shi Zhao Mei bit her lip, her thoughts spiralling.

If the entire palace was on lockdown, Aleeman was in serious trouble.

The grand doors to the throne room slammed open, revealing Pan Zhihaou striding in, his crimson robes trailing behind him like flowing blood.

At the centre of the room, seated upon his gilded throne, Emperor Weng Jin Shun turned his piercing gaze upon his advisor, his fingers tightening over the golden armrest.

The emperor's robes, embroidered with dragons spun from golden thread, rippled as he shifted.

"You seem troubled, Pan Zhihaou."

The monk bowed slightly, his voice smooth yet edged with urgency.

"Your Majesty, we have reason to believe that an intruder has infiltrated the palace, disguised as one of our guards."

The emperor's brows furrowed, his grip on the throne tightening.

"An intruder?" His voice was low, dangerous. "Who dares?"

Pan Zhihaou smirked faintly.

"A fool. A reckless fool who believes he can outmaneuver the Ji-Gong Clan."

The emperor's expression darkened, his eyes like a storm brewing over the horizon.

"Find him. And when you do—break him."

Pan Zhihaou bowed once more.

"As you command."

The emperor's gaze flickered toward the open balcony, his jaw clenched.

Somewhere within these walls, a wolf prowled.

But wolves, no matter how clever, were nothing before the might of dragons.

And soon—this one would learn that lesson well.

The air inside the imperial palace had shifted, charged with an unseen force, thick as the silence before a thunderclap.

The lamplight flickered upon the gold-encrusted pillars, the intricate murals of celestial dragons coiling along the high walls now cast in a foreboding glow, their sapphire eyes gleaming like watchful sentinels.

Somewhere in these halls, a trespasser prowled.

And Emperor Weng Jin Shun knew it.

His hands curled over the gilded armrest of his throne, his rings pressing against the engraved surface. His jaw tightened, his nostrils flaring slightly.

Then—he rose.

The movement was slow, deliberate, like a predator shifting from its slumber, its patience thinning.

His command rang through the imperial chamber, sharp as the bite of steel.

"Seal the palace. No one enters. No one leaves."

The guards bowed low, their fists striking their chests in unison before dispersing like shadows under moonlight.

Then, in a voice that carried the weight of an empire, he spoke once more—

"Gather in the courtyard."

The courtyard was a grand spectacle of power and tradition, its vast expanse bathed in the cold glow of the early morning sun.

The ornate stonework stretched far, leading to a colossal gate adorned with golden dragon motifs, while towering cherry blossom trees framed the edges, their delicate petals now eerily still, as if the very air had stopped breathing.

The imperial guards lined the perimeters in disciplined formation, their black and crimson armour glinting beneath the light, the hilts of their daos reflecting an unspoken promise of bloodshed.

Before them, standing at the forefront like an emperor wreathed in fire, was Weng Jin Shun.

His robes of gold and black flowed behind him like a river of silk and smoke, embroidered with dragons that seemed to coil and shift with each step he took.

He raised a hand, and the murmurs ceased, the silence heavy enough to crush stone.

Then, in a voice that rumbled through the courtyard like the first crack of an impending storm, he declared—

"There is a wolf among us."

The tension coiled like a serpent preparing to strike.

"An intruder who has dared to defile the sacred grounds of the Ji-Gong Clan."

His gaze scanned the gathered assembly—officers, guards, servants, concubines, and ministers—all standing in rigid attention.

"He moves in the skin of our own, a ghost wearing the mask of a soldier." His eyes darkened. "He has come for something. Or someone."

A ripple of unease swept through the assembled figures.

The emperor's voice dropped, lower, more venomous.

"I want him found. Before the sun reaches its peak, I want his head at my feet."

The guards saluted, their movements precise, efficient. The order had been given.

And the hunt had begun.

Among those gathered, the imperial concubines stood in their designated place, their gazes flickering with a mixture of intrigue and fear.

Lady Han Rui (韩瑞), the youngest of the concubines, clutched her silk sleeves, her delicate features twisted in anxious curiosity.

"An intruder? Inside the palace?" she whispered to the woman beside her.

Lady Yun Zhen (云珍), known for her sharp wit and sharper tongue, folded her arms, her eyes narrowing as she murmured, "Whoever he is, he must be either fearless or utterly foolish."

Not far from them, Lady Mei Lian, the Empress and once most beloved woman of Weng Jin Shun, stood with quiet poise, her eyes drifting to the emperor, then to the shadows beyond the courtyard.

She felt something—a weight in the air that did not belong.

And a whisper in her heart told her that she knew exactly who it was.

Standing with the highest-ranking officers was General Xuè Lián (雪莲), the undefeated guardian of the north-east, her crimson battle robes barely concealing the armour beneath.

Her raven-black hair was pulled into a high ponytail, a jade-studded pin securing it in place, her cold green eyes sharper than any blade in the courtyard.

She had seen war, seen death, seen battlefields littered with corpses.

But what intrigued her was not the intruder.

It was Shi Zhao Mei's reaction.

Xuè Lián had observed the princess—or rather, the former prince—since her return.

And now, as the emperor declared his decree, she saw the flicker of something dangerous in Shi Zhao Mei's crimson gaze.

Something that looked very much like panic.

Xuè Lián's lips curled into a slight smirk.

"So… who is this stranger that has the princess so rattled?"

The assembled ministers stood to the emperor's right, their expressions varying between concern and calculation.

Minister Lu Zheng (陆正), a man of strict discipline, nodded in approval. "A breach of security cannot be tolerated."

Minister Guo Jianhong (郭建宏), an older statesman, stroked his long beard thoughtfully. "An enemy spy, perhaps? Or something more personal?"

And then there was Minister Cai Sheng (蔡胜), the emperor's most cunning political strategist, who simply smirked.

"Perhaps this wolf has a name. And perhaps it is a name that certain members of our household know all too well."

His gaze drifted subtly toward Shi Zhao Mei.

From the hidden corridors of the palace, Aleeman stood frozen, his back pressed against a carved wooden screen, his breath barely audible.

He had heard every word.

And he knew what this meant.

The palace was a cage now, its gates sealed, its corridors flooded with guards hunting for him like hounds unleashed upon the scent of prey.

Escape was no longer a matter of strategy.

It was a matter of survival.

But what weighed upon him most was not the danger he himself faced.

It was Shi Zhao Mei.

He had come to find her, to warn her, to get her out before the emperor could lay his trap.

And now—the trap had already been sprung.

His jaw clenched, his fingers curling around the hilt of his hidden blade.

"If I am to be hunted, then let me be the hunter first."

With a final glance at the gathered masses in the courtyard, Aleeman turned and melted into the shadows, a single thought burning in his mind.

He had to find her.

Before it was too late.

The air in the courtyard thickened like the oppressive weight of an oncoming storm, each passing second dragging the noose of suspicion tighter.

Shi Zhao Mei—once Wei Yang Hong, once the pride of Ji-Gong, now a woman bound by fate's cruel jest—stood rigid among the gathered crowd.

Her fingers clenched into her silken sleeves, the rich embroidery pressing against her palm as she fought the rising tide of unease that threatened to drown her.

The words of Emperor Weng Jin Shun echoed in her mind, sharp and merciless:

"There is a wolf among us."

And she knew exactly which wolf it was.

Her heart pounded against her ribs, a rhythm of panic and indecision.

Aleeman.

That fool. That reckless, muscle-headed, war-driven brute had infiltrated the palace.

For what?

To save her?

Her jaw tightened, her breath shallow.

She had not asked for this. She had not wanted this.

And yet—her chest ached at the thought of him being caught, at the thought of those kind, calloused hands that had once given her his cloak now bound in chains.

She tried to will away the tremor creeping up her spine.

"No. I must compose myself."

She exhaled slowly, masking her turmoil behind the delicate façade of noble indifference.

But Lady Mei Lian—her mother—was watching.

"Are you well, my child?"

Her voice was soft, soothing, yet it did little to calm the tempest brewing inside her daughter.

Shi Zhao Mei forced a smile, though it barely touched the corners of her lips.

"I…" she swallowed. "I am fine, Mother. Just startled by the news."

It was a lie wrapped in silk, spoken through a veil of feigned composure.

But before her mother could probe further, another voice cut through the air like a dagger dipped in venom.

"Startled? Or guilty?"

The words came from Pan Zhihaou, his deep, measured tone laced with unspoken malice.

The monk stepped forward, his crimson robes trailing behind him like blood spilled upon white marble, his piercing eyes glinting with something dangerously close to amusement.

"You seem troubled, Your Highness," he mused, tilting his head slightly. "Almost as if you have something… to hide."

The tension curled like a coiled viper, ready to strike.

Shi Zhao Mei's stomach twisted, but she did not waver.

She met his gaze with practiced defiance, her expression a perfect mask of imperial arrogance.

"Do you mean to suggest, Master Zhihaou, that I— she let out a soft, almost amused scoff —have something to do with this so-called 'intruder'?"

Pan Zhihaou's smirk did not falter.

"I suggest nothing, Your Highness." He stepped closer, voice lowering just enough for only her to hear. "I only find it… peculiar that on the very night of your return, an outsider dares to step into our sacred halls."

Shi Zhao Mei felt her pulse hammering against her skin.

But she would not break.

Not now.

Not in front of him.

She arched a delicate brow, her tone dripping with feigned indifference.

"Perhaps it is simply a coincidence, Master Zhihaou. Or perhaps," she took a slow, deliberate step forward, matching his piercing gaze, "your security is not as impenetrable as you believed."

A beat of silence.

Then—a slow, knowing smile spread across Pan Zhihaou's lips.

"Perhaps."

But his eyes promised suspicion.

And she knew.

This was not over.

Her heart pounded harder, her breath shallow, but she forced herself to remain composed.

She had to.

For if she faltered, if she so much as let a single crack show—then Aleeman would die.

