The West Wing was no longer a structure of stone and glass; it had become a chimney for a spectral, emerald fire. This wasn't a natural combustion. The green hue indicated a chemical fire fueled by copper sulfate and a volatile accelerant—Shao-Hui's "Dragon's Breath." The fumes were a neurotoxic cocktail designed to paralyze the lungs before the heat ever reached the skin.
Lian skidded to a halt at the edge of the perimeter. His "God-level" medical mind instantly mapped the danger. 'Alkaline smoke. Standard water will only feed the reaction.'
He tore his black turtleneck upward, covering his nose and mouth, but he knew fabric wasn't enough. He lunged toward the garden's decorative fountain, not for the water, but for the bed of crushed charcoal and activated limestone used in the filtration system.
With the speed of a battlefield medic, he dumped a pouch of high-grade vinegar (used for his herbal extractions) into a handful of the charcoal, creating a makeshift chemical filter. He stuffed the mixture into a silk handkerchief and tied it tightly around his face.
"Hao-Ran!" he roared, his voice muffled but carrying the weight of a command.
The wing groaned. Lian plunged into the green haze.
The Labyrinth of EmbersInside, the world was a nightmare of distorted light. The green flames licked the ceiling, dripping like burning wax. Lian's Haphephobia was being hammered by the sheer sensory assault—the heat was a physical touch, a violent embrace from the atmosphere itself.
'I am the Master of the Elements,' he chanted internally, his King's soul overriding the body's urge to collapse. 'The fire does not touch the Sovereign. The smoke is but a veil.'
He reached the server room's reinforced doors. They were warped from the heat, the electronic lock glowing a lethal red. Through the reinforced glass port, he saw Hao-Ran. His older brother was slumped against the primary server rack, clutching a fireproof data drive. He was conscious, but his eyes were glassy; he was breathing in the toxin.
Lian didn't have the key. He didn't have time to hack the scorched panel.
He grabbed a heavy bronze decorative bust from the hallway—an ancestor's likeness—and used his knowledge of structural weak points. He didn't just swing; he struck the door's hinge pin at the exact thermal stress point where the metal was most brittle.
CRACK.
The door buckled. Lian kicked it open and lunged into the server room. The temperature here was high enough to melt plastic.
"Lian..." Hao-Ran gasped, his hand feebly holding out the drive. "The... the data. I saved... the Aether core..."
"Forget the core," Lian hissed. He checked Hao-Ran's pulse. It was erratic. The green fire's toxin was causing a laryngeal spasm.
Lian didn't hesitate. He pulled a small bamboo tube from his belt—a traditional tool for emergency airways. He didn't have a scalpel, so he used a sharpened silver hair-pin he kept as a concealed weapon.
"Hold still," Lian commanded. With surgical precision, he performed a rapid needle cricothyrotomy, inserting the hollow tube into Hao-Ran's throat to bypass the swelling.
Hao-Ran's chest heaved. A ragged, whistling breath entered his lungs.
The Sovereign's ExitLian hoisted Hao-Ran over his shoulder. The physical contact was agonizing; the heat made Hao-Ran's skin feel like a brand against Lian's neck. His brain flashed with memories of the kidnapping—being dragged, being touched, being helpless.
"No," Lian growled, his eyes burning with a golden light. "I am the one who carries. I am the one who decides."
He sprinted back through the collapsing hallway. A support beam cracked above them, raining sparks. Lian pivoted, his martial training allowing him to shift Hao-Ran's weight and slide beneath the falling timber with inches to spare.
He burst through the exit just as the West Wing's roof imploded.
He laid Hao-Ran on the grass, a safe distance away. He pulled off his makeshift mask, gasping for the clean night air. His face was soot-stained, his clothes singed, but his eyes were fixed on the burning building.
He had saved his brother. He had saved the data. But as he looked at the green flames, he saw a silhouette standing on the far edge of the garden—the silver-haired man.
The Viper didn't move. He simply raised a hand in a mocking wave before vanishing into the shadows of the trees.
Lian's hand went to his throat. He felt the "Extreme Loneliness" fade, replaced by a cold, crystalline resolve. Shao-Hui had tried to burn his world.
"Now," Lian whispered, his voice like grinding stones. "It's my turn to bring the fire."
He turned back toward the main house. The green fire reflected in his obsidian eyes. "Jin-Ho... I hope you've kept that nurse alive. I have questions that only pain can answer."