By nine o’clock, Zhang Han had lost count of how many times she had recited the Great Compassion Mantra.

  At first, she thought it was only to steady her nerves. But then—she saw it.

  Pale golden threads rose from her palms, drifting softly toward the doors and windows. They wove themselves together, faint but unbroken, forming a film of light so thin it seemed to breathe with the house itself.

  Was this… the “protective barrier” YiChen had spoken of?

  He hadn’t lied.

  In the living room, ChengYu still sat cross-legged, eyes shut in stubborn concentration. When she glanced over, she could almost swear she saw a ripple of light around him—shimmering like breath, like heat above stone, like the faint glow of embers.

  Her heart squeezed. Was it only her imagination? Or had the world itself already changed?

  She rubbed her tired eyes, reached for her phone to check the time—

  and froze.

  A short video filled the screen.

  The footage shook with each hurried step of the one filming, the light dim, but the figure carving through black mist—blade flashing silver—was unmistakable.

  —YiChen.

  The phone slipped from her fingers, clattering against the floor.

  “Mom? What happened?”

  ChengYu’s eyes snapped open.

  She didn’t answer. She stooped, picked the phone up with trembling hands, as though she held something impossibly fragile.

  ChengYu leaned in. The instant he saw the figure, his voice broke into a cry of joy:

  “It’s brother! It’s brother!!”

  He bounded across the room, nearly toppling the coffee table. “I knew it! He’s the strongest! The mantra really works! He’s amazing!”

  Zhang Han caught his flailing arms, pressing him tightly to her chest. Her gaze stayed fixed on the still frame—YiChen, leading strangers through chaos, posture like a drawn blade, eyes hard with unyielding resolve.

  Her lips pressed tight, pale as paper.

  Outside, the streetlamps flickered, shadows shivering across the glass.

  On the television, the broadcast scrolled urgent across the bottom of the screen:

  Mass panic has broken out tonight at Aurora East Hospital, suspected to be linked to an unknown attack. Authorities urge all citizens to avoid the area.

  “Your brother…” she whispered, smoothing a hand over ChengYu’s hair, her voice breaking into a quiet sigh. “…he went to find your father.”

  The boy stilled, then curled tighter into her arms, clutching her waist as if anchoring himself against the dark.

  “Brother will bring Dad back,” he murmured, as though swearing an oath. “He never loses.”

  Zhang Han closed her eyes, pressing her child close. Her gaze drifted toward the window, to the endless night pressing against the glass.

  Her fingers unconsciously traced the edge of the phone. A single prayer caught in her chest, fragile as breath:

  Come back safe… Both of you. You are my whole world.

  ——————

  The silver veins on the fire axe still pulsed faintly as YiChen surged onto the second floor.

  Behind him, the crowd stumbled upward, their flashlights jittering wildly, beams shaking across the walls like broken bones of light.

  “Stay close!” YiChen barked—then froze.

  “Waaah—!”

  A baby’s thin cry split the dark, followed by a woman’s desperate scream:

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  “Help us!!”

  The sound tore from the far end of the corridor—

  the nursery.

  YiChen’s grip tightened on the axe. In two heartbeats, his decision was made.

  His boot slammed the door wide.

  Shadows lunged.

  He didn’t flinch. His body shot forward like an arrow loosed.

  Shhhhk—!

  The first fiend split apart before it touched him, the axe cleaving its core in a single sweep. Black mist scattered, hissing as it dissolved.

  The second lunged from the flank. YiChen pivoted, the axe’s shaft smashing into its chest with a crack like thunder. The core burst against plaster.

  The third dropped from the ceiling. He didn’t even look. Instinct alone guided his strike upward—silver light nailing it into the ruined chandelier before it burst apart.

  Fourth. Fifth. Sixth. Seventh.

  Each strike clean. Ruthless. Unbroken.

  The axe blazed like a falling star. Every blow rang steel against silence. YiChen advanced step by step, a war god striding through the dark. Screams flared, then cut short, drowned beneath his blade.

  The first two wards stood empty, IV stands clattering faintly on the tiles.

  From the third—glass shattered.

  A tar-black shadow burst through the window, strips of rotted bandage streaming in the air.

  YiChen’s eyes hardened.

  “Out of my sight.”

  He leapt. One crescent sweep—

  The shadow tore down the middle, mist spattering across the wall. Where it touched, plaster corroded into riddled holes.

  Holding his breath, YiChen pushed through the poison haze. Infant cries tangled with a woman’s sobs.

  His boot crashed the nursery door open.

  Three shadows clung above the incubators like grotesque bats. Tendrils had already pierced soft skulls. One baby’s lips quivered faintly—face gray as ash.

  “Vermin.”

  YiChen’s palm burned with spirit. He seized one fiend by the throat, silver light searing through mist. His axe swept sideways. Core cracked. Ash fell.

