The shattered hilt of his Dadao (大刀) lay at General Tiě Shān’s feet, its remains glinting dully under the sun like a broken promise. A stunned silence gripped the soldiers around him, their confidence shattered along with their commander's blade. Then, through their ranks, a figure emerged.

  Captain Zhào did not run. He did not shout. He walked with a predator’s calm, each step measured and deliberate. The Soul Scratcher rested in its scabbard at his hip, but its presence was already felt—a waiting, silent tension thrumming in the air.

  He stopped twenty paces from the generals. His eyes, cold and focused, locked not on Tiě Shān, but on Bái Yá, the spearman.

  “You,” Zhào’s voice cut through the tension, low and clear. “You commanded your men to spear a cornered animal—cowardly. A true general fights his own battles.”

  Bái Yá’s lip curled in a sneer, but before he could retort, Tiě Shān let out a guttural roar of fury. The humiliation of being disarmed without seeing his enemy burned hotter than any forge-fire.

  “You!” the mountain of a man bellowed, his face contorted with rage. He ripped a standard-issue jiàn sword from the scabbard of a stunned soldier beside him. The blade looked like a toy in his massive hand. “I will break you in half for this insult!”

  He dropped into a low, powerful stance, the stolen sword held in a two-handed grip. Every muscle in his body coiled like a spring, ready to unleash brute force capable of shearing through bone.

  Captain Zhào did not flinch. He slowly drew the Soul Scratcher.

  It did not ring like steel. It sang.

  The sound was a low, resonant hum that seemed to vibrate through the very cobblestones—a single, haunting note that promised a performance. Zhào settled into his own stance, his body relaxed yet ready, the tip of the singing blade held level with Tiě Shān’s heart.

  The conductor had raised his baton.

  The symphony was about to begin.

  In the meantime, Mei Lin began clearing the way for Captain Zhào by taking care of their minions.

  One by one, the soldiers fell. Their brains were punctured by the bone projectiles of the Devil’s Whisper. Each shot was a whisper of death—precise, silent, and final. Every soldier who tried to advance now scrambled backward to save their lives, but Mei Lin’s hawk eyes did not let them escape. The Devil’s Whisper was the last sound the fallen soldiers heard as their blood flowed like a river through the hall.

  With all soldiers neutralized, it was time for the symphony to truly begin.

  Tiě Shān launched himself at the conductor with a roar. But Zhào moved with fluid grace, his baton—the Soul Scratcher—weaving a rhythmic, deadly melody. Tiě Shān’s powerful swings cut only air, while Zhào’s blade sang with each precise strike, leaving shallow cuts across the general’s arms and chest.

  Bái Yá joined the fray, thrusting his spear toward Zhào’s flank—but he was too slow. The Soul Scratcher hummed as it arced through the air, severing both of Bái Yá’s arms at the elbows. He stumbled back, screaming, as blood sprayed like a macabre fountain.

  They could not hear the movement of the sword—only its song: a symphony of death composed by the conductor himself.

  Zhào moved without wasted motion. Each note of the blade’s song was accompanied by another cut, another slice. He was not merely fighting; he was performing—carving skin and severing limbs until both generals were drained of strength and blood.

  With a final, resonant chime, the Soul Scratcher swept through Tiě Shān’s neck, then Bái Yá’s. Their heads fell to the ground, eyes wide in shock.

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  The conductor bowed slightly. The performance had ended.

  In the Field of Suicide, the magistrate’s soldiers stood nervously, waiting for an enemy that never showed.

  One soldier asked, “Are you sure this is the place? Why is no one here?”

  One of Captain Zhào’s plants within the ranks replied, “This is where the magistrate said to wait. They’ll come. Hold your position.”

  They did not know what was coming.

  One hundred meters away, Lian nocked an arrow and spoke calmly to the seventy women beside her. “Ladies, this is the moment we prove our training was not in vain. These are the same men who stood by while we were tortured and sold. Today, we cleanse this land of their sin.”

  She raised her hand. “Seventy-degree angle. Ready… set… shoot.”

