The peace of those two weeks had felt fragile, like thin ice after a thaw. Aurorris hummed again—orders came in, shelves filled, the online feeds lit with praise. Liang Chen had used the breathing room to study the trappings of the elite: chess openings and the logic behind them, the posture and cadence of an auctioneer, the restrained choreography of a proper tea ceremony. He'd felt the satisfaction of small victories—first neat drives on the golf range, a clumsy but improving gallop across a training field, fingers learning to articulate a violin line with more heart than noise. The world of refinement was complex, but not impenetrable. He could learn, and he would.
He hadn't considered that the war he'd won in the marketplace might spill out into the street.
It happened on a gray, humid afternoon. Liang had been walking back from a boutique that stocked Aurorris Prestige—checking fabric fits, testing customer feedback in person, doing what no CEO in a suit would bother with. He took the alley shortcut between two market streets out of habit: narrower, less crowded, a line of small eateries and a construction site opening into the lane. He liked the sound of footfall here, the scent of frying oil. It meant life.
Five figures stepped out of shadow at the mouth of the alley like a bad omen—a ragged formation of men with machetes and hard faces. Their jackets were cheap, their boots muddied. Weapons glinted in their hands.
For a moment Liang froze, instinct sharpening his vision. His body hummed with the memory of the training he'd started in spare hours—basic grappling, simple blocks, light sparring—but the men looked practiced, not amateur. The alley held no escape on the far end; the market was only a stone's throw away, but they had cut the path. He was surrounded.
A soundless alarm rang inside him as the system's flat electronic voice chimmed in his mind.
Threat to Life Detected. Host is surrounded by assassins. Providing help.
- Martial Arts (Lvl. 3)
- Enhanced Senses and Reflexes (Time-Limited: 2 hr)
- Enhanced Physique (Time-Limited: 2 hr)
Warmth spread through Liang's core, like the sudden flood of strength after cold water hits your skin. Muscles that had felt ordinary a heartbeat ago hummed awake. The alley's noises sharpened: a carpenter's saw at the site, distant honking, the faint laughter of a child in the market, a drip of water from a rusted pipe. He could feel the small differences in breeze across his collarbone. His heartbeat steadied; his breath found an easy rhythm.
That clarity lasted only seconds before the men moved. One of them—broad-shouldered, ugly scar through his eyebrow—spat the words like a curse. "Oh Boy, the Client wants you dead."
Liang kept his voice level. "What Client?"
The scar-man laughed. "Take a guess."
"The Duan family?" Liang said.
The man's eyes glittered. "Correct answer. Now die."
Their attack came like a short, ugly wave—machetes slicing low, a swing aimed to maim, a hook to the ribs. Liang's muscles answered with martial arts bestowed by the system; deflect the low strike with the forearm, twist the hips, use the opponent's momentum to break balance. He didn't think in steps—he acted.
He ducked and twisted, his fist finding a jaw. The blow felt like a meeting of two hard things; the man staggered but did not fall. The second man tried a sweep; Liang used his heel to shank out of it and pushed forward, shoulder into chest, a short barge that sent the attacker back. He wasn't winning—he was surviving. The enhanced physique let his punches carry heavier weight; the level-three martial skill taught him how to target joints, how to redirect energy. But five trained hands with blades were a storm even a novice dragon felt.
They closed in. The third man brought a machete across Liang's forearm. Steel seared; pain flared hot and sharp. Liang tasted metal. He twisted, using the pain as a pivot, swinging his shoulder and dumping his weight. The man grunted, but another charged and a boot caught Liang's thigh. Pain lanced him; everything narrowed.
Then a voice cut through the blur.
"He's a kid! Get the hell out of here!"
A group of construction workers at the adjacent site had noticed movement and rushed to the alley's mouth. Helmets, tool belts, callused hands—sudden, unexpected help. One of the men—broad, loud-mouthed, with cement dust on his forehead—shouldered a crowbar across his palm and shouted. The three closest attackers turned, splitting their attention the way a flame divides when oxygen comes. In the split-second hesitation, Liang saw his chance.
With the System's extra strength, he put everything into a single blow—a short rear-hand punch into the chest of the scarred man. The impact sent the attacker flying backward into the alley wall with a heavy, echoing thud. The man slumped, limp. The others blinked, recalculating.
Liang took the opportunity and dashed out of the alley and into the crowded market. The assassins gave chase but couldn't find him in the crowd. The people in the market were also startled to see five people rushing out of the alley with machte in hand. Chaos errupted as people started running here and there, some even threw things from vegetables, to utensils at the assassin, while other called police.
The assassins knew they couldn't catch Liang now and withdrew.
Liang stumbled into the nearest hotel, took a room and locked the door. His hand shook when he washed the blood away, the cut shallow but real; adrenaline masked bruising that would bloom later. He felt exhausted and exhilarated in equal measure. The System's boosts were emperor's gifts—powerful, but temporary.
"Xinya." Liang's voice was steadier than he felt.
There was a beat of static, then her warm, slightly amused tone answered. "Liang? It's late for you to be out. Everything all right? Did you finally decide to taste the 1998 Bordeaux I recommended?"
He heard the laugh in her voice and for a second almost smiled. "Not tonight. Five men just tried to kill me in an alley. Machetes. They said the Duans sent them."
Silence on the line, rapid and precise. When she spoke again it was all business, no teasing left at the edges. "Where are you now?"
"In a hotel. Room forty-two on Lujiang. I'm okay— but Xinya, they meant to end me."
She exhaled slowly. "I'll be there in an hour. Don't go anywhere." Then, softer, "Tell me everything from the start."
