Ryuji’s vault

The eastern docks were a shadowland of steel and smoke, where the skeletal arms of cranes clawed at the overcast sky. Containers stacked like forgotten prayers loomed over pools of stagnant water, their paint chipped and faded by years of salt and neglect. Beneath this industrial graveyard, Wei Long’s lieutenants gathered like predators circling a kill.

At the center stood Wei Long himself, the Iron Fist of the Nine Dragons, his broad frame rigid, arms folded like immovable stone. Flames flickered in his dark eyes, reflected in the glow of distant oil fires that danced unevenly in the smog-heavy air. Around him, armored men ran drills—rifles flashing under the dull light—some weapons weathered by jungle rust, others gleaming and new, stamped with fresh military serials.

Wei Long’s voice cut through the damp air, low but heavy with command. “We’ve lost ground in Manila and Laos. But Jakarta… Jakarta will not fall. It’s ours. It always was.”