(Tian's POV)
The city was drowning. Not the soft drizzle that smelled like wet asphalt and promise; no this was a storm that fell in sheets, hammering against the streets, rattling neon signs, slamming into the slick black hood of my car. It mirrored everything I had felt since stepping off the plane three days ago: anger, suspicion, and a simmering certainty that nothing would ever be the same.
Father's death had been clean. Accidental. Official reports were careful, measured. But accidents didn't leave a stench of betrayal in the air. Accidents didn't leave threads unraveling faster than a tailor's hand could stitch them.
The limousine rolled through puddles like drumbeats echoing across the city. I watched the rain smear reflections of streetlights into messy streaks that mirrored the mess I was stepping into. Every drop pounded against the glass like a warning.
Inside the hall, the air was thick with perfume, incense, and carefully concealed malice. My mother stood near the front, her posture regal beneath the black silk that clung to her like shadow. Her veil did little to hide the sharp line of her jaw or the way her gaze swept the room measuring, calculating. She didn't look at me immediately; instead, she offered faint smiles to those who approached, each one precise, each one perfectly timed. We had not spoken since I returned. That was her way — love and war spoken in the same silent language. And today, I couldn't tell which one she was offering.
Guests