“Lady Iris Flower is here?”

On the high dais of the main hall, a girl with cropped gold hair frowned, her brow knotted like a willow leaf as the deputy reported below.

Her name was Viola, head of Lianhua, the largest underground society in Sata City, its roots coiling like vines in the dark.

She’d once belonged to the Garden Witches; when they spread like wind through reeds, they sent members to seed branches, and Lianhua bloomed as one such branch.

Branch members were cut from the trunk like pruned twigs; only the head could speak to the main lineage, a strict pyramid of rank no one dared climb across.

After hearing the report, doubt rippled through Viola’s chest like cold water; the Garden Witches’ chief was a storm-top figure, second to none, so why appear without a hint of thunder?

Viola smoothed her collar like pressing petals. “Go. I’ll meet her after.”

“Yes.” The deputy, dressed like a bartender, slipped through a dark door like a fish into a black stream.

This hall lay forty meters deep, a stone womb with no front gate, only twelve secret doors like a cunning hare’s many burrows.

Each door opened to a different vein in the earth, exits braided like roots; even under attack, they could vanish like mist at dawn.

Once the deputy left, Viola turned toward the empty chief’s seat, pressed fist to heart, and offered a ritual salute like a bud bowing to the sun.

“Elder Sister, how do you read this? Is it truly Lady Iris Flower?”

Viola was the head here; only the Garden Witches’ high elders could draw such a bow from her, a moon pulling tides.

Her salute still echoing, the four corners fluttered with wingbeats, sound like silk fans snapping open in the dark.

They dove, swept past the candelabra, throwing a flood of black shadow, and shapes sharpened into bats, crimson as old wine.

They swarmed to the chief’s seat and pooled like liquid night, melting and rising until a silhouette grew breasts, hands, and a smile.

At the last moment they burst like ripe fruit; with a three-tiered lady’s laugh, a blood princess with signature fangs sat, elegant as a thorned rose.

She wore a black strappy dress, petal-ruffled like a pomegranate bloom, and black heels with ribbon ties that perched like butterflies.

She tossed her blood-red hair, and it streamed behind her like a banner in a wind that smelled of iron.

It was BloodRose, one of the Garden Witches’ Four Heavenly Kings—true name Rosalie—making a grand entrance like a comet.

Vampires endure like winter pines; not long ago, the Great Moon Sage had crippled her with his own hand, yet she sprang back like a spring shoot.

Alive, kicking, fierce—scar healing doesn’t mean the pain is gone; it just hides under skin like an ember.

BloodRose crossed one leg over the other, pale thigh bright as porcelain, and propped her cheek in her palm with a cat’s amused laziness.

“What an Iris Flower,” she purred, laughter like glass chimes. “Hehehehe… The real Iris Flower’s holed up in Tos City, sulking two months; how could she be here?”

Viola shivered like a leaf. “Then you mean—?”

“Fake, for sure.” BloodRose’s words struck like nails. “Some little thief. Daring to wear our colors. The sky’s upside down.”

Viola knew BloodRose was a blade in velvet; displease her, and her seat would crumble like sand. She rushed to please, voice soft as oil.

“Understood. I’ll handle them. We just found a fitting sacrifice to welcome Elder Sister and wash the dust off.”

BloodRose’s brow pinched; she waved her hand, smile tilting like a knife, and a sly note slid into her laugh.

“No rush. Bring them up. I want my own eyes on it. Blood tastes best while it’s still singing in a living vein. Hehehe…”

She reclined, gaze dropping like frost from the chief’s seat, already weaving how to pluck the brat who dared pose as Iris Flower.

She crooked a finger at Viola, a hooked moon. “Stand here. It’s not on you. I’m here for business—how’s the preaching?”

Viola stepped close, bowed low like a reed in wind, her flattering smile sticky as honey.

“Elder Sister, preaching’s smooth as silk. These common folk haven’t seen the world; even Sata City’s lord believes that if he sticks with us, he’ll reincarnate in an otherworld as a rich loli beauty.”

“With the epidemic raging like wildfire, even wealthy cowards with no taste for it hand us heavy coin out of fear. Our top performance plaque is within reach—within reach!”

BloodRose tugged her arm, hinting grace with a velvet pull. “You. Be elegant. Bloom slowly. Then stun the crowd. Understand?”