The atmosphere in the grand imperial chamber had soured into something thick, unrelenting, suffocating.

The golden lanterns flickered uneasily, as if even the flames themselves dared not breathe too loudly. The assembled ministers stood rigid, their silken robes rustling as they exchanged glances. The concubines clutched the edges of their sleeves, their faces pale with anticipation, while the female attendants shifted nervously, whispering behind their fans.

And at the very centre of it all—Shi Zhao Mei, the forsaken princess of Ji-Gong, the cursed heir, the child marked by heaven's punishment.

Pan Zhihaou's voice sliced through the silence like a sharpened dagger dipped in venom.

"The intruder must be here for the Princess."

His tone dripped with a sinister certainty, his piercing gaze fixated on her like a predator cornering its prey.

"After all," he continued smoothly, stepping forward, "she brought the curse upon our clan. Perhaps fate itself has sent this assassin to finish what the heavens started."

A murmur rippled through the ministers, nods of agreement spreading like wildfire among them.

Shi Zhao Mei's eyes darkened, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.

Her pulse thundered in her ears, her breath barely controlled.

How dare they?

"This has nothing to do with me," she declared, her voice steady despite the storm brewing inside her. "You assume too much, Master Zhihaou."

Pan Zhihaou's lips curled into a knowing smirk.

"Do I?"

Before she could snap back, another voice cut through the tension.

"Husband," Lady Mei Lian's voice trembled slightly as she stepped forward, "you must do something."

Emperor Weng Jin Shun exhaled sharply, his gaze like stone as he turned toward his guards.

"Bring the guards!"

A heavy silence fell upon the chamber.

For a fleeting moment, Shi Zhao Mei felt something cold grip her spine.

Then—General Xuè Lián stiffened.

Her eyes flickered toward Shi Zhao Mei before turning back to the Emperor.

A pause.

Then, with reluctant obedience, she lowered her head in a nod.

"As you command, Your Majesty."

The sound of marching boots filled the corridor as the imperial guards filed into the chamber, their polished armour gleaming under the dim glow of the lanterns, their dao swords glinting like the fangs of waiting beasts.

Shi Zhao Mei's breath hitched.

"What is happening?" she demanded.

Pan Zhihaou's lips twisted into a smirk, his voice slow, deliberate, mocking.

"You will see."

The moment hung in the air like the sharp edge of a blade.

Then—from the sea of guards, a single figure stepped forward.

A man.

Tall. Commanding.

A warrior forged in the fire of battle, his presence as unwavering as the mountains themselves.

He moved with calculated grace, his expression unreadable, his stance relaxed yet poised, like a lion ready to pounce.

And then—he reached up.

With one swift movement, he removed the imperial hat.

The chamber plunged into stunned silence.

Aleeman Hakiman had revealed himself.

The guards froze, their hands gripping their weapons, unsure whether to strike or stand still.

The concubines gasped, their hands flying to their mouths.

The ministers staggered back in alarm, whispering amongst themselves.

Lady Mei Lian's eyes widened in shock.

General Xuè Lián arched a brow, intrigued, while Shi Zhao Mei—who had just moments ago been caught in spiraling dread—now stood completely frozen, her breath locked in her throat.

Aleeman held no fear in his gaze.

Instead, he gripped Minister Cai Sheng by the back of his head, pressing the cold steel of a stolen dao to his throat.

A smirk—cocky, fearless, infuriating—played at the corner of his lips.

The room descended into pure chaos.

"What is the meaning of this?!" One of the ministers roared.

Pan Zhihaou's expression twisted into a mix of rage and bemusement.

"So, the wolf finally bares his fangs."

Aleeman tilted his head slightly, his voice smooth, laced with amusement.

"I take it you're the one they call Pan Zhihaou?"

The monk's eyes narrowed.

Aleeman's smirk deepened.

"I had expected someone a little more… dangerous." He shrugged. "But all I see is an old bald donkey."

A moment of silence.

Then—General Xuè Lián coughed, poorly concealing a chuckle behind her fist.

Shi Zhao Mei, for all her tension, had to bite her lip to stop herself from laughing outright.

Even Lady Mei Lian blinked in mild surprise, a flicker of amusement betraying her otherwise composed expression.

Pan Zhihaou's face darkened.

"You have a death wish, boy."

Aleeman grinned.

"No. But I do have an emperor to kill."

The weight of his words dropped into the room like a hammer upon glass.

The Emperor's eyes sharpened, his body tensing like a beast ready to strike.

The air turned razor-thin.

"You dare?" Weng Jin Shun's voice was low, dangerous, venom curling at the edges of his words. "You step into my palace, into my domain, and you speak of my death?"

Aleeman met his glare without hesitation.

"I came here for your death, Emperor."

The chamber erupted into chaos once more.

The guards raised their weapons, the concubines gasped, the ministers stumbled back in horror.

But Emperor Weng Jin Shun remained still, studying the young warrior before him.

Then, slowly, he smirked.

"You are either the bravest man alive, or the most foolish."

Aleeman tilted his head.

"Both."

The emperor chuckled darkly. "Tell me, then. What is your last wish?"

A pause.

Then, in a voice that held no hesitation, no fear, only unwavering conviction, Aleeman pointed toward Shi Zhao Mei.

"If you want to kill your own son," he declared, "then take me instead. I will be your perfect candidate."

The room fell into stunned silence.

Shi Zhao Mei's eyes widened.

Her breath hitched.

A strange, unfamiliar warmth rose to her cheeks, spreading across her face like wildfire.

Her heart skipped a beat.

"Idiot," she muttered under her breath.

Aleeman threw his dao onto the floor, the clattering sound echoing through the chamber.

"Well?" He smirked. "Take me, then."

The guards lunged forward.

They seized him by the arms, yanking him backward.

Shi Zhao Mei wanted to move—wanted to speak—but no words came out.

Aleeman glanced back at her, his lips curving into a lopsided grin.

"Try not to miss me too much, princess."

And just like that—they dragged him toward the dungeons.

Shi Zhao Mei stood frozen.

Her heart hammering.

And for the first time in a long time—

She felt afraid.

The sun rose over Miracheneous Academy, painting the ivory towers and crystalline spires in strokes of gold and amber. Yet, despite the picturesque morning, a storm brewed beneath the tranquil sky.

The courtyard bustled with students preparing for the day's lectures, but among them, four figures stood apart, their usual lively banter replaced with a tense, uneasy silence.

Hua-Jing sat on the stone bench beneath the cherry blossom trees, her fingers idly twisting the hem of her sleeve. Her mind was an ocean of turbulence, waves of worry crashing relentlessly against the shore of her composure.

Aleeman had not returned.

Neither had Finn or Wang.

And Shi Zhao Mei—who had vanished without a trace—remained an enigma.

Beside her, Mei-Xi-Li paced restlessly, her arms crossed, her expression stormy.

"This is absurd. Class is about to begin, and they are nowhere to be found."

"Do you think something happened?" Mika Yamana's voice was softer, laced with concern.

"Of course something happened!" Elizabeth Feng exhaled sharply, running a hand through her dark locks. "Aleeman doesn't just 'disappear.' And Shi Zhao Mei? That girl is trouble—I knew it the moment she walked in."

Hua-Jing remained silent.

Her brother was reckless, but he was not careless.

If he had left, it was for a reason.

And if he had not returned—it meant something had gone horribly wrong.

The morning breeze brushed against her face, but the air did nothing to soothe the storm within.

Then, like a thorn tearing through silk, an all-too-familiar voice sliced through the tension.

"Oh dear," Celeste Marlowe's mockingly sweet voice drifted toward them. "What a tragic little sight this is."

Hua-Jing's jaw tightened.

She did not look up.

But she did not need to—she already knew the face behind that voice.

Celeste Marlowe approached with slow, deliberate steps, her royal blue academy robes flowing like a river of arrogance, her golden curls cascading over her shoulder in perfect waves.

Flanking her were her usual circle of admirers—Genevieve Whitmore, Cassandra Vaudette, and Isolde Renfield—all daughters of noble families, their expressions dripping with smug amusement.

Celeste stopped before them, her emerald eyes gleaming with wicked delight.

"I couldn't help but notice," she continued, tilting her head, "that your dear brother has yet to return. How strange."

Her words were like poisoned honey, dipped in malice yet masked beneath false concern.

Hua-Jing remained silent, her hands tightening into fists in her lap.

Celeste sighed dramatically, placing a hand over her chest.

"You don't think he's… oh, I don't know—run away, do you?" She pouted. "Perhaps the great 'Commander of Abjannas' finally realised he is nothing more than a commoner among kings. No magic, no worth, no place here."

Mei-Xi-Li was the first to react, stepping forward with fire burning in her gaze.

"You'd do well to watch your mouth, Celeste."

Celeste arched a brow, her smirk deepening.

"Did I say something untrue? Let's be honest—he was a joke the moment he stepped into these halls. Now, he's just another coward who fled before facing his inevitable failure."

Mika gritted her teeth. "You don't know anything, Marlowe."

Celeste laughed softly, her perfectly manicured fingers brushing a strand of hair from her face.

"Oh, but I do." She leaned in slightly, voice dripping with condescension. "Tell me, Hua-Jing, what does it feel like to know your brother is weak? Does it sting? Does it burn?"

Hua-Jing had sat silently through the entire exchange, her expression unreadable.

But inside?

A fire raged.

The weight of Celeste's words pressed into her like a blade against flesh, carving deep, seething wounds.

Her brother.

Her family.

Her blood.

And this wench dared to mock him?

Slowly—deliberately—Hua-Jing lifted her gaze, meeting Celeste's with a stare so cold it could have frozen the very breath from her lungs.

Then, in a voice so quiet, so dangerously calm, she spoke.

"Say his name again, Marlowe."

Celeste's smirk faltered.

"What?"

