A tense, unnatural silence had fallen over the gathering, thick and heavy as a burial shroud. It was the kind of silence born of mutual, seething recognition—a precarious equilibrium where the slightest tremor could unleash a storm. The air in the opulent reception hall, perfumed with exotic blossoms and the ozone tang of latent magic, crackled with unspoken challenges. From the side of Dongke Province, figures like Jian Qin observed the Beiluke contingent with icy, analytical calm, their arrogance a well-fortified citadel. Yet, beneath the polished veneer of the Beiluke elites—Carroll Dier, Nangong Hupo, and others—a restless energy simmered. They were the underdogs, the dark horses, acutely aware that while the present moment might belong to Dongke, the future was a wide-open grimoire, and their names were freshly inked upon its pages. The very light from the crystalline chandeliers overhead seemed to fragment in the tension, casting sharp, dancing shadows that mirrored the dueling ambitions in the room .
Amidst this stalemate, Langhao, her movements subtly weighted by the advanced pregnancy that sapped her legendary strength, had extracted herself from the tedious formalities of the family meeting. The muffled sounds of polite negotiation and clinking porcelain faded behind her as she stepped into the bustling, neon-drenched artery of the city. The transition from the cloistered, politically charged atmosphere of Jinling Mansion to the vibrant, chaotic tapestry of the commercial district was jarring. Holographic advertisements flickered, casting shifting pools of emerald and sapphire light on the polished streets, while the scent of sizzling street food from vendor stalls mingled oddly with the refined aroma of magic-infused perfumes from exclusive boutiques. Her feet, clad in soft-soled shoes, carried her with a purpose that even she couldn't fully articulate, a maternal instinct pulling her towards a particular storefront whose displays boasted elegant, understated menswear. The fabrics within—soft silks, sturdy linens, fine wools—seemed to whisper of a normalcy that felt galaxies away from the intricate, often vicious, machinations of their world .
Inside the store, the air was cool and smelled of sandalwood and static. Her slender fingers, usually so steady when weaving complex water spells, now trembled slightly as they brushed against a jacket of simple, yet exceptionally soft, dark grey fabric. For a fleeting moment, her mind conjured an image of Xie Keli—not the feared "Oaks," the rising scourge of the academic arena—but just Keli, and how the color might complement the strange, stormy grey of his eyes. This fragile, domestic reverie was shattered by two encounters. First, the ethereal, almost unnervingly calm presence of Wei Mingtang, a woman whose beauty was as sharp and cold as a shard of ice, selecting garments with an impersonal efficiency. Then, Lin Hangjing, whose practical demeanor and brief, respectful mention of Keli served as a stark reminder of the reputation that trailed him—and by extension, her—like a persistent shadow. The simple act of choosing clothes suddenly felt like a complex negotiation with a future fraught with peril. A dull, persistent ache in her lower back intensified, a constant reminder of her vulnerability. Excusing herself, she sought the sterile, white-tiled sanctuary of the restroom, the click of the lock echoing with a disquieting finality .
The restroom was an oasis of artificial calm, all gleaming surfaces and the faint, antiseptic scent of lemon. Leaning over the spotless porcelain sink, Langhao stared at her reflection. The face that looked back was still beautiful, but pale, with shadows of fatigue smudged beneath her eyes. The glorious, formidable power of the merfolk lineage within her felt distant, muted, as if the life growing in her womb was drawing not just physical energy, but magical essence as well. A sudden, sharp cramp, different from the usual discomfort, made her gasp and clutch the edge of the sink, her knuckles turning white. It was in that moment of acute vulnerability that the world twisted. Her eyes, wide with dawning horror, met not just her own reflection in the mirror, but another pair of eyes staring back from within the glass—eyes that held no soul, only malicious intent. The surface of the mirror rippled like water, and before her heightened senses could fully process the wrongness, a limb—pale, shimmering, and grotesquely pliable—shot forth. It wasn't a hand; it was a tangle of glistening, boneless tentacles that slithered through the solid glass as if it were mist .
Instinct screamed at her to move, to fight. She recoiled, a whispered incantation on her lips. Water erupted from the still-flowing tap, swirling into a protective, liquid shield around her. But her reactions were slowed, her power dampened. The aquatic barrier, which should have been a formidable wall, felt thin and insubstantial. The tentacles, cold and slick with an otherworldly mucus, pierced through it with ease. A searing, brutal pain exploded in her shoulders as twin, cruelly barbed daggers, materializing from the empty air behind her, pinned her to the floor. Enchantments etched onto the blades flared to life, chains of glowing runes snaking around her body, rooting her in place. Her magic, the ocean's song in her blood, was silenced, trapped within her own flesh. Then came the most profound violation. The primary tentacle, its tip sharpening into a psychic scalpel, pressed against the gentle swell of her abdomen. She felt a nauseating pressure, then an invasive, piercing cold as it phased through skin and muscle, seeking the child within. A silent scream tore through her mind. All she could hear was the frantic, double-time drum of two heartbeats—her own, and her baby's—clashing against the eerie, squelching sounds of the spectral appendage. The metallic, coppery smell of her own blood filled the air, a horrifying counterpoint to the clean, lemony scent of the room .