Soon Lin Xinya was there.
Liang ran through it: the alley, the way the men circled, the scarred leader, the swing that nicked his arm, how he punched one hard to create a diversion and escaped.
While he spoke, Xinya listened, each sentence folding into the next without interruption. At the end she was quiet a moment, then said simply, "They weren't amateurs."
"That's what I thought. They moved like pros."
"Yes." Her voice had that precise edge he'd learned to respect. "If they named Duan, then this isn't a random hit. But let me be blunt: the Duans don't usually get their hands dirty. They outsource."
"Outsource to who?" Liang asked.
"An organization the elite call the Blind Demon Sword of Gold," she said. "Outsiders might use different names, or call them mercenary networks. But within these circles, that phrase—Blind Demon Sword of Gold—flags a particular kind of contract: total deniability, no paper trail you can trace in a court, and operators who will cut ties the moment anyone looks too closely."
Liang felt a chill. "So it's real."
"Real and ugly." She folded the words like a map. "They're not one gang in a warehouse with skull tattoos. They're a loose but efficient ecosystem. Some are ex-military—trained shooters, close-quarters specialists. Others are criminal fixers who find safe houses, forge IDs, create shell companies for money to flow through. Payments get mixed into construction invoices, logistics contracts, charitable donations—anything to blur origin. Some employers hire them to take out rivals; others hire them to protect themselves. It's a service market with its own rules."
"How do they get hired if everything is hidden?" Liang asked, thinking aloud.
"Through layers," Xinya said. "Not direct calls. A consultant, a middleman, a shell firm. You never see the true sender until you go back five steps and the trail is gone. They float in the shadows of legitimate commerce—construction firms, import-export businesses, even catering companies. That's why attacks look like accidents, or 'wild' criminals taking advantage of a situation. It also gives the buyer the plausible deniability they crave."
He imagined that web and felt suddenly very small. "And the Duans—why stoop to this?"
"Because you publicly embarrassed them," she said simply. "Not just their business, but their pride. In those halls of elite, pride is currency. When they can't solve a problem with influence alone, they make a demonstration. It's petty, but effective. And dangerous, because once you cross into private violence, restraint stops being a principle everybody follows."
Liang let the words land. The System had given him reflexes and strength in a flash. It had been a crutch in a moment of need, not a strategy. "So we can be hit again, and harder next time."
"Yes." Her tone was level. "Which means you can't rely on miracles. You need real, permanent protection—and you need to make the Duans' moves costly."
He listened as she went on, the cadence of someone who had been taught to solve problems before breakfast.
"First: get discrete security. Retired special-ops, vetted contractors, not flashy bodyguards in suits; people who understand tradecraft and deniability. Second: multiple safe routes and alternate logistics for high-value shipments. Use your ExpressCart flexibility—rotate hubs, change manifests, create redundancy. Third: legal—pierce shell companies and show the money trail where possible. Public exposure can be a weapon. Fourth: relationships. You need allies who can open doors in courts and regulator offices. I can introduce discreet counsel. Finally, don't move alone. Always have a plan and a fallback."
He pictured each item as a chess move. "You'll help with introductions?"
"I will," Xinya said. "My family's network is tangled with people who handle… unpleasantness overseas. I'm not promising soldiers at the ready, but I can find professionals—reputable people who understand both law and deniability. I also know intermediaries who can verify the shell-client links quietly."
"Why are you doing this, Xinya?" he asked, not accusing, only wanting the truth. "You risk your family's displeasure."
Her laugh was almost a sigh. "You're dramatic, Liang Chen. I grew up around fortunes and strings pulled for instalments of power. I saw how often the 'right' side loses because everyone's afraid to move. You did something stupid and bold on their stage—exposed a blind spot. That makes you dangerous. And I'm… curious about your potential. Just don't forget these small graces."
There was a softness in her voice he hadn't expected. He felt the weight of it like a hand on his shoulder.
"I don't want you to put yourself at risk for me," he said.
"You won't be the first person I've annoyed for amusement," she replied lightly, then immediately practical. "Listen closely. Do not use social media. Move high-value material through multiple nodes. I'll provide two vetted security firms by tonight. One will be liaison-level—people who can coordinate movement, the other actual protective contractors. I'll also give you two contacts for legal counsel who know how to trace laundering without triggering the wrong people."
"How confident are you that they'll cooperate?" Liang asked.
"Enough to start," she answered. "Nothing is guaranteed. This is chess, not a sprint. It will be about outmaneuvering them."
A quiet resolve steeled inside him. "Thank you, Xinya. For the heads-up, and for stepping in."
"Don't be sentimental." Her tone softened into something almost teasing. "But… be careful, Liang. The Blind Demon Sword of Gold isn't a rumor you laugh at in salons. It's a transaction. Treat it with respect and you'll survive to play the rest of the game."
He let out a short breath that carried a smile through it. "Understood. I'll be careful."
"Good." She hesitated. "And one more thing—you owe me dinner. Preferably not in an alley."
He laughed despite the tension. "It's a date."
She didn't answer with the word love or promise; instead, she gave him the practical next step: "I'll send the first contact in thirty minutes. Stay put. Lock all doors. Change routes for the next seventy-two hours."
As she left, the city noise seeping through the window seemed at once smaller and sharper. He felt the old certainty—the System had saved him, but human networks would keep him alive. Xinya's calm had done more than reassure. It had given him a strategy, and with strategy came the real salve he needed: agency.
He also made sure to take revenge on Duans. "Since they came after my life, I will also destroy them completely."