Hua-Jing rose to her feet, stepping forward until she was only inches away, her expression carved from steel.

"Say my brother's name again," she repeated, voice as soft as a whisper, as sharp as a dagger. "And see what happens next."

Celeste blinked, clearly thrown off by the sudden shift in aura.

But before she could respond, Mei-Xi-Li let out a low chuckle.

"You really don't know who you're talking to, do you?"

Mika smirked, folding her arms. "I almost feel bad for you."

Elizabeth Feng snorted. "Almost."

Celeste bristled, quickly regaining her composure.

"Oh, please. As if I'd be scared of—"

She didn't get to finish.

Because in one swift movement, Hua-Jing reached out, gripping Celeste's wrist so tightly that the noble girl gasped.

And then—she twisted.

Just enough to make Celeste stumble forward, just enough to wrench a sharp yelp from her lips, just enough to remind her that despite her noble blood—she was not untouchable.

Hua-Jing leaned in, voice low and filled with unshaken wrath.

"You think because you're born into privilege, you can look down on others? You think because my brother has no magic, he is lesser than you?"

She twisted a fraction more, making Celeste whimper.

"He is more than you will ever be."

Then, just as suddenly, Hua-Jing released her.

Celeste staggered back, clutching her wrist, her face burning with humiliation.

Her friends stared in stunned silence, none daring to step in.

Mei-Xi-Li grinned. "Guess we know who the real coward is now."

Mika laughed. "Priceless."

Elizabeth Feng rolled her eyes. "Pathetic, honestly."

Celeste's face twisted with fury, but she said nothing.

With one final glare, she spun on her heel and stormed off, her entourage scrambling after her like lost ducklings.

Hua-Jing exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders.

Then—without a word, she turned and walked away.

Mei-Xi-Li blinked. "Uh… where are you going?"

Hua-Jing did not stop.

"To find Headmaster Falani."

Mika raised a brow. "Why?"

Hua-Jing's eyes darkened.

"Because if Aleeman isn't back by tonight, I'm going after him myself."

The bustling streets of the Ji-Gong Clan were alive with the scent of incense and the rhythmic clang of metal striking metal from the nearby smithing district. Yet, amid the seemingly mundane activities of the imperial capital, a group of men stood in the shadows, their faces carved with silent tension.

Finn, Wang Ji-Pang, Mehmet Arslan, Tariq al-Khattab, and Zayd ibn Malik stood at the designated rendezvous point, their backs pressed against the alley's cool stone walls as they scanned the palace perimeter.

The sun hung high, its golden glare casting long, sharp-edged shadows upon the city.

Then—the sound of hurried footsteps.

Rüstem Bey emerged, his breathing laboured, his forehead glistening with sweat.

"He's in the dungeon!" he announced breathlessly.

A beat of silence.

Then—a ripple of reactions.

Finn let out a frustrated groan, raking a hand through his hair. "Bloody hell."

Wang crossed his arms, his jaw tightening. "Of course he's in the dungeon. Where else would that reckless brute end up?"

Tariq sighed deeply, shaking his head. "I swear, if he survives this, I'll personally knock some sense into him."

Zayd, however, simply smirked.

Mehmet let out a low chuckle, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "It's according to plan."

Finn whipped his head around. "Plan? What plan?"

Mehmet glanced at the smithy where he had spent hours forging iron the previous night.

"Before we entered the palace, Aleeman told me something."

Flashback—Before Entering the Palace

Aleeman stood before them, arms crossed, his eyes burning with unwavering resolve.

"If I end up in the dungeon," he said, "you all will wait outside the walls with the horses. No rescue attempt unless I signal."**

His gaze then fell on Mehmet.

"And you," he continued, "you will forge a key."

Mehmet raised an eyebrow. "A key?"

Aleeman nodded. "To the shackles they use in their prisons."

Mehmet exhaled sharply, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You planned to get caught?"

Aleeman grinned. "No, but it's always good to prepare for my natural talent for bad luck."

End of Flashback

Back in the present, Mehmet pulled out a small, intricately crafted iron key from the folds of his cloak.

"He knew this might happen," Mehmet mused, tossing the key between his fingers. "Which means he's waiting for us."

A slow, knowing grin spread across Tariq's lips.

"Then let's not keep him waiting."

The air inside the throne room was thick with tension, an unrelenting storm brewing beneath the gilded ceiling.

Emperor Weng Jin Shun sat upon his high throne, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the armrest, his piercing eyes scanning the gathered ministers.

At his right stood Pan Zhihaou, his crimson robes flowing like liquid silk, his smirk a subtle, unreadable thing.

And beside him, Minister Cai Sheng—still visibly shaken after having Aleeman's blade pressed against his throat—stood rigid, his pride wounded, his temper flaring.

"Explain!" Emperor Weng Jin Shun hissed, his voice barely restrained. "How did that cur enter the palace? Who let him in?!"

The assembled ministers murmured amongst themselves, uncertain whispers filling the chamber.

Pan Zhihaou, however, merely chuckled, folding his arms.

"My Emperor," he mused, "it appears we have a rat among us. A spy, working for the Abjannas."

The emperor's brows furrowed, his fingers stilling.

"A spy?"

Pan Zhihaou nodded.

"How else would he know the palace so well? How else would he have dared to infiltrate the very heart of our empire?"

A pause.

Then—the monk's eyes darkened, his smirk sharpening.

"And the question we must ask is this—why would a man of his stature risk his life to save Shi Zhao Mei?"

A weight fell over the room, the implication sinking into the gathered nobles.

The emperor's gaze flickered toward the corridor leading to his daughter's chambers, his jaw tightening.

"I will have my answers," he murmured. "One way or another."

In a lavish chamber adorned with silken drapes and jade ornaments, Shi Zhao Mei paced like a restless predator.

Her movements were sharp, ungraceful—so unlike the regal elegance expected of her.

General Xuè Lián stood beside her, arms crossed, watching in amusement.

Lady Mei Lian remained seated in the high-backed chair, her fingers tracing the embroidery on her sleeve, her expression unreadable.

"What on earth is he thinking?" Shi Zhao Mei muttered under her breath, her crimson eyes flashing with a mix of frustration and something dangerously close to worry.

Xuè Lián arched a brow, smirking. "Perhaps…" she drawled, "he has feelings for you?"

Shi Zhao Mei's entire body went rigid.

She turned sharply, her face flushing in a way that betrayed her usual cold demeanour.

"Ridiculous!" she snapped, looking away. "Utterly absurd."

Xuè Lián snickered.

Lady Mei Lian studied her daughter, then finally spoke.

"What is your connection with that rebellious commander?"

Shi Zhao Mei swallowed, refusing to meet her mother's gaze.

She hesitated—but the silence pressed too heavily against her chest, suffocating.

Then, finally, she exhaled.

"He saved me," she admitted, voice quieter than before. "From Commander Zhao Fengxin."

The room froze.

Lady Mei Lian's eyes widened.

Xuè Lián straightened, her smirk vanishing.

"Explain," the general commanded.

Shi Zhao Mei sighed and recounted the events—the ambush, the way Aleeman had fought against her father's men, how he had thrown himself into battle without knowing who she truly was.

By the time she finished, the air in the chamber was thick with tension.

Lady Mei Lian reached out, taking her daughter's hand gently.

"And now he has risked his life for you once more."

Shi Zhao Mei's throat tightened.

She had not asked for his help.

But he had come anyway.

Because that was who he was.

Her fingers curled over her mother's hand, gripping it tightly.

"We must save him."

Lady Mei Lian exhaled slowly, then nodded.

Xuè Lián crossed her arms, chuckling softly.

"You truly are cursed, Princess."

Shi Zhao Mei glared at her.

Xuè Lián smirked.

"Not by the heavens. By him."

And for once—Shi Zhao Mei had no words.

The vast lecture hall of Miracheneous Academy, known as the Chamber of Prowess, was a grand spectacle of both wisdom and warfare.

Its towering shelves lined the walls, filled with centuries-old manuscripts detailing strategies of the greatest tacticians—from the scrolls of Turabian warlords to the doctrines of the Mystic Sovereigns. The domed ceiling, adorned with celestial engravings, cast a soft glow through floating luminescent orbs, illuminating the room with an ethereal presence.

At the center of it all stood Professor Aurelia Whitmore, a formidable woman with piercing grey eyes and auburn hair neatly tied into a crown braid. Draped in a flowing robe of sapphire and silver, she exuded both the grace of a scholar and the discipline of a warrior.

Her voice, sharp yet refined, commanded the room.

"In war, knowledge is as vital as the sword you wield. Without understanding the intricacies of politics and alliances, even the strongest empires will crumble. Today, we will be dissecting the collapse of the Ancient Ashad Empire, and how their failure to maintain diplomatic relations led to their downfall."

The students scribbled furiously on their tablets, some more engaged than others.

Hua-Jing listened intently, though her thoughts drifted ever so slightly, her mind lingering on her absent brother.

Then—the inevitable happened.

Professor Whitmore paused, her sharp gaze scanning the room.

Then, with the precision of a hawk, she frowned.

"Where is Aleeman Hakiman?"

Silence fell like a blade slicing through air.

Hua-Jing felt her spine stiffen, her fingers tightening around her quill.

Before she could form a response—

"He's probably off playing war hero," a smug voice drawled.

The class erupted into quiet snickers.

Hua-Jing's fists clenched beneath the table.

She didn't need to look to know who had spoken.

John Wei-Tang.

The perpetual thorn in her existence, seated lazily in his chair, arms folded with a smirk stretched across his infuriating face.

And, as if fate conspired against her—Celeste Marlowe decided to add fuel to the fire.

"Oh, come now, Professor," Celeste sighed dramatically, twirling a lock of golden hair. "Perhaps the great Commander of Abjannas has finally realised he is more suited to battlefield mud than academia."

The laughter swelled.

