(Part of this plot is adapted from the real events of Unit 731)(Borrowing the National Fortune Game to crush Sakura Country thoroughly)(Due to unavoidable reasons, part of this chapter has been removed. Apologies if it reads disjointed—next chapter will be more complete.)
Dachang Theater — first-floor hall. The lights were bright, the audience hushed, the space loaded with a false sense of decorum.
On the center of the stage stood an iron-sheet box — a little house built from corrugated metal. Its cold, merciless shine cut against the theatre's gilt and velvet like a surgical blade. Around it, a dozen or so Sakura Country Awakened lounged and joked in their native tongues.
"Yoxi, who'd have thought? The times have changed — now we get the front-row seat.""Yamagaki-kun, send me the footage when we go home. Arigatou.""Don't worry. I'll loop it at the North Railway Museum."The laughter was animal: excited, unselfconscious, cruel.
They dragged a woman and a child onto the stage. The mother — gaunt, about thirty, eyes perpetually afraid — clutched the tiny hand of a five- or six-year-old. The child's face held only bewilderment, the wide, trusting stare of someone who still believed adults were safe. Both were barefoot.
"Begin," one of the Sakura men crooned, the word slick with anticipation. "My long-awaited… Maternal Love Experiment."
Someone shoved. The pair could not run — even their B-rank [Ram Horn] and [Sheep Hoof] powers were helpless against the strength and numbers of the S-rank elites sitting in the audience. Resistance earned only blows. The theater's air filled with the sound of men laughing at what they called "science."
"Heat it up."
The sentence hung like a verdict. The iron box glinted. The mother lifted the child, a motion of resignation and protectiveness. The crowd leaned in, ravenous.
Then a voice, calm and cold, cut through the din — a voice that spoke flawless Chinese. Heads turned. Nobody in the room expected a native tongue among the Sakura contingent. The laughter faltered.
"Bang — crack!"
A fist of water burst from the top of the iron house like a living root, coiling down and around the structure. Metal shrieked. Plates tore free. The little house was ripped open; the stage collapsed in a shower of sparks and timber. Inside, whatever hell had been brewing was exposed.
The crescent of water did not stop there. It reformed and slammed out, a blade of liquid light.
Yamagaki had no time to react before the water slammed him across the room; he was blown like a rag into the seats.
"AAAAH!! Ambush!! Who is it?!"
The attacker revealed himself: Chen Xiao. He moved like a storm — precise, merciless. Beside him, An Xinning lunged for the woman and child, scooping them out of harm's way. The mother sagged unconscious, scorched and trembling; the child clung to her as if he'd fallen into a dream and woken screaming.
"Beasts," An Xinning spat, teeth bared. "All beasts."
Accents shifted in the hall. Voices murmured: "Second Executive of the Capital Military Region… An Xinning?" "You arrived fast…"
Yamagaki, bloodied, forced the words into Chinese more as provocation than plea. "The Gate-Carrying Divine General was killed by the Mad Ghost Butcher — and you dare come? You disdain our Sakura Awakened Ones…"
At the edge of the chaos, another figure detached himself from the shadowy rows — a dark silhouette framed by a diagonal scroll behind him. He stood perfectly still and, even in repose, pressure rolled out from him like thunder.
The theater's atmosphere changed. Where moments ago there had been the nervous bravado of predators, now there was a raw, stunned silence. People who had smiled minutes ago now found themselves counting exits.
Chen Xiao did not wait for speeches. He was the eye of the storm: a walking proclamation that the line between hunter and hunted can flip in an instant. The water hand had already shredded metal and shattered the stage; the man with the scroll radiated a different kind of menace — older, ceremonial, as if some ancient law had just been invoked.
The Sakura contingent, once loud and assured, now kept to themselves, faces pale under the bright house lights. Some tried to retreat; others, trapped by their own instruments and the ruins of the stage, could only watch as the tide of the night turned against them.
Outside, the city's night breathed easier for a moment, but it was an uneasy reprieve. The kind of cruelty that had been on display here left marks that would not wash out. Chen Xiao stood among the wreckage, water dripping from his sleeves, mountain-and-river map and other trophies slung over his back. The rescued mother lay at An Xinning's feet; the child clung to both of them, shivering with shock and curiosity and a dawning, fragile hope.
Who the black-cloaked stranger was — and what he wanted with the scroll — would be answered soon enough. For the moment, one thing was clear: the slaughter these men had hoped to enact would not be their curtain call. Not tonight. Not on Chen Xiao's watch.