The gunshot tore through Cassandra Feng's waist, narrowly missing her dantian. Her body—once a vessel of flawless control and strength—was now riddled with wounds, her qi fractured, her stamina drained. She had fought for hours, her martial skills honed through years of brutal training by her Master and Grandmaster. Yet even she could not endure against hundreds of assassins wielding both ancient techniques and modern weapons.
Every breath scorched her lungs. Every movement threatened to split her meridians apart as poisoned blood raged violently within her. Who could command such forces? Who knew her body, her immunity, her secrets so well?
Still, she clung to one faith—that her Master would come. He had to come. She had sent the emergency signal, the blare reserved for the deadliest of moments. Surely, he was on his way.
Staggering through the forest, vision blurring, Cassandra pressed on with sheer will. Her dantian trembled on the verge of collapse, her blood stained the earth with every step… until she saw him.
The man she had prayed for.
Standing at the cliff's edge, framed against the storming skies, he was magnificent—like an immortal god descended to earth. Black hair streamed behind him like ink spilled across the heavens, his white robes billowing with an elegance that defied the chaos below. Sharp nose, coral lips, a sculpted jaw—his beauty struck her with the same force as his cold, fathomless eyes. Eyes that could swallow a soul whole.
"Master…" she whispered, stumbling toward him with a smile that defied her ruin.
For a moment, her bleeding body felt light. For a moment, she believed she was saved.
But his fist clenched inside his flowing sleeve. His gaze—so icy, so unreadable—did not soften. Instead, he summoned a torrent of qi so powerful the very air around him quivered. And then, he released it.
The blast struck her dantian with merciless precision.
The betrayal pierced deeper than the shattering of her core. The pain wasn't just physical—it was the realization. No wonder the assassins knew her every move. No wonder they wielded the poisons only she could once resist. They were her brothers, her sisters… her fellow disciples. Mobilized not by enemies, but by him. By her Master.
Her Master had orchestrated her ruin.
Her knees buckled. Blood gushed from her lips, staining her robes. She stared at him, disbelief cracking into agony. "Why, Master?" Her voice was ragged, breaking like her soul. "Why?"
He did not answer. His face remained a mask of frozen beauty, his silence more devastating than the blow itself.
Her body convulsed as her dantian collapsed in on itself. A final surge of power ripped through her frame, tearing her apart from within.
And then—silence.
From her ruined body, only a single tear fell. A lone drop of grief, of love, of betrayal. It slipped down her bloodied cheek as her form dissolved into nothingness.
That teardrop crystallized midair, shimmering with an otherworldly glow, as though heaven itself mourned her. It landed in his outstretched palm, delicate and translucent—her last gift, her last curse.
The Master stood upon the cliff, gazing at the jewel of sorrow resting in his hand. The crystallized teardrop pulsed faintly with her essence, fragile yet eternal.
Her life was gone. Her love was broken. And yet, a piece of Cassandra remained—forever trapped in his grasp.
Rowan Empire
House Bolton
A splitting headache tore Cassandra from the abyss of dreams. Dreams that weren't hers—faces she had never seen, voices that weren't her own, places she had never walked. She gasped awake, her heart pounding as though it still remembered being destroyed.
Her vision sharpened, and she froze.
Four women stood around her bed like silent sentinels, clad in black suits, their presence radiating cold intimidation. Their stillness was unnatural, their gazes sharp enough to cut. The kind of pressure that would crush any ordinary girl into obedience.
Cassandra's throat tightened. Where was she? Who were they?