The assault was not merely physical; it was a targeted attack on the future, a calculated strike designed to extinguish a potential that threatened the established order. The perpetrators, a 70th-level Illusionist and her accomplices, moved with the cold precision of those who dealt in abstract concepts like power and legacy, utterly divorced from the raw, human terror of their victim. For them, Langhao was not a person but a strategic node; the child, a variable to be eliminated.
Miles away, within the pressurized silence of the Alchemy Tower, Yao was on the cusp of her examination. The sterile, orderly environment of the testing chamber, with its humming magical apparatus and the faint smell of ozone and heated metal, was a world apart. Yet, a sudden, inexplicable chill traced a path down her spine—a psychic tremor entirely separate from the arcane energies around her. It was a sensation of acute, personal violation, a ripple of panic and agony that resonated across a bond she seldom acknowledged. The communication from Lin Hangjing had been a pebble dropped into a still pond; this was a tidal wave. Without a second thought, her focus shattered, she abandoned the test interface and tried to reach Langhao. The dead silence that greeted her attempt was more terrifying than any scream. A cold, focused fury began to burn away all other concerns, its intensity startling even to her. The ambient light in the chamber seemed to dim, drawn into the vortex of her rising power .
Back in Jinling Mansion, the political chess game continued, a bland masquerade of civility masking brutal calculations. Men like Xie Fuyun and Que Baichen discussed Xie Keli's meteoric rise in terms of votes, family influence, and strategic countermeasures. It was a conversation of cold abstractions, of lives and futures as pieces on a board. Their detached scheming was brutally interrupted by a psychic shockwave that emanated from the direction of the commercial district. It was a pulse of pure, undiluted anguish, carrying the distinctive, sacred resonance of merfolk lineage in mortal distress—a mother's cry and a child's terror intertwined. The elegant facade of the gathering shattered. Fu Qiang, who had been playing the part of the gracious host, transformed in an instant. His face, usually a mask of amiable diplomacy, crumpled into a visage of sheer, unvarnished panic. All strategic considerations evaporated as he, along with other Fu family members, became simply family, rushing toward the source of that devastating signal .
But they were too far. The ritualistic violence was swift and precise. Just as hope seemed lost, a new presence manifested at the restroom doorway. Wei Mingtang stood there, her expression not one of hot anger, but of glacial, absolute zero. The air temperature plummeted. Without a word, she raised a hand. A colossal, spectral skeleton—an entity of pure death magic—materialized above the scene, its form woven from shadows and despair. Its bony claws, chilling the air around them, did not attack the assailants directly but instead descended to gently, yet imposingly, envelop Langhao's bleeding form, its presence severing the invasive psychic tendrils with the finality of a tomb slamming shut. The Illusionist and her partner, their carefully laid plan disrupted by this unforeseen variable, recognized the imminent arrival of far greater powers. Survival instinct overrode mission completion. In a coordinated flash of light and distorted space, they attempted to flee, scattering like cockroaches into the city's veins .
Their escape was short-lived. Before the first of them could even clear the building's perimeter, the very fabric of reality over the entire plaza groaned and shifted. A dome of pure, incandescent light erupted from the central transportation array, arching high overhead to form a perfect, immense cage—a Birdcage of searing luminosity. The walls of this prison were not smooth; they were vast, interwoven panels of mirrored light, reflecting and magnifying the terror of those trapped inside. And at the epicenter of this conjuration was Yao. She arrived not with a roar, but with a silence that was more deafening. Hovering in the air, the winds themselves seemed to still in reverence. Her eyes, now blazing with heterochromatic fury—one holding the chaotic probability of chance, the other the absolute command of the fey—swept across the scene below. The petty rivalries of the academies, the political maneuvering of the great families, all of it was reduced to irrelevant noise. There was only the scent of blood, the visual of grievous harm, and a cold, limitless wrath .
Her power unfolded with terrifying elegance. A palm opened, and an eye blinked into existence within it—the Probability-Slaying Eye. Across the plaza, a 70th-level assassin who had believed himself safely anonymous amidst the panicking crowd suddenly convulsed. His psychic defenses, honed over decades, were unmade not by force, but by statistical inevitability; they simply ceased to be. Before he could process this metaphysical annihilation, Yao's other pupil technique locked onto him. A wave of disorientation and paralysis froze him solid. Then, from the very cobblestones beneath his feet, gilded, scale-covered tentacles—manifestations of a bonded draconic spirit—burst forth. They pierced his armored boots with ease, not with violence, but with a dreadful, inevitable hunger. The crowd watched, mesmerized and horrified, as the powerful assassin was drained before their eyes, his body desiccating, his life force and magical core consumed in moments, until all that remained was a husk that crumbled into bitter ash. It was not a battle; it was an execution, a statement written in light and blood. The explosion that rocked the chapter's title was not one of mere fire and shrapnel, but of absolute, unforgiving retribution .