  A rain of arrows blotted out the sun. They fell like divine punishment upon the soldiers below—each shaft finding its mark. Screams were cut short as the arrows struck home, piercing armor, flesh, and soul. The Field of Suicide was silent within moments, the ground soaked in blood. They cleansed their sins with their own blood.

  The first victory of the Revengers’ Army was sealed.

  Meanwhile, in Jiǔ Tù’s house, Jian Zhi waited silently among the alchemist’s books.

  Jiǔ Tù entered, unaware. He washed his face in the basin, then removed the towel—and froze.

  The Crimson General stood before him.

  “W-Who are you? H-How did you get in?” he stammered, panic seizing his voice.

  As he edged toward a knife on the table, Jian Zhi used Ghost Step and gripped his throat.

  “Hello, genius alchemist,” Jian Zhi said, his voice cold. “I’ve come to borrow your ideas, your books, your knowledge. You had potential, but greed consumed you. Now you will answer in hell while I put your work to better use.”

  Jiǔ Tù struggled, eyes rolling back, hands clawing weakly—but it was futile. As his soul departed, his mind flashed to memories of a childhood steeped in poverty—his father drowning in debt, the relentless hunger for money that 扭曲 his brilliance.

  Jian Zhi collected all of Jiǔ Tù’s research and entrusted it to a courier for the safe house.

  On his way to Dr. Kaelen’s clinic, Jian Zhi was bumped by a tanned-skinned man who did not look local. The man fled before Jian Zhi could question him.

  Then—a scream from the clinic.

  Jian Zhi burst inside to find Dr. Kaelen attempting to assault a young woman. Groping her back and chest. Forcing her to kiss even though that woman was pushing him away. Without hesitation, the Punisher flashed—wssss—and Kaelen’s arms fell to the floor. Kaelen's scream could be heard from the outside of the clinic. His blood wetted the whole floor.

  “Are you okay?” Jian Zhi asked the woman gently. “Lock the door. We will speak with him in private.”

  Trembling, she complied.

  Kaelen writhed, screaming.

  “Who are you?” Jian Zhi demanded. “Why are you here?”

  When Kaelen refused, Jian Zhi slapped him. “Talk.”

  “I-I am from Veridia—the Federated Isles! We… we need women from this district. For entertainment. Our soldiers are fighting a civil war—”

  “What civil war? For what?”

  “The land—it was promised to us by our god! Three thousand years ago. But the Palestians say it is theirs. We’ve fought for years. Our men need… comfort. So, we also need the women from this district. Your district has a larger number of women and we need them, isn't it good to share?”

  Jian Zhi’s eyes darkened. “Wait. what do you mean by as well? You use Palestian women too?”

  A kick to the groin made Kaelen shriek.

  “You prey on the helpless. You are worse than beasts.”

  With one final swing, the Punisher cut him off in two and ended him for the greater good.

  Jian Zhi turned to the woman. “What is your name?”

  “Yù Huái (玉怀 - ‘Jade Bosom’),” she whispered. “I came to learn medicine from him. He let me assist him… but taught me little.”

  “Search his books. Learn what you can. You will become a doctor for this district.”

  Yù Huái nodded, gathering texts on anatomy, surgery, medicine recipes, and remedies. “He was a genius… but his lust corrupted him. He could have used his knowledge and skills in right path. ”

  “Come to the safe house,” Jian Zhi said. “You will teach others. We will build a real healing center.”

  She followed, trusting the man who had saved her.

  Meanwhile, in the magistrate’s office, Magistrate Lǐ Wěi confronted masked Captain Zhào. Their blades clashed—but the magistrate was relentless, his swordsmanship flawless. Zhào was driven back, cornered.

  From a hidden perch, Mei Lin fired the Devil’s Whisper. The projectile whistled past the magistrate’s face, disrupting his focus. While he was looking for the source of the projectile,

  In that instant, Zhào escaped.

  Dusk settled over Liánhuā District. One side celebrated victory and new allies; the other licked its wounds, alone and weakened.