The apartment hummed with the primordial energy of a thousand simmering herbs.
A massive iron cauldron dominated the bathroom, its emerald-green contents bubbling violently at temperatures that would instantly sear human flesh. Thick, medicinal steam coiled upward in serpentine spirals, condensing on the ceiling before raining back down in a perpetual cycle of purification. The air hung heavy with competing scents - the earthy bitterness of aged ginseng, the metallic tang of cinnabar, and something darker, more primal, that spoke of ancient forest roots and forgotten burial grounds.
Ethan Cross reclined in the scalding depths like some pagan god receiving tribute, his powerful frame completely submerged save for his head. Beads of sweat traced the hard planes of his face before disappearing into the churning liquid below. Where an ordinary man would have screamed himself hoarse from the agony, Ethan merely hummed a tuneless melody - the same lullaby his mother had sung during those rare peaceful nights before the Entities came.
The pain was exquisite.
He could feel each individual herb working its magic. The snow lotus attacked first, its icy essence battling the searing heat as it sought out damaged tissue. Then came the cordyceps, threading through his muscles like living wires, repairing microscopic tears with surgical precision. Finally, the vermilion bat blood - harvested under the blood moon - ignited his marrow with fresh vitality, forcing new strength into bones already dense as tungsten.
Drip.
Drip.
The sound of his own sweat falling into the cauldron seemed to mark time in this sacred ritual. Then...
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The system's chime sliced through the steam like a silver bell. Ethan's eyes snapped open, two chips of obsidian gleaming in the dim light. He exhaled slowly, and his breath left his lungs as a sword of vapor that pierced the thick air before dissolving into nothingness.
"One million yuan," he mused, watching the last dregs of 500-year-old snow lotus dissolve into the brew. "Enough for perhaps thirty days of these baths. Thirty days to rebuild what took a lifetime to perfect." His fingers flexed, tendons like steel cables shifting beneath skin already knitting itself tighter, stronger.
Outside, the city slept fitfully - ignorant of the predator steeping himself in alchemical fire. Somewhere beyond these walls, Wraiths prowled and ordinary men cowered behind blessed talismans. But here, in this steam-choked sanctuary, a different kind of transformation was underway.
Ethan's smile would have chilled the blood of lesser men.
Hunting Wraiths was no longer just profitable - it had become necessary.
The Gilded Cage: Grand Aurora Hotel
While commoners barricaded their doors against the night's terrors, the Grand Aurora Hotel blazed like a fallen star amidst the darkness.
Three kilometers from the Supernatural Investigation Bureau's heavily fortified headquarters, its gilded doors remained defiantly open. Twenty years without a single Wraith incident? The official brochures credited cutting-edge spiritual wards. Those in the know whispered about monthly deliveries to certain Bureau officials - crates of vintage wine that clinked suspiciously with more than just bottles.
Seraphina Vale sat coiled in a shadowed alcove like a sleek panther tolerating captivity. Her legs - sheathed in onyx silk that caught the light like a blade's edge - were crossed with lethal precision. The boardroom shark in her chafed at tonight's gala, but the failing Tianhai-Lin joint venture demanded her presence.
A crystal flute of 1945 Château Lafite sat untouched beside her. Normally she'd have appreciated the vintage, but tonight her mind kept wandering to rougher things - to calloused hands that could snap a man's neck as easily as they measured rare herbs, to eyes that saw through society's facades as though they were glass.
"Where is he now?" The thought slipped through her mental armor unbidden. "Steeping in one of his infamous baths? Or out there in the dark, doing what no Bureau team dares attempt?"
"Seraphina."
Kael Stormcrest materialized at her elbow, his smile all polished cruelty. Up close, she could see the telltale signs - the slight tremor in his left hand (withdrawal from whatever designer stimulant he'd taken), the faint scar along his jawline (a "hunting accident" that had coincidentally killed a business rival's son).
"Shall we discuss the project's... hiccups?" The way his tongue caressed the word made her skin crawl.
Seraphina didn't bother masking her disdain. "You will address me as 'Ms. Vale.' And if your hand comes within ten centimeters of me again, I'll demonstrate why Tokyo dojos ban women from competition."
Kael's grin didn't falter. Oh, he'd prepared for her defiance. The Rohypnol dissolving in her champagne would see to that. Just another thirty minutes until the elegant Seraphina Vale became another notch on his bedpost - and leverage against her company's board.
"Of course. The conference room, then?" He gestured toward a secluded hallway.
As they departed, no one noticed the sweaty bureaucrat at the seafood buffet. His tie was already stained with cocktail sauce, his collar damp with perspiration. Then, without warning, his jaw unhinged like a python's, shoveling fistfuls of raw oysters into a maw that should've ruptured hours ago. His eyes had gone the flat black of a shark's.
At the edge of the room, a champagne flute trembled on its tray. The ice in the bucket had begun melting red.