A storm brewed inside Hua-Jing.

Mei-Xi-Li pressed her fingers to her temples, visibly trying to restrain herself.

Mika muttered something under her breath that was most certainly not fit for scholarly discourse.

Elizabeth leaned back, arms crossed, exhaling sharply.

Hua-Jing remained still. Too still.

Then—Professor Whitmore's voice sliced through the air.

"Enough."

The room fell silent in an instant.

Her gaze, cold and calculating, swept across the students.

"This is an institution of discipline and learning, not a market square for idle gossip. If you wish to waste your breath on mockery, you are free to step outside and let the door hit you on your way out."

A beat of silence.

Then—a satisfied smirk curled at the edge of Hua-Jing's lips.

Professor Whitmore turned her attention back to her.

"Hua-Jing," she said curtly, "I expect to see you after class."

Hua-Jing nodded without hesitation.

John tilted his head, feigning innocence. "Oh? A family interrogation, is it?"

Hua-Jing turned her head ever so slightly, eyes locking onto his with a chilling smile.

"You should be grateful it isn't a battlefield interrogation, Wei-Tang."

John's smirk faltered.

Celeste crossed her arms, tossing her hair. "Pathetic."

Professor Whitmore sighed heavily.

"For the last time—silence!"

The class resumed, but tension still lingered like the embers of a dying fire.

As the final chime of the bell rang through the halls, students filtered out of the classroom like a receding tide.

Hua-Jing, however, remained rooted in place, her hands clasped behind her back as she approached Professor Whitmore's desk.

The older woman did not look up immediately, instead finishing the notes she was scrawling across a parchment.

Then, setting her quill aside, she finally lifted her gaze.

Her grey eyes, sharp as steel, locked onto Hua-Jing's.

"Your brother is missing."

Hua-Jing kept her expression unreadable.

"Temporarily absent."

Professor Whitmore arched an eyebrow.

"Hua-Jing," she said, "I was once a diplomat before I was a scholar. Do not insult my intelligence by sugarcoating the truth."

A pause.

Hua-Jing exhaled, meeting her gaze with honesty.

"He will return."

Professor Whitmore tapped her fingers against the desk thoughtfully.

"I admire your faith in him. But understand this—if he has left the Academy without permission, the consequences will not be mild."

Hua-Jing's fingers curled slightly, but she remained composed.

"Headmaster Falani is already aware."

Whitmore studied her for a long moment before sighing.

"I see." She leaned back, crossing her arms. "Very well. But let me warn you—people are watching your brother. If he continues to make enemies within these walls, even I will not be able to shield him from what is to come."

Hua-Jing nodded once.

"I understand."

Professor Whitmore held her gaze for a moment longer, then dismissed her with a simple nod.

As Hua-Jing turned and left the classroom, a single thought burned in her mind.

Aleeman.

He had better return soon—before the vultures of Miracheneous Academy decided to feast.

The air in the dungeon was thick with dampness, the scent of aged stone and rusted iron seeping into the very bones of those confined within. Torches flickered along the high walls, their feeble light barely enough to chase away the choking darkness that loomed in every corner.

Inside a heavily fortified cell, secured by high-tech surveillance cameras embedded into the ceiling like unblinking eyes, Aleeman Hakiman sat with an air of absolute calm.

His posture was relaxed, one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee, an arm draped lazily over it. His expression? Utterly unreadable.

Not rage. Not fear. Not defiance.

Just… calm.

Like a predator waiting in the tall grass.

Then—the heavy iron door groaned open.

A figure stepped inside, robes flowing like a crimson tide, his presence bringing with it the weight of something far older than mere politics—something twisted, insidious.

Monk Pan Zhihaou.

The moment his bald head gleamed under the flickering torchlight, Aleeman's lips quirked.

"Ah," he drawled, stretching his arms lazily. "If it isn't the Old Bald Donkey."

Pan Zhihaou's lips twitched, but he did not bite. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back, exuding the air of a scholar peering at an insect trapped in a jar.

The guards flanking him shifted slightly, their grips tightening on their daos, awaiting a single command.

Then—a pause.

The monk's voice slithered through the silence.

"Tell me, Commander Hakiman… why are you here?"

Aleeman let out a soft hum, as if considering the question.

Then, with deliberate slowness, he rose to his feet.

The guards behind Pan Zhihaou stiffened instantly, raising their blades slightly—ready, waiting.

But Aleeman paid them no mind.

He walked forward, unhurried, casual—like a king taking a leisurely stroll through his own court.

Stopping just inches away from Pan Zhihaou, he tilted his head slightly, his voice low, amused.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

A beat of silence.

Then, the monk chuckled.

"Hiding behind riddles, are we?" He narrowed his gaze. "Or is it because the truth is too pathetic to admit?"

Aleeman remained unfazed.

"Truth?" He scoffed, shaking his head. "You wouldn't know truth if it struck you across that shiny, bald skull of yours."

The monk's jaw tensed, but again, he did not bite.

Instead, he leaned in ever so slightly, his voice dropping into a whisper.

"You will not escape the Emperor's fury, boy. You are a pawn in a game far beyond your comprehension."

Aleeman grinned.

"And yet, you're the one who had to come down here to check on me. Makes me wonder…" His eyes gleamed. "Who's really worried here?"

A flicker. Brief. Subtle. But Aleeman saw it.

Pan Zhihaou's fingers twitched—an imperceptible moment of irritation.

Then—with a smirk that did not reach his eyes, the monk straightened.

"Enjoy your remaining moments, Commander."

He turned on his heel, heading toward the door as the guards stepped aside to let him pass.

Aleeman watched him go, his expression still unreadable.

Then—just as the monk reached the doorway, Aleeman spoke.

"Kala Magur."

The words rolled off his tongue smoothly, laced with mirth.

Pan Zhihaou's step faltered.

For the first time, true confusion flickered across his face.

He half-turned, his eyes narrowing. "What did you say?"

Aleeman grinned.

"Kala Magur." He leaned against the cold wall, arms folded. "Slippery little bottom-feeder, aren't you? Always wriggling around, always sneaking, always surviving."

A pause.

Then, with a smirk, he added—

"But no matter how much it writhes, a fish still gets caught in the net eventually."

Silence.

Pan Zhihaou's face remained impassive, but there was something different in his eyes now—something unsettled.

Without another word, he turned and left.

The door slammed shut behind him.

Aleeman exhaled, rolling his shoulders before sitting back down.

A pawn? A trapped wolf? Perhaps.

But a game had many turns.

And Aleeman Hakiman?

He was just getting started.

The fragrance of peony incense drifted through the corridors of the imperial concubines' quarters, mingling with the delicate aroma of freshly brewed jasmine tea. Silk curtains swayed gently with the summer breeze, revealing glimpses of the women adorned in their finest embroidered robes, their delicate features illuminated by the golden sunlight filtering through the carved lattice windows.

But while the scenery was tranquil, the atmosphere was anything but.

Lady Han Rui fanned herself lazily, her lips curling into a smirk as she leaned toward Lady Yun Zhen, her voice low but filled with excitement.

"Tell me, Yun Zhen, how on earth did a foreign commander infiltrate the palace undetected?"

Lady Yun Zhen gasped, placing a hand over her lips dramatically. "That's the mystery, isn't it? A man of his stature—an outsider, no less—walking into the very heart of Ji-Gong? And all for our dear… fallen prince."

The two women exchanged knowing glances.

Lady Han Rui sighed wistfully. "Prince Wei Yang Hong—no, no, I mean Princess Shi Zhao Mei. A curse upon her head, and yet, here comes a man bold enough to risk his life for her. If that isn't a tale fit for poetry, I don't know what is."

Lady Yun Zhen giggled, her eyes glimmering with amusement. "Oh, but the best part?" She leaned in closer, voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "Have you seen the commander?"

The female servants nearby perked up, ears twitching like rabbits overhearing forbidden gossip.

Lady Han Rui arched an eyebrow. "I've only heard whispers. Dark-skinned, tall, with the bearing of a warrior."

Lady Yun Zhen sighed dramatically, placing a hand over her heart. "His skin is rich as sun-warmed bronze, his shoulders broad enough to carry the weight of kingdoms, and his eyes—oh, his eyes, Lady Han Rui! Dark as obsidian, yet burning with a fire no man can quench!"

A sudden, collective sigh swept through the room.

The female servants—Xiao Yulan, Lin Meixiu, and Zhang Xinyi—had been eavesdropping without shame, their eyes wide with fascination.

"He must be a heavenly warrior!" Xiao Yulan clasped her hands together, cheeks flushed.

Lin Meixiu fanned herself quickly. "I would let him take my head, no questions asked."

Zhang Xinyi smirked. "If a man like that is storming the palace, perhaps I should betray Ji-Gong myself."

The women erupted into giggles, their admiration spiralling into dramatic sighs—until a sharp voice shattered the fantasy.

"Enough of this nonsense!"

Madam Liang Yue strode into the chamber, her piercing gaze cutting through the scandalous whispers like a blade through silk.

"If you all have so much energy to waste on idle gossip, then surely you have energy to finish your embroidery! Or perhaps you'd rather scrub the courtyard floors?"

Instant silence.

The servants scattered like startled birds, scrambling to appear busy, while Lady Han Rui and Lady Yun Zhen stifled their laughter behind their sleeves.

"What a shame," Lady Yun Zhen muttered as she picked up her embroidery. "And here I was about to write a poem about him."

Shi Zhao Mei paced across her chamber, the silk hem of her robes barely skimming the polished wooden floor, her mind an untamed storm of calculations and possibilities.

She had summoned General Xuè Lián for a single reason.

Aleeman had to be freed.

And it had to be tonight.

The moonlight cast pale silver across the chamber, illuminating the intricate designs carved into the walls. Incense burned softly in the corner, filling the air with the calming scent of sandalwood—but there was no calm to be found within Shi Zhao Mei.

