*Pfft.*

Anning pulled the short sword from the corpse’s throat.

Arterial blood spurted out—dripping, drizzling like a fountain, like sudden rain.

She stood in the crimson shower, face impassive, flicking blood from the blade before sliding it back into the thigh-strapped scabbard.

Crimson specks stained her pale skin, sharpening her icy aura. She truly looked like a queen now—commanding life and death, awe-inspiring in calm, lethal in wrath.

From stray dog to nemesis of the Others, Anning had transformed in just one month.

First, she rallied her father’s old loyalists. Then she seized authority, won hearts, earned official recognition, and dismantled rival Other factions one after another—nearly unifying the city’s entire Other underworld.

Feast the loyal. Behead the defiant. Keep the rest on leashes.

Carrot and stick.

She shed every trace of naivety, thriving in blood-soaked strife, manipulating hearts and wielding power with chilling grace. In thirty days, she uncovered every participant in the last Witch’s Night.

Render unto God what is God’s. Unto Satan, what is Satan’s.

Her mission: send them to meet both.

The twelfth traitor now lay at her feet.

An Other tasked with evidence collection entered, bowing deeply.

“Miss. We found it. Mr. Zhang of the Board orchestrated Old Master An’s murder during the last Witch’s Night. Here—documents he failed to destroy.”

“Mm.”

Anning nodded without a flicker of emotion, narrowed her eyes, and strode to the floor-to-ceiling window. Beyond, the An Group headquarters glowed under the night sky.

“Let’s go,” she waved. “Back to the An Group.”

The Other kept his head bowed.

“Yes, Miss.”

He clapped. A cleanup crew filed in—swift, silent, transforming the murder scene into one of accidental death.

Anning peeled off her bloodied trench coat without a glance, revealing a sleek black cocktail dress. She took sunglasses from an aide, slipped them on, and turned away.

Elegant steps. Swirling hem.

Night cloaked the sky. The Witch’s ballad drifted on the air. Ordinary people switched off lights, sinking gently into dreams.

Only the Others opened their eyes. On this once-a-month Witch’s Night, reborn and restless, they clamored like summer cicadas.

Another sleepless night. Another tide of blood.

…

Against the void-like dark, the An Group tower blazed defiantly.

Ordinary folk slept. But most An Group staff were Others—unaffected by Witch’s Night, working as usual: researchers buried in labs, managers in meetings, clerks shuffling papers, guards standing post.

Too normal. Unnervingly so.

*Screeeech—*

A brutal brake shattered the silence.

The canine gatekeeper perked his ears, peering from his booth. A black car idled beside him—waiting. *But… Witch’s Night? Shouldn’t all Others be inside?*

Confusion flickered in his beast-pupiled eyes.

He waved instinctively. The window rolled down.

Anning offered a rare smile.

“Uncle Lin. Long time no see.”

“L-Little Miss?!”

He froze. Trembling. Pupils shrinking. Like he’d seen a ghost.

Anning’s voice stayed calm.

“It’s me. No need to fear, Uncle Lin. I know you didn’t betray my father… so I won’t trouble you. Open the gate.”

“Y-Yes!”

He fumbled the button. The barrier rose. A pitch-black convoy glided through—silent as phantoms.

Calm before the storm.

Mouth agape, he almost called Security… then stopped. *This isn’t my fight.* Just watch. Wait. Resume guarding tomorrow.

Others’ joys and sorrows meant nothing to a gatekeeper. He only sensed… noise coming.

He slumped into his chair, lifted his chipped enamel mug, and sipped chrysanthemum tea.

*Big news tonight,* he thought.

…

Young people crave headlines. Anning was young too.

So she’d make one.

Doors opened in the parking lot. Anning stepped out—*tap*—heels clicking. As her skirt swayed, a silent tide of Others poured forth.

She lifted the hem, drew the thigh-sheathed short sword.

Light flashed. The blade lengthened—from thirty centimeters to over a meter. She gripped it, resting it at her side.

“Let’s go,” she murmured. “Burn the traitors to ash.”

Roars erupted. Behind her, Others unveiled monstrous forms—claws bared, fangs gleaming, weapons raised—swarming the lobby like insects guarding their queen.

Security finally reacted. A squad of Others surged out. Their captain, a hulking specter, raised a giant scythe, flashed before Anning, and swung—

*Snap.*

Scythe and captain severed mid-strike. The silent villain became corpse in a breath.

Blood sprayed the ceiling, floor, her pale skin, her little black dress.

Amid the crimson haze, Anning looked up—expressionless—at the guards: bewildered, trembling like quails.

Thunderous cheers erupted behind her.

“Begin.”

She flicked blood from the blade and whispered the command.

Like sharks freed from nets, scenting blood, they surged.

Others advanced with grins, weapons high. Bullets clinked harmlessly off hides. Gunpowder stung the air—then screams. Then blood drowned all else.

These were Lower District veterans—blood-hardened, ruthless. Ordinary security guards? Child’s play.

In the Others’ world, power rose with rank. How could Board-member Mr. Zhang need *these* guards?

They were just his lackeys from the last Witch’s Night rebellion—decorations to fool humans.

Anning spared them one glance, said nothing, and led three followers into the elevator.

Her target was Mr. Zhang alone.

…

The elevator halted silently on the 33rd floor.

Anning stepped out. Three Others followed her down the hushed corridor to the conference room door.

Her mole had confirmed: the Board met here tonight.

*Is he inside? Did Security warn him?*

She pressed the sword tip to the door and pushed.

No crowd of directors. Only one man sat at the far end of the vast table—silver-haired, kind-faced, gazing up at her.

“You’ve come, child?” he asked calmly.

“Mm.” Anning nodded. “I’m here, Uncle Zhang.”

No blades drawn. No shouts. Just polite words between girl and her father’s killer.

He blinked in mild surprise, then smiled.

“Impressive. Truly Old An’s daughter. So mature already… hiding every emotion. Good. Very good. Had I known you’d rise this high, I shouldn’t have spared you that day.”

“True,” Anning agreed softly. “Without your mercy, I couldn’t have unified the Lower District… or returned tonight with an army. You should’ve killed me then.”

“Couldn’t bear to,” Mr. Zhang waved a weary hand. “Age softens the heart. I watched you grow up, Ningning. I just… couldn’t.”

“And now?”

*Could it really be this easy?* Anning thought. *Then I won’t hold back.*

“Now… things are different.”

Mr. Zhang pushed back his chair, rising slowly—hand braced on his lower back.

Co-founder of An Group. Older than her father. Just an aging man. No horns. No tail. No demon grandeur.

He stood with hands behind his back, gaze drifting away. Silent. Pondering. Then he turned, cloudy eyes settling on her, a helpless smile forming.

“Back then, I could spare you, Anning. You were weak. But now… you’ve become a storm. I can’t let you live.”

“For the sake of overthrowing human rule… and restoring the Others’ glory.”

“So, my dear,” he said kindly, “I must ask you to die.”