Viola nodded like a pecking chick. “I’ll remember Elder Sister’s teaching.”

BloodRose let a small smile curve, then spoke, cadence rising and dipping like a flute line with hidden steel.

“It’s time Iris Flower retired. While she sat the throne, I had to play the honest number two. Little Viola, tell me—wouldn’t it be a pity if the Four Heavenly Kings were down one?”

The promise gleamed like gold under ash; when she rose, Viola would be groomed as a heart-trusted blade, a seat among the Kings.

Viola caught the hint and tasted joy like sweet tea; she bowed and laid flattery like brocade. “Then I’ll need our number one to nurture me.”

The compliment landed true; BloodRose laughed, chimes turning wicked. “Hehehe… Fine. Bring them in.”

“Let me see what little mouse dares to impersonate a Garden Witch. Real or fake, one glance will tell. Bring them!”

“Bring them!” Viola echoed, swagger sharp as lacquer, voice cracking the air.

All twelve secret doors swung open like petals, and ranks of witches and wizards marched out in tidy lines, circling Lingcai and the Little Moon Sage like a tightening ring.

They crossed their arms, fists to heart, knees dipping, and saluted up toward the dais like a field of grain bowing to the wind.

“May the Chief rise step by step! May Lady BloodRose find all things as she wishes!”

The scene pleased Viola like a reflection in polished jade; but BloodRose spotted the Little Moon Sage beside Lingcai, and her blood surged like a struck drum.

Shit. That face looks familiar.

Viola missed the twist in BloodRose’s features; she hadn’t studied Iris Flower’s face, but she was sure the Little Moon Sage wasn’t her, so she crowed, voice sharp as a gong.

“With the real boss in the house, what rat dares squat here? You’ve got guts—faking it right before the true banner!”

The Little Moon Sage ignored her, smile warm as moonlight, eyes lifting to BloodRose like a teasing breeze.

“Long time no see, Rosalie. Do your words still whistle through when you talk?”

BloodRose sprang up, eyes blazing, and her left hand flew to cover her freshly set incisors like a moth to flame.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

She kept her face cold as stone, but inside she wailed, grief hitting like three waves.

The Great Moon Sage might have turned into a busty loli, but that face—even in ashes—she’d know like her own shadow.

A healed scar doesn’t erase the pain; the memory of being pummeled and having her front teeth pried out was a lifetime bruise.

Viola saw BloodRose stand and tugged her finger, puzzled like a child. “Elder Sister? What’s wrong? Please, sit.”

BloodRose jolted, then for face’s sake forced out two awkward laughs like dry coughs, and sat back down, stiff as a statue.

Seeing her seated again, Viola rolled on with swagger, words snapping like firecrackers at the Little Moon Sage.

“Who are you! How dare you speak Elder Sister’s name! Is that a name your mouth can touch? I’ll give you one chance. Say it right. I won’t hear it twice!”

Viola didn’t know that once seated, BloodRose had tucked her legs together, hands on knees, sitting prim like a schoolgirl, barely daring to breathe.

“You ask who I am?” The Little Moon Sage smiled, calm as a clear pond. “I’m Iris Flower, of course. If you don’t believe me, ask her.”

She sent BloodRose a meaningful smile, curved like a sickle; that single glance made BloodRose’s heart quiver like a trapped bird.

Viola drew breath to retort, but BloodRose’s nails bit into her backside, two talons writing pain like hot ink.

“Yah!” Viola yelped; two red tracks blossomed on her skin like twin petals, yet she missed the message, confused by BloodRose’s sudden roughness.

“Why are you—she isn’t even—” Viola’s eyes brimmed like dew.

“Not what? I’m not, or she’s not?” BloodRose’s face went iron-blue, voice flat as a blade. “She is Iris Flower—because I said so.”

“Even if she isn’t, if I say she is, she is. If she weren’t, that’d be the real trouble.”

Huh? What kind of knot is this?

Viola blinked, lost in fog; then, like a lamp lit, understanding flared.

This person must hold some handle on Elder Sister BloodRose; otherwise, how would the strong, beautiful BloodRose fear a fake?

Despicable little worm.

With that thought, Viola’s face hardened like frost; she snorted toward the Little Moon Sage and Lingcai, voice low as thunder.

“You’ve come bearing bad wind.”

“You’re the one who’s come,” the Little Moon Sage replied.