General Xuè Lián stood beside her, arms crossed, watching the princess with mild amusement.

"You're rather… restless," she noted. "Is it because of the dungeon, or because of him?"

Shi Zhao Mei snapped her head toward her. "What?!"

Xuè Lián chuckled.

"Oh, I was merely wondering if this concern for the commander of Abjannas is… personal."

Shi Zhao Mei's face burned instantly.

Her lips parted to deny it—but the words tangled in her throat like silk caught in a storm.

Xuè Lián's smirk widened. "Interesting."

Shi Zhao Mei crossed her arms tightly. "Don't be ridiculous."

Xuè Lián tapped her chin thoughtfully. "But it is interesting. I've heard his name before, but I never met him in person—until today."

She tilted her head, eyes gleaming with curiosity.

"And when he appeared before us—tall, imposing, a warrior in his own right—I admit, I was quite… taken aback."

Shi Zhao Mei stayed still. Too still.

Xuè Lián's gaze sharpened.

Then, slowly, she smirked.

"Your face is red."

Shi Zhao Mei whipped her head away, folding her arms as she scowled. "It's not red."

Xuè Lián sighed dramatically.

"He is rather striking. Deep brown skin, broad shoulders, dark eyes that burn like embers in the dead of night… A man like that doesn't go unnoticed."

Shi Zhao Mei gritted her teeth.

"Are you helping me plan this escape, or are you just here to torture me?"

Xuè Lián chuckled. "Oh, I can do both."

Shi Zhao Mei groaned, dragging a hand down her face.

Xuè Lián grinned, but then her amusement softened slightly.

"I will help you," she said finally. "But only because I have a feeling this will not be the last time we see that man in Ji-Gong."

Shi Zhao Mei exhaled, nodding.

"Then we move at midnight."

Xuè Lián nodded back. "Midnight it is."

But as Shi Zhao Mei turned toward the balcony, staring at the moonlit courtyard below, a single thought crept into her mind.

Would Aleeman still be the same man when they freed him?

Or would he become something else entirely—something no one, not even her, could predict?

The moon hung high over Ji-Gong Palace, its silver glow casting shadows that slithered along the palace walls like silent spectres. The scent of freshly baked bread and simmering broth wafted through the corridors, winding through the vast halls until it reached the bustling imperial kitchen—a domain ruled by the swift hands of the palace cooks and servants.

Within the steamy chamber, fire crackled in great hearths, illuminating the diligent staff as they worked with the precision of war strategists. Cauldrons of rich broth bubbled over open flames, fragrant herbs suspended in the golden liquid. Copper trays filled with steaming dumplings and soft, warm bread lined the tables.

Yet, amidst this harmony of culinary craftsmanship, a single shadow moved with the ease of a phantom.

Mehmet Arslan.

Dressed in a plain grey tunic, his dark hair neatly tied, he carried a heavy barrel of wine upon his shoulder as he entered the kitchen, his steps light, unassuming.

The female staff barely spared him a glance, too preoccupied with their duties.

Mehmet's eyes flickered, sharp as a falcon's, scanning every corner of the kitchen.

No surveillance. No suspicion. No interference.

Perfect.

With the grace of a seasoned thief, he moved towards the massive cauldron where the dungeon rations were prepared—a simple dish of bread and soup, meant to sustain prisoners without indulgence.

He knelt, pretending to adjust the barrel's weight.

And then—with a single flick of his fingers—he dropped the small iron key into the swirling depths of the soup.

The motion was quick, precise, unseen.

The key sank beneath the broth, vanishing between the drifting pieces of boiled radish and slivers of beef.

Mehmet rose swiftly, dusting off his hands as if he had done nothing more than shift the barrel's position.

With a casual nod to one of the cooks, he turned on his heel and strode out, muttering something about fetching more supplies.

But as he left, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

The first step of the plan was complete.

The dungeon of Ji-Gong Palace was a labyrinth of damp corridors and iron cells, where the air was thick with the scent of rust and damp stone. The flickering torches cast trembling shadows across the cold walls, their light barely enough to chase away the weight of silence.

Inside one of the cells, Aleeman Hakiman sat, his back against the stone, his gaze lost in the rhythmic flicker of the torchlight above.

His posture was relaxed, his expression unreadable, but his mind?

A storm of calculations.

Then—a soft shuffle.

A figure emerged from the corridor beyond the bars.

A voice—low, deliberate, edged with a quiet authority.

"Commander Hakiman."

Aleeman's head tilted slightly, his dark eyes narrowing.

Then—he smirked.

"Ah," he drawled, "if it isn't the general herself."

General Xuè Lián stood tall, her red and black imperial robes cascading around her like a war banner caught in the wind.

She crossed her arms, her gaze sharp.

"No time for flattery," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "Stand up."

Aleeman arched an eyebrow but obeyed, rising to his full height.

"I assume you're not here for a pleasant chat, then?"

Xuè Lián reached into her sleeve, her movements precise.

She pulled out a key—small, plain, but unmistakable.

With a flick of her wrist, she passed it through the bars.

Aleeman caught it effortlessly, rolling it between his fingers before lifting his gaze.

"And who, might I ask, is the benefactor of such generosity?"

Xuè Lián's expression did not change.

"Wei Yang Hong."

A pause.

Then—she stepped closer, lowering her voice.

"'Even a dragon must shed its scales to escape the hunter's spear.'"

Aleeman's eyes darkened with understanding.

A coded message. Shi Zhao Mei was telling him to escape—no matter the cost.

He exhaled, his lips twitching into something unreadable.

Then—a nod.

Xuè Lián returned the nod, mirroring the traditional gesture of respect among warriors—one fist pressed into an open palm, held briefly at chest level.

Aleeman returned the gesture, his expression solemn.

No words needed to be exchanged.

The plan was in motion.

And before the night was through—the walls of Ji-Gong would tremble.

The moon hung over Ji-Gong Palace like a silent witness, its silver glow spilling across the lacquered floors and casting long, wavering shadows through the silk-draped corridors. The scent of burning incense intertwined with the cold night air, a fleeting reminder of the world she was leaving behind.

Inside her chamber, Shi Zhao Mei stood before an ornate bronze mirror, fastening the final clasp of her crimson and black imperial cloak.

Her raven-black hair tumbled over her shoulders in silk-like waves, the golden embroidery on her sleeves glimmering faintly in the dim candlelight. But despite her outward elegance, her heart was a battlefield—a storm raging beneath the surface.

Behind her, two figures stood in quiet solemnity.

Lady Mei Lian watched her daughter with unreadable eyes, her frail hands clasped in front of her, as though holding onto something invisible.

Weng Jingfei, however, made no effort to conceal the worry etched across her face. Her arms were folded, her brows furrowed.

"You are truly leaving?" Weng Jingfei's voice was quiet, but firm. "Without Father knowing?"

Shi Zhao Mei exhaled slowly, adjusting the golden tassel at her waist.

"If I stay here," she murmured, "I will be locked in the dungeons again. And this time, there will be no escape."

Lady Mei Lian's fingers tightened slightly.

"Zhao Mei," she said softly, stepping forward. "Are you sure this is the right path?"

Shi Zhao Mei turned, her gaze unwavering.

"I must return to Miracheneous Academy." Her voice was resolute, but not unkind. "I have already drawn too much attention to myself here. If I stay, I will bring ruin upon Ji-Gong."

A long silence stretched between them, heavy with words left unsaid.

Then, Lady Mei Lian sighed, stepping closer.

Without a word, she opened her arms.

Shi Zhao Mei hesitated for only a moment before stepping into her mother's embrace.

Lady Mei Lian's hold was warm, strong—yet fragile, as though she feared letting go would shatter something within her.

"No matter what you have become," she whispered, pressing a gentle hand against her daughter's back, "you are still my child."

Shi Zhao Mei's eyes burned, but she did not let the tears fall.

From the side, Weng Jingfei watched the scene in silence, her fingers tightening into the fabric of her sleeves.

Then—abruptly—she huffed, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around both of them.

"You are a reckless fool," she muttered against Shi Zhao Mei's shoulder. "But I suppose even fools deserve to be missed."

A small, dry chuckle escaped Shi Zhao Mei's lips.

"How touching," she teased. "If I had known, I would have left sooner."

Weng Jingfei snorted but did not pull away.

The warmth of their embrace lingered for a moment longer—just long enough to imprint itself onto memory.

Then, the moment was broken.

A sharp knock sounded against the chamber doors.

Shi Zhao Mei stepped back instantly, wiping the warmth from her face as the doors creaked open.

Xuè Lián entered, her crimson robes whispering against the floor. Her expression was unreadable—but her eyes, sharp as a blade's edge, flickered with understanding.

"It is done," she said. "The key has been given. The horses are waiting outside the southern gate."

Shi Zhao Mei nodded once.

Then—with one final glance at her mother and sister, she stepped past them, her boots clicking softly against the marble floor.

As she reached the threshold, she paused.

Glancing back over her shoulder, she allowed herself a small, fleeting smile.

"Take care of yourselves."

Then, without another word, she disappeared into the corridors of the night.

The air inside the dungeon was thick with dampness and the scent of rusted iron, its silence punctuated only by the distant crackling of torches. Shadows danced upon the stone walls, weaving ominous figures that stretched like phantoms in the flickering light.

Aleeman sat with eerie stillness, his dark eyes unblinking, gazing at the worn-out shackles that bound his wrists and ankles. But his mind was not idle—it was calculating, dissecting every possible route of escape.

Then—the cell door groaned open.

A female servant entered, carefully balancing a tray carrying a bowl of steaming broth and a plate of coarse bread.

She kept her gaze low, placing the tray on the wooden desk before turning on her heel, her hurried footsteps echoing through the dungeon as she exited.

The guard beside her let out a cruel chuckle, locking the cell behind her.

"Enjoy your last meal, foreigner," he sneered. "It's a delicacy… pig's flesh."

Aleeman did not react. Not outwardly. But as the guard's laughter faded into the corridor, he exhaled slowly, lowering his gaze to the bowl of soup.

His fingers drifted into the broth, undeterred by the scalding heat.

And there—his touch brushed against something metallic.

A key.

Without hesitation, he gripped it between his fingers, lifting it out of the murky broth and swiftly concealing it within his palm.

With practiced ease, he unlocked the shackles from his wrists, then from his ankles, their heavy chains falling to the ground with a muffled clang.

Then—he reached into his tunic and retrieved the second key.

The one General Xuè Lián had given him.

The key to the cells.

Meanwhile, in the heart of Ji-Gong's underground power station, where the pulsating core of the palace's security system thrived, General Xuè Lián moved like a shadow.

The room was vacant—exactly as she had expected. No guards. No surveillance.

No witnesses.

Her fingers worked swiftly, disabling the intricate machinery with the precision of a master saboteur.

And then—she struck.

With a final, calculated motion, she severed the main power connection.

A deep hum rippled through the palace…

Then—darkness.

A collective gasp surged through the palace halls.

The ornate lanterns flickered erratically before extinguishing, leaving the grand halls and chambers swallowed by night.

The concubines let out startled cries, clutching onto one another as confusion rippled through them.

The ministers muttered in frantic whispers, their finely embroidered robes swishing as they glanced around in bewilderment.

Pan Zhihaou's brows furrowed, his sharp eyes narrowing as a cold shiver of realisation crawled down his spine.

"An escape."

Emperor Weng Jin Shun rose from his throne, his jaw tightening.

"Find him. NOW!"

As the imperial sirens blared through the halls, Aleeman unlocked his cell and stepped out into the corridor.

From the shadows, figures emerged—guards clad in imperial armour, their dao swords drawn.

A moment of silence.

Then—chaos erupted.

Aleeman lunged forward, seizing the wrist of the nearest guard and twisting it sharply, forcing him to drop his weapon. In the same fluid motion, he snatched the dao mid-air, turning it against its former owner.

The blade sliced clean through flesh. A choked gasp. Blood splattered against the stone.

The remaining guards rushed him, their swords flashing like lightning.

Aleeman sidestepped the first strike, his movements effortless. With a brutal kick, he sent one soldier crashing into the stone wall. Another came from behind—he spun, his blade meeting steel in a deadly clash. Sparks ignited as metal shrieked against metal.

One by one, they fell—until only silence remained.

Then—the distant wail of a battle horn pierced the night.

The Ji-Gong blow horn—an ancient instrument used to signal an intruder alert.

The entire palace was now aware of his presence.

Aleeman exhaled sharply, wiping the blood from his blade.

"No turning back now."

Aleeman raced through the moonlit courtyard, his every step a calculated move. His mind was already fixated on his exit—the main gates.

But then—a burst of flame ignited the air before him.

A wall of fire surged up from the ground, cutting off his path.

Aleeman's eyes flickered upward.

Perched atop the pavilion, a lone figure stood—a silhouette against the inferno.

Then, with the grace of a falling ember, he descended.

Landing before him was Liu Zhenbao—the son of Lady Yun Zhen.

His robes, dark red and gold, shimmered under the blaze he had conjured. His eyes gleamed with the confidence of a warrior who had never known defeat.

The crowd had gathered.

Emperor Weng Jin Shun. Pan Zhihaou. The ministers. The concubines. The imperial guards.

Lady Mei Lian stood tense, hands clasped in worry.

Lady Yun Zhen trembled, her lips parted slightly.

Liu Zhenbao smirked, twirling the dao blade in his hands.

"You fight like a beast, foreigner," he taunted, "but let us see how you fare against the flames of a true warrior."

Emperor Weng Jin Shun inclined his head.

"Very well," he declared. "Let the duel commence."

A hush fell over the court.

Aleeman rolled his shoulders, lifting his blade.

Liu Zhenbao raised his palm.

"Lóng Huǒ Shén Jìng" (龙火神境) – Dragon Fire Domain.

Flames erupted around him, twisting and curling like a living serpent.

Aleeman narrowed his eyes.

Then—the fight began.

Liu Zhenbao launched forward, his blade wreathed in fire, slashing through the air in a deadly arc.

Aleeman dodged, his movements swift as the wind. He countered with a thrust—Liu Zhenbao blocked, flames crackling upon impact.

A dance of steel and fire ensued.

Aleeman sidestepped, parried, slashed. His technique was relentless—sharp, precise, unyielding. Every strike was executed with the discipline of a seasoned warlord.

Liu Zhenbao summoned another surge of flames, forcing Aleeman back.

But Aleeman was undeterred. He surged forward, feinting left before twisting his blade and striking at an angle—his dao slicing through Zhenbao's defences.

A gasp.

Liu Zhenbao's weapon flew from his grasp.

In a blur, Aleeman grabbed the hilt of Zhenbao's own dao, pressing his own blade against the young warrior's throat.

The entire court froze.

Lady Yun Zhen's gasp of horror echoed through the courtyard.

Aleeman pressed the blade closer.

His voice, calm—yet deadly.

"Step aside."

The guards hesitated.

Emperor Weng Jin Shun's jaw clenched.

But at last—he raised his hand.

"Open the gates."

The gates groaned open.

Aleeman stepped backward, dragging Liu Zhenbao with him until he reached the exit.

Then—with a final glance, he shoved the young warrior aside.

The moment the doors slammed shut behind him, the court erupted into chaos.

And Lady Yun Zhen?

She collapsed in grief.

The throne room of Kumaruchaisan Castle stood as a monolithic shrine to cruelty and conquest. Heavy columns of black marble towered over the chamber, their surfaces carved with the tormented visages of conquered foes—a grotesque reminder of the Tekfur's iron-fisted rule. Torchlight flickered against the cold stone, casting long, jagged shadows that seemed to dance like wraiths upon the walls.

At the very heart of this den of vipers sat Tekfur Kekaumenos, his imposing figure draped in a mantle of deep crimson, lined with the furs of beasts hunted in foreign lands. His grizzled face, carved with the lines of age and ambition, remained unreadable as he leaned forward upon his grand throne—a seat of iron and bone, forged in the flames of war.

Before him, his son, Lenotes Kekaumenos, stood with an air of silent calculation.

Lenotes was every bit the embodiment of his father's ambition—ruthless, cunning, and bred for the art of destruction. His piercing jade-green eyes gleamed with a predator's intelligence, his raven-black hair falling just past his shoulders. He was clad in the regalia of his station—dark tunic reinforced with chainmail, a golden sash draped across his torso, its patterns depicting the great victories of his lineage.

And beside them, like a shadow given form, stood Alphagut—their most seasoned warlord, a figure sculpted by the horrors of battle. Clad in a suit of battered yet unbroken plate, his presence alone was enough to make lesser men tremble.

A moment of silence lingered, heavy and foreboding.

Then, Lenotes spoke, his voice a blade honed to precision.

"The dog of Abjannas still breathes."

Kekaumenos exhaled through his nose, fingers tapping against the armrest of his throne. His expression did not shift, but the air in the room grew colder.

"A pest that refuses to be crushed," he mused. "Tell me, Lenotes… how does one deal with a creature that refuses to die?"

Lenotes allowed a slow smirk to form on his lips.

"You ensure its death is slow enough to serve as a lesson to others."

Alphagut chuckled darkly, arms folded.

"A wolf cannot be tamed," he rumbled. "Only caged or slain. And Aleeman Hakiman has slipped through too many snares already."

Kekaumenos nodded slightly, his gaze unreadable.

"Then we must fashion a better snare."

At that moment, a sudden knock echoed through the chamber.

One of the guards stepped forward, his steel-plated boots clanking against the stone floor as he lowered his head in deference.

"My Tekfur, the informant has arrived."

Kekaumenos lifted a single hand.

"Let him in."

The doors groaned open, and through them stepped a hooded figure. His movements were fluid, practiced, almost too careful—like a serpent slithering through the cracks of an empire. He wore the garb of a traveler, his tunic covered in the dust of many roads, but his eyes were sharp and calculating, taking in every detail of the chamber before falling into a deep bow before the Tekfur.

"Your excellency," he murmured, his voice smooth as oil.

Kekaumenos leaned forward slightly, resting his chin upon his fist.

"Speak."

The informant did not waste time.

"The wolf has entered the dragon's lair."

A pause.

Kekaumenos narrowed his eyes.

"Elaborate."

The informant straightened, his lips curling slightly.

"Aleeman Hakiman infiltrated Ji-Gong Palace, disguised as an imperial soldier. He entered the heart of their empire and walked away unscathed—no, more than that." He tilted his head. "He walked away having humiliated them."

Lenotes' eyebrows lifted slightly, intrigued.

Kekaumenos remained motionless.

"Explain."

The informant did not hesitate.

"He was discovered. Captured. But he escaped… and not alone."**

Lenotes folded his arms. "Then who did he take with him?"

The informant's next words sent a ripple through the chamber.

"Liu Zhenbao."

Silence.

A heavy, deadly silence.

Then—Lenotes let out a sharp laugh, a sound devoid of mirth.

"He took Weng Jin Shun's son hostage?" His smirk widened. "Oh, this is better than I expected."

Even Alphagut, a man usually devoid of reaction, let out a low whistle.

Kekaumenos, however, remained unreadable. His eyes, cold as winter's breath, flickered with something else—something deeper.

And then—the informant spoke again.

"But that is not all."

All eyes turned back to him.

The informant's smile grew ever so slightly, like a man who knew the weight of the words he carried.

"The reason for his intrusion… was not the prince he took hostage. No, his true target was another prince entirely."

Kekaumenos tilted his head slightly, his expression betraying the first flicker of intrigue.

