At the Ouyang Clan—

“Let’s lay out everything we know.” The man in a black suit stood like a dark pillar by the lectern, a stack of files fanned like winter leaves in his hand.

Before him stretched a U-shaped conference table. Twenty-some seats were filled, like tiles snug on a mosaic, making the room tight but not cramped.

“Thanks to Ouyang Si’s covert op, we’ve got the spark and fuel to restart the plan.” At his words, gazes swung like compass needles toward Ouyang Si at the side.

“Just a small merit. Go on.” Ouyang Si shrugged, lifted a hand, and waved the man to continue, his face a lake gone still.

Everyone here was either a top fighter or a power-holder of the Ouyang Clan, a ring of steel; even the usually loose Ouyang Si had to button up, like rain stilled before frost.

“The S‑gene serum, developed by the late Doctor, a formula meant to mass-produce ability users.” The screen bloomed with an emerald-green vial, cold as pond water.

“After that, we suffered a brutal betrayal.” His voice hit a low note; the room’s breath grew heavy like a storm front, fists curling like coiled rope.

“Bloo—ranked third—depths unfathomable. If the Number One hadn’t acted that day, we’d have dropped from the Three Clans, or bled out for years like a wintered tree.”

“The AI that used to be our pride burned every S‑gene dataset and sample, a wildfire through our vaults, forcing us to bury a plan years in the making.” His tone sank like dusk. “Now, this new blood sample breaks the wall we couldn’t cross, and drags side effects down to the floor—low enough to begin mass production whenever we wish.”

“Then what are we waiting for? Start!” Someone burst out, a spark popping from dry kindling.

The table stirred with whispers, low surf on a stony shore. The suited man rapped the board; the sharp sound was a pebble in a still pond.

“We need time to set the stage. We must liaise with the Church in Europe, plant pieces inside the Organization, and fan storms across China. When the wind and tides align, we move.”

Eyes around the table caught fire, hot as coals under ash; with that map drawn, everyone felt the wait was not idle but a bow being drawn.

“One more point. Everything we hold now—besides those in this room—not a soul knows. Not the Tang Clan, not the Lin Clan, not the Organization.” His words fell like a lock clicking shut.

“So we don’t just make headlines; we hook them and drag them through the mud.” A man lounged with one leg over the other, a knuckle-duster spinning on his fingers like a coin.

“That’s the gist. Before we start, we stage a play—a long one, and a good one.” He killed the screen; his hands planted on the table, his gaze swept them like a blade of wind.

“You arrange it. I don’t care.” Ouyang Si pressed his temples, irritation rising like smoke; the thought of another maze of trouble made his chest feel crowded.

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Outside the conference room—

“Si-ge, you did great this time.” A young man clapped Ouyang Si’s shoulder, his voice soft yet ringing out like a pebble skittering across stone.

“Ouyang Xichen, you little punk, don’t start trouble here.” Ouyang Si’s mouth twitched; his palm landed on Ouyang Xichen’s head with a light thud, like knocking on a gourd.

“Ouyang Si, you did well. We didn’t say it inside, but everyone knows.” A man several steps ahead turned, his gaze steady as a lantern in mist.

“Ouyang Xiu, you flatter me.” Surprise flickered across Ouyang Si’s face, a ripple on still water; he hadn’t expected praise from the man ranked eighth.

The others halted too, eyes on Ouyang Si, each giving a small nod, like leaves tipping in a shared wind.

“All right. What I did is only the first spark. The blaze after this depends on all of you.” Ouyang Si smiled and led the way down the corridor, his steps even as a metronome.

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“Young Master, you really won’t blame me?” In the Rolls-Royce, Lin Yumo hugged her little plush, nerves fluttering like moths as she looked at Lin Fan.

“Just teasing…” Lin Fan joked, warmth rising first like a sunrise, then snagging on a sudden flash in his mind. His hand lifted to ruffle her hair, then froze like a bird mid-flight. “She looks so much like you…” he murmured, eyes drifting over the girl’s dark-green hair like reeds by water. “If you were here beside me now… how good that’d be.”

“What’s wrong, Young Master?” Lin Yumo watched him, his daze like fog on glass. “It’s been so long, and you’ve changed in strange little ways.”

“It’s nothing. You’ll probably know someday, and I… I hope that day comes.” Lin Fan shook his head, as if to scatter crows, and turned to the window’s stream of light.

“Mm… weird Young Master.” Lin Yumo pouted; her gaze dropped and snagged on the small hole in the door her shot had punched earlier. Heat rushed to her cheeks like a rising ember.

Soon, the car rolled to a stop before a towering high-rise, its glass skin cold as a cliff face.

“We’re here. Let’s go.” Lin Fan stepped out first; Lin Yumo grabbed her plush and followed, her steps light as cat paws.

“Hello, please verify your ID.” The guards knew them, but rules stood like a gate of iron.

They passed the checks quickly and entered the building. The first floor looked plain, a gray river stone—nothing like the gloss a high-tier organization should wear.

“Which floor first?” Lin Yumo slipped into the elevator and fussed with her bangs in the mirror, like a sparrow arranging feathers.

“Over there first. Let’s redo the registration.” Lin Fan swiped his card; the reader beeped like a drop in a quiet pool, and he pressed the button.

Ding. The doors slid open. Nervous, Yumo pinched Lin Fan’s cuff and followed him out, a small shadow trailing a taller one.

“Young Master of the Lin Clan, welcome.” The receptionist not far from the elevator came forward, smile bright as a polished bell.

“Take Yumo for registration. Her training’s finished.” Lin Fan set a hand on Lin Yumo’s back and nudged her forward, gentle as wind on grass.

“Young Master… I’ll go then.” Led by the receptionist, Lin Yumo looked back at Lin Fan, eyes round as moonlit pools.

“Mm…”