  The other two shrieked, tendrils pulsing silver threads—siphoning life straight from the newborns.

  YiChen dropped the axe. Hands clapped together.

  “Shock.”

  The blast cracked like thunder. A ring of force locked them midair, their forms distorting, convulsing.

  The axe flew back into his grip, patterns blazing.

  One vertical. One horizontal.

  Two strokes of light.

  Ash scattered before their cries could escape.

  The nursery stilled.

  In the corner, two nurses—arms slick with blood—still clutched shards of glass, backs pressed to the wall.

  YiChen strode to the incubators. On five tiny chests, faint stains pulsed beneath the skin—shadows crawling beneath flesh.

  “Purify with saline,” he ordered, voice iron.

  He tore down a curtain, sketched a ward across the fabric with his blood, thrust it into a nurse’s hands.

  “Hang this at the door. They won’t cross again.”

  “Wait—”

  BOOM!

  The floor shook. Windows rattled. Smoke belched from Block E.

  YiChen’s head snapped up, pupils contracting.

  His father’s ward was there.

  “They’ll retreat at dawn,” he said quickly, thrusting the cloth into trembling hands. His gaze flicked once to the infants. “Just hold out.”

  He turned and ran.

  Behind him, a strangled plea broke the silence:

  “You’ll come back… won’t you?”

  YiChen didn’t turn. Wind coiled at his heels, his whisper slicing the dark:

  “I will.”

  ———————

  At the fourth-floor fire door, the hallway seethed with groans and sobs.

  Bed wheels shrieked against the tiles—harsh, metallic, like knives dragged across glass.

  “Aren’t we going in?”

  A girl with a ponytail clutched YiChen’s arm, nails biting deep.

  “My dad’s in 409! He just had heart surgery!”

  YiChen halted.

  His chest clenched.

  Something hot and wild surged through his blood, spirit flooding his fingertips unbidden.

  He knew.

  His father wasn’t here.

  Higher. Darker. More dangerous.

  “The sixth floor.”

  He tore free, sprinting up the stairwell.

  “Wait! My mom’s in 503!”

  “Orthopedics is five—!”

  Voices cracked behind him, ragged and breaking.

  YiChen didn’t slow.

  The axe seared in his grip, veins of light crawling alive across its haft.

  “Follow me—or hide.”

  He kicked the fire door wide.

  A blast of icy air struck his face.

  The corridor swam with gray mists, each pulsing with a crimson core.

  “Ahhh—!”

  A scream split the dark.

  His father’s voice.

  From the far end—ICU.

  The fiends froze. Then, tasting blood, spun into frenzy.

  “Out of my way!!”

  YiChen’s roar cracked the silence. His axe swept wide, silver fire ripping the dark, cleaving several fiends into ash.

  But more gathered, pressing close, suffocating. Every breath iced his lungs.

  “…Fools.”

  His lips curled cold. He released the axe.

  It hovered midair, veins of silver flaring—no longer wood and steel, but a vessel of sword intent.

  The axe shuddered like a dragon’s cry, splitting into seven mirrored shadows.

  “Sever.”

  His finger slashed the air.

  Seven axe-shadows rained down like a collapsing Milky Way.

  Each pierced a core. The corridor dissolved into a storm of black snow.

  Two patients lurched forward, possessed, howling inhuman cries.

  YiChen smashed a crash cart into their path. His palms clapped together.

  “Shock!”

  Thunder detonated. Spirit surged. Black mist spewed from their mouths, writhing like worms.

  YiChen vaulted high, seized the axe, and brought it down blazing with silver flame.

  BOOM—!

  The shadows tore apart. Silence slammed down.

  He wrenched the ICU doors open.

  A wall of stench rolled out—rot, blood, death.

  Five patients lay shriveled in their beds, corpses twisted beyond recognition.

  And in the corner—

  A humanoid shadow hunched over Mark’s chest.

  Fingers buried between ribs, tugging at silver-white threads of life.

  “Let him go!!”

  YiChen’s roar shattered glass.

  The axe flew—crescent silver cleaving the core clean through.

  The shadow convulsed. Burst apart.

  “Dad!!”

  YiChen dropped to his knees.

  Mark’s face was blue, lips purple, breath fluttering on the edge of nothing.

  YiChen pressed both hands against his chest, spirit flooding, burning his own veins raw.

  His teeth cut his tongue. A drop of blood fell onto his father’s skin—blood-forging taboo.

  Black mist writhed. Dissolved.

  “…YiChen?”

  The voice was faint. But it was his father’s.

  The axe slipped from YiChen’s grip, clattering to the floor.

  Only then did he realize—his body was drenched in cold sweat, hands trembling beyond control.

  So close. A fraction slower, and—

  YiChen bent his head low, voice raw, torn, yet unshakably firm:

  “It’s over.”