Lenotes leaned in. "Which prince?"

A pause.

Then—the informant's smirk deepened.

"The one that no longer exists."

Kekaumenos' fingers stilled against the armrest of his throne.

"Explain yourself."

The informant bowed his head slightly.

"The cursed prince of Ji-Gong. Weng Jin Shun's other son… the one transformed into a woman by the wrath of the goddess Yuán Nǚ Wáng."

A breath of silence.

Then, slowly, the truth settled over the chamber like a veil of poison.

Lenotes let out a slow exhale, his smirk growing into something more vicious.

Alphagut tilted his head. "A fallen prince… now a woman… and Aleeman Hakiman went to her aid?"

Kekaumenos closed his eyes for a brief moment. When they reopened, they gleamed with something dark, something cruel.

A slow smirk formed on his lips.

"How poetic."

Lenotes leaned back, arms crossed. "If a warrior like Aleeman is willing to infiltrate Ji-Gong for her, then this woman must be something special."

Alphagut chuckled. "Or… she is his weakness."

Kekaumenos nodded once, his mind already weaving a plan.

Then—he spoke.

"Tomorrow, you ride." He turned his gaze to Lenotes. "Find her. Capture her. And bring her to me."

Lenotes bowed his head slightly, a devilish smirk playing upon his lips.

"Consider it done, Father."

As he turned and strode from the chamber, the flickering torches cast his shadow long upon the walls—a looming spectre of vengeance, heading toward a prey that did not yet know it was being hunted.

The hallways of the Miracheneous Academy's girls' dormitory stretched endlessly, lined with arched windows that allowed the cool night breeze to dance through the air, carrying the scent of jasmine and parchment. The ambient glow of enchanted lanterns flickered upon the polished floors, casting elongated shadows that whispered across the walls like silent spectres.

Hua-Jing walked briskly down the dormitory corridor, her arms crossed tightly against her chest, her expression a storm of emotions that threatened to crack her carefully composed exterior.

She was worried—no, furious.

Her brother, Aleeman, had gone to the Eastern Region, a place where the Dragon Clans ruled with dominion, their empires vast and shrouded in centuries-old traditions.

The very thought sent irritation clawing through her chest.

"Foolish, reckless, utterly thick-headed brute!" She muttered under her breath, her fists clenching by her sides.

Aleeman had fallen into a trap.

And the bait? Shi Zhao Mei.

Hua-Jing gritted her teeth.

"That girl," she thought. "That irritating, infuriating, perfectly-polished, stomach-revealing, overly-mysterious girl!"

It wasn't enough that Shi Zhao Mei had vanished without a word—no, she had to go and drag Aleeman into it as well.

As she stomped past the dorm rooms, her feet halted abruptly.

A noise.

A loud thud.

It came from Shi Zhao Mei's room.

Hua-Jing's brows furrowed, suspicion curling in her chest like smoke.

"Is she being attacked?" She thought for a split second. "Or is she—?"

Her eyes darkened.

"If she's doing something ridiculous again, I swear—"

Without hesitation, she rounded the knot and shoved the door open.

And then—she froze.

Shi Zhao Mei stood in the center of the room, her back partially turned, her long raven-black hair cascading down her exposed shoulders like a waterfall of silk.

She was half-dressed—clad only in her tight crimson trousers and a black chest wrap that hugged her torso.

But what caught Hua-Jing's breath—what sent her face up in flames—was the sight of her stomach.

Smooth, river-polished skin, sculpted with delicate strength. And there—adorning her umbilicus—was a glimmering red gemstone, attached to an intricate golden frame.

For a moment too long, time ceased to exist.

Then—

"ACK!"

Hua-Jing's entire face erupted in shades of scarlet as she spun around, slamming the door shut behind her so fast she nearly knocked herself over.

Her heart pounded against her ribs like a war drum.

"What in the name of all that is holy did I just witness?!"

She staggered back, pressing a hand to her burning face, eyes squeezed shut.

"No. No, no, no. That did NOT just happen."

She tried to reassure herself, tried to pretend she had simply imagined it.

But no.

The image of Shi Zhao Mei's perfectly toned stomach and that infuriating gemstone was now seared into her mind like a cursed sigil.

"God help me."

She took a deep breath.

Then—with newfound determination—she whipped the door back open.

Shi Zhao Mei stood in the exact same position. But this time, she turned her head slightly, regarding Hua-Jing with mild curiosity.

"Do you need something?" She asked, her tone even.

Hua-Jing stared at her.

Then—snapped.

"DO I NEED SOMETHING?!" She stormed into the room, her previous embarrassment drowned beneath the tidal wave of her frustration. "DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU'VE DONE?!"

Shi Zhao Mei blinked, tilting her head slightly.

Hua-Jing jabbed an accusatory finger in her direction.

"You disappeared! Without a word! Without a note! Without even a hint of where you were going!"

Her voice cracked, her frustration merging with something deeper—something more vulnerable.

"Do you have ANY idea what kind of chaos you caused?!"

Shi Zhao Mei opened her mouth to speak, but Hua-Jing didn't give her the chance.

"My brother—Aleeman—went after you!"****"

Shi Zhao Mei's expression finally shifted—her usual unreadable calm replaced by something softer.

Hua-Jing felt her chest tighten.

Her fists clenched by her sides as her voice dropped to a whisper.

"He went to find you… and I don't even know if he's safe."

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

For a moment, the room was silent.

Then, softly—Shi Zhao Mei exhaled.

"He is safe."

Hua-Jing's head snapped up.

Shi Zhao Mei stepped forward, her expression unreadable—but not unkind.

"Your brother is returning. He is not alone."

Hua-Jing searched her face for any trace of deception—but found none.

She wanted to be angry. She wanted to scream.

But instead—she exhaled, shoulders sagging.

"He better be," she muttered, wiping at her eyes.

Shi Zhao Mei offered her a rare smile—small, fleeting, but genuine.

Hua-Jing huffed.

"This doesn't mean I forgive you, you gemstone-bellied troublemaker."

Shi Zhao Mei blinked.

Then—she chuckled.

Hua-Jing's face flamed again.

Shi Zhao Mei turned her gaze to the moonlit window, her mind drifting.

Her memory flickered—back to Ji-Gong Palace.

Back to the moment Aleeman had appeared before the imperial court, blade pressed to Minister Cai Sheng's throat.

Back to the way he had fearlessly faced Emperor Weng Jin Shun, and how he had stared down Pan Zhihaou without hesitation.

Back to his infamous words.

"Old Bald Donkey."

A small, quiet laugh escaped her lips.

"Truly, he is unlike any man I have ever met."

Hua-Jing glanced at her suspiciously.

"What are you muttering about?"

Shi Zhao Mei shook her head, her raven-black hair cascading over her shoulders.

"Nothing at all."

But her smirk said otherwise.

Hua-Jing narrowed her eyes.

"I don't like that look."

Shi Zhao Mei turned away, her smirk deepening.

Hua-Jing folded her arms.

"I REALLY don't like that look."

And for the first time in a long while—Shi Zhao Mei let herself laugh.

At the first light of dawn at the Forest of Justilia painted the treetops with golden hues, their leaves glistening like molten emeralds under the early morning sun. The air was crisp, tinged with the scent of morning dew and the smouldering embers of last night's fire. Amidst the dry underbrush, where the earth bore the footprints of restless warriors, Aleeman and his men gathered in a makeshift circle, seated on weathered logs and uneven stones.

A deer carcass—hunted before sunrise by Tariq—roasted over the open flames, the aroma of seared meat thick in the air. The fragrance curled through the wind, tantalising their senses like an unspoken invitation to indulge.

Zayd exhaled deeply, his stomach growling as he inhaled the scent with reverence.

"By the Almighty, that smells like paradise on a spit."

Wang Ji-Pang snorted as he sliced generous portions of meat with a small dagger, distributing them one by one.

With practised ease, he tossed a piece to Finn, then to Mehmet, Tariq, and Zayd. Then, as if with deliberate cruelty, he placed a meagre bone in Rüstem Bey's palm.

Rüstem Bey stared at the bone. Then at Wang. Then back at the bone.

A heavy silence.

Then—his brows furrowed.

"What is this?!"

Wang Ji-Pang shrugged innocently.

"A noble gift for a noble warrior."

Aleeman glanced between them, amusement flickering in his dark eyes.

Before Rüstem could pounce on him, Mehmet cleared his throat, smirking.

"Rüstem, my brother, perhaps Wang believes you have the strength of a lion—to feast on bone and marrow alone."

The group erupted into laughter.

Even Aleeman, usually composed, allowed a brief chuckle to escape his lips.

Still scowling, Rüstem snatched the meat from Wang's plate with a triumphant grunt.

As they ate, a sudden rustling from the treetops caught their attention.

A white owl, its eyes large and unblinking, perched upon a branch above them, staring with unsettling intensity.

Zayd leaned forward, whispering dramatically.

"That bird has seen too much."

Finn snorted.

Wang Ji-Pang nodded sagely.

"If it starts speaking prophecy, I'm leaving."

As they settled into their meal, Finn wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before turning his gaze to Aleeman.

"Commander Aleeman," he said, his tone both inquisitive and respectful. "What was your true purpose in infiltrating Ji-Gong? How were you so certain that Shi Zhao Mei was a member of their imperial clan?"

Aleeman tore a piece of meat with his teeth, chewing methodically before answering.

"My intent was not to save Shi Zhao Mei."****"

The embers crackled in the silence that followed.

Finn's eyebrows raised slightly.

Aleeman's gaze remained sharp, unwavering.

"My intent was to understand the reason behind Ji-Gong's attack on our people… and what connection they have with Kumaruchaisan."

His words hung in the air, heavy with meaning.

Then—a low chuckle.

Mehmet leaned forward, his smirk mischievous.

"Is that so, my Bey?" He drawled. "Then why is it that whenever Shi Zhao Mei is mentioned, your gaze hardens like forged steel?"

Wang Ji-Pang grinned.

"Indeed! And why was it that you risked your life, infiltrating a heavily fortified palace, simply for her?"

Tariq chuckled, shaking his head.

"Admit it, my Bey. The wolf has found his mate."

Zayd slapped his knee, roaring with laughter.

Aleeman rolled his eyes, shaking his head.

"You fools speak as if I have the time for such nonsense."

He waved a hand dismissively.

"I have no interest in women."

Silence.

Then—his men erupted into even louder laughter.

Aleeman's eyebrow twitched.

Finn smirked.

"Then why are your ears turning red, my Bey?"

Aleeman gritted his teeth, shoving a piece of meat into his mouth to avoid responding.

Mehmet leaned back, victorious.

"A wise man once said—'denial is the first step to acceptance.' "

Aleeman glared at him.

"No wise man ever said that."

Mehmet grinned.

"Then let me be the first."

As the teasing died down, Wang Ji-Pang leaned forward.

"Then what did you learn, my Bey?"

Aleeman remained quiet for a moment.

Then—he picked up a branch and laid it on the ground.

With careful strokes, he began to draw in the dirt, carving out the rough outline of various lands.

His men watched in silence.

The names formed beneath his fingers—

Julivanian. Chengosan. Baiyango. Yingshi.

Zayd narrowed his eyes.

"Bey… what is your intention?"

Aleeman paused, then lifted his gaze.

A smirk curled at the corner of his lips.

"To conquer the world."

Silence.

His men stared at him, then at the map.

Finn folded his arms.

"And if you conquer these lands… what then?"

Aleeman's smirk deepened.

"Then I shall make them the land of Abjannas—the land of the Almighty."

His finger traced over the territories.

"Chengosan and Julivanian once belonged to us, but Kumaruchaisan seized them through bloodshed, slaughtering our kin. They desecrated what was once sacred."

His voice grew lower, darker.

Mehmet nodded solemnly.

"And Baiyango and Yingshi?"

Aleeman exhaled slowly.

"Those lands… belong to the Black Dragon."

His men exchanged glances.

Zayd frowned.

"You wish to take them from the Black Dragon?"

Aleeman's gaze flickered.

Then—before he could respond, an arrow sliced through the air.

With a sharp thud, it struck the tree branch against which Aleeman had been leaning.

His men immediately leapt to their feet, hands on their weapons.

Aleeman remained seated, his fingers calmly reaching for the arrow.

His sharp eyes scanned it before carefully removing the parchment tied to its shaft.

A seal.

Marked in deep crimson wax.

A symbol—a coiling dragon encircling a crescent moon.

Finn stepped closer, frowning.

"Bey… what does it say?"

Aleeman read it swiftly. Then—his smirk returned.

"It says…" He paused, glancing at his men.

"'Prepare yourselves—a guest is approaching.' "

His men exchanged wary glances.

Wang Ji-Pang raised an eyebrow.

"Guest?"

Tariq let out a slow breath.

"That usually means trouble."

Zayd exhaled dramatically.

"By the Almighty, can we at least finish breakfast first?!"

Mehmet chuckled.

Aleeman stood, rolling his shoulders.

"Eat quickly. We may have company soon."

And as the morning sun glowed over Justila Forest, the wolves of Abjannas readied themselves for the unknown.

The dense woodland of Justilia Forest trembled under the relentless march of metal-clad warriors. The rhythmic clanking of steel boots against the earth echoed through the air, their shining banners fluttering like war cries carried by the wind. Lenotes Kekaumenos, his face carved from stone, led his knights with unwavering conviction.

His brother was dead.

And the one responsible—Aleeman Hakiman—was about to meet his end.

Just as the knights began crossing the clearing, a sudden, thunderous gunshot split the air like the crack of a raging storm.

A knight at the forefront staggered. His eyes widened in disbelief as crimson bloomed across his chest. His body swayed, and before anyone could react—he collapsed onto the ground with a lifeless thud.

The entire battalion came to a violent halt.

"AMBUSH!" a knight shouted.

Lenotes' teeth clenched as he scanned the tree line, his fury searing through the morning mist.

Then—he saw him.

Emerging from the shadows of the forest, his silhouette cast against the dawn's golden glow, stood Aleeman Hakiman.

In his grasp, a magnificent revolver gleamed under the sunlight—the 'Eshmûn Viper,' a weapon of breathtaking craftsmanship, infused with the artistry of modernity and the raw power of steampunk ingenuity.

The cylinder spun, glowing faintly with pulsating arcane engravings, as Aleeman raised the barrel toward the knights.

His men fanned out beside him, their firearms locked and loaded.

A pause.

Then—chaos erupted.

Gunfire roared, sending steel-tipped bullets piercing through the enemy ranks. Knights stumbled, their armor offering little resistance against the raw force of the ambush. The scent of gunpowder fused with the damp morning air, mingling with the cries of the fallen.

Lenotes' rage ignited like wildfire.

"CHARGE!" he bellowed. "CUT THEM DOWN!"

The knights surged forward, swords gleaming, shields raised.

Aleeman let out a feral roar, unsheathing his blade as he and his men leapt into the fray.

The battle unfolded like a tempest given form.

Aleeman moved like a phantom, weaving between enemies with the grace of a seasoned predator. His blade danced through the air, each strike precise, each movement a deadly symphony of war.

A knight lunged—Aleeman twisted, his sword carving through the man's exposed throat before fluidly shifting to parry another strike.

Tariq vaulted over a fallen soldier, his curved blades slicing through metal and flesh with unerring accuracy.

Finn fired a shot, the bullet whizzing past Aleeman's shoulder and embedding itself in a knight's helmet, sending the body toppling backward.

Wang Ji-Pang parried a longsword with his twin daggers before driving a knee into his opponent's gut, twisting and snapping his neck in a fluid motion.

Mehmet, towering and relentless, swung his massive cleaver through armor like it was parchment, severing limbs and leaving a trail of destruction.

Zayd moved like a phantom of death, evading, striking, killing with an efficiency that sent fear crawling into the hearts of their enemies.

Rüstem Bey was a wall of raw power, his hammer crushing bones and armor alike, sending knights sprawling with every swing.

Then—Lenotes lunged.

His longsword came down in a deadly arc toward Aleeman's skull.

Aleeman sidestepped, steel clashing against steel as sparks rained down like fallen stars.

Lenotes' eyes burned with hatred.

"You killed my brother," he spat, shoving forward. "I will erase your bloodline from existence!"

Aleeman met his glare, eyes as sharp as a wolf's.

"Then let's see who is buried first."

They clashed again, their swords moving in a blur of light and fury.

Lenotes was skilled—exceptionally so. Each strike carried lethal precision, each parry reinforced by years of brutal training.

But Aleeman was not merely a warrior—he was a storm.

He twisted, dodged, countered—his blade moving like liquid silver, striking at the smallest openings, pushing Lenotes back step by step.

Then—Lenotes' aura shifted.

The air crackled.

A low hum filled the battlefield, sending shivers down the spines of those who could feel it.

Lenotes grinned viciously.

"I am no ordinary knight, wolf of Abjannas."

Thunder rumbled.

The earth trembled.

His armor flickered with arcs of lightning, the very air around him distorting as raw power surged through his veins.

"STORM CAVALIER FORM: LIGHTNING'S WRATH!"

A blinding explosion of energy erupted around him, sending nearby combatants staggering backward.

Aleeman's eyes narrowed.

Lenotes moved in a blur, appearing behind him in an instant, his longsword crackling with electric fury as it swung toward Aleeman's exposed back.

Aleeman spun—

His finger squeezed the trigger of the 'Eshmûn Viper.'

A single shot rang out.

Then—a deafening explosion.

The shockwave tore through the battlefield, knocking soldiers off their feet. Dust and debris filled the air as the very ground split beneath the force of their clashing powers.

When the dust settled, most of Lenotes' men lay lifeless. The few who remained struggled to stand.

Aleeman emerged from the smoke, wounded but standing, blood seeping through his garments.

Lenotes, though still alive, was breathing heavily, his armor scorched, his power momentarily drained.

He was about to strike again—

Then—the earth trembled once more.

But this time, it was not from Lenotes.

A deep, resonating voice boomed through the clearing.

"That is quite enough."

All heads turned.

From the treeline, a figure stepped forward. Cloaked in authority, his staff glowing with unfathomable power—Headmaster Falani.

Beside him stood Hua-Jing, Mei-Xi-Li, Mika, Elizabeth… and another figure.

Shi Zhao Mei.

Aleeman's expression turned unreadable.

Lenotes gritted his teeth.

"Who dares interfere?!"

Falani lifted his staff, the ground vibrating with unseen force.

"Your men are dead. If you continue, I will unleash a wrath you cannot withstand."

A silence stretched through the clearing.

Lenotes locked eyes with Aleeman, hatred seething within him.

He lifted his blade, pointing it at Aleeman.

"This is not over, wolf of Abjannas. You will pay for what you've done."

Then—he turned, retreating with his remaining knights.

As the battlefield settled, Hua-Jing rushed to her brother, concern evident in her eyes.

"Are you alright?!"

Aleeman exhaled.

"I've had worse."

Shi Zhao Mei stepped forward, hesitating for a brief moment.

"Are you…" She paused. "…injured?"

Aleeman glanced at her. Then—without a word—he turned away.

Shi Zhao Mei's expression faltered for a split second.

Falani whistled sharply. A white owl swooped down, perching on his staff.

"Surveillance," he explained. "I knew you would need intervention."

Aleeman and his men exchanged glances.

Then, collectively, they sighed.

"We're sorry for skipping class," Finn muttered.

Falani smirked.

"You are forgiven. But next time—try not to start a war before breakfast."

And with that, they made their way back to the Academy—knowing the battle was far from over.