Andrei stands beside the window, watching every movement unfold below. His gaze traces the formation—the Zhao family and their allies, every one of them clad in matching dark uniforms, standing with perfect discipline. They are not improvising. They are not reacting. They were ready. They planned this.
A cold realisation settles over him. All his hope. All his quiet efforts to build a bridge toward peace. Every word he spoke, every promise he made… it was never enough. Peace was never an option. Not tonight. Not for either side.
He clenches his fists until his knuckles turn white, his nails digging into his palms. He turns sharply toward his two uncles, who stand watching the scene with grim, unyielding expressions.
“Why?” Andrei demands, his voice tight with desperation. “Tell me—why must it always be war? Why do we have to fight them?”
Uncle Hans meets his gaze without flinching.“I have heard you ask that question many times lately, Andrei.” His tone is heavy, final. “The answer is simple. It is who we are. It is what we have always done. We fight. We eliminate threats before they grow strong enough to eliminate us.”
Andrei’s eyes narrow. His heart sinks.
“Eliminate them?” he asks quietly. “Just because they are Zhao?”
This time Uncle Howard speaks, his voice sharp and uncompromising.
“Because if we do not destroy them first,” he says, “they will destroy us. This is the way of our world. There is no middle ground. No more questions.”
Inside the banquet hall, the noise of battle rages outside like a storm, yet Harold Wang sits comfortably among his most powerful allies, discussing future plans as if the sound is nothing more than distant rain. He speaks of expansion. Of legacy. Of an era where nothing will stand in their way.
Near the shadows, Zyber hesitates. He glances toward the door where Andrei vanished, then back toward the VIP balcony where Harold sits. He shifts restlessly, torn—should he go to Andrei? Or stay and listen, risking discovery but learning what they truly intend?
Before he can decide, a deafening crash tears through the main entrance.
Wood splinters. The great doors fly inward. A figure is thrown across the hall and skids to a halt upon the marble floor—a Majestic Academy vampire, blood pouring from deep, clean wounds that refuse to close. Gashes run down his chest and arms, not made by claws, but by a sharp, honed blade. Dark blood pools beneath him.
Silence slams into the hall. Every head turns toward the entrance.
A young woman steps across the threshold.
She walks calmly. Slowly. There is no snarl upon her face. No bared fangs. No shifting claws. She carries herself like a student stepping into a dean’s office—upright, unhurried, and utterly unyielding. She wears her dark uniform with the Zhao crest emblazoned across her chest, and in her hand she holds a sword. Its silver blade gleams faintly in the light of the chandeliers.
Dark hair flows behind her as she walks. Her crimson eyes lift, fixing upon the balcony above.
Upstairs, a door bursts open. Andrei rushes into the corridor and looks down into the grand hall below.
His breath catches in his throat.
She came.
Not because he invited her. Not as a guest. Not to talk. Not to listen.
She came as an enemy.
Rose lifts her gaze toward the balcony. Her eyes find Andrei’s instantly. For a heartbeat—fraction of a second—neither looks away. Something passes between them. Regret. Grief. An unspoken promise this is not how she wanted it to be.
Then she turns her attention away from him, back to the man standing at the centre of the hall.
Harold Wang.
The true reason she is here.
Harold steps forward from the VIP platform, clapping his hands slowly. There is no anger in his expression. No fear. Only amusement.
“Miss Zhao.” His voice carries effortlessly across the silent hall. “What an unexpected… and delightful surprise.”
A faint smile touches Rose’s lips. It does not reach her eyes. It is not warm. It is not kind. It is the kind of smile that warns of storm clouds gathering on the horizon.
Rose tightens her grip upon the hilt. Her crimson eyes harden like polished flint.
“I did not come here to surprise you,” she says clearly. “I came to end this.”
The grand hall falls into absolute silence. Not a breath is drawn. Not a foot shifts. Everyone feels it—the weight of the moment. Something far greater than a simple confrontation is unfolding. The festive atmosphere, the music, the laughter—it has all vanished, replaced by something ancient and terrible.
Harold begins to descend the wide staircase, step by step. His footsteps echo with deliberate slowness. He appears completely calm. Almost entertained. As if she has merely told him a joke.
When he reaches the floor, he stops several meters away from her—close enough to see her face, far enough to remain safe. His sharp eyes drift first to the sword in her hand, then to the crest stitched over her heart. He smiles again, broad and knowing.
“So,” he says. “The Zhao family finally decides to step out of the shadows.”
Rose’s expression remains steady.
“That is what I should be telling you,” she replies evenly. “We stepped out of the shadows a very long time ago. You simply refused to see us.”
Harold chuckles, low and rich.
“Then perhaps you have come to negotiate terms?” He tilts his head, feigning curiosity. “Or… perhaps to surrender?”
Rose smiles—a cold, dangerous curve of her lips.
“Why would I come to negotiate?” She takes one slow step forward, and the air around her seems to sharpen. “Harold… I believe you have mistaken who stands in whose territory.”
The temperature in the hall seems to drop. Harold’s smile fades. His eyes narrow. And for the first time that night, he looks at Rose Zhao—and sees not merely a girl with a sword, but the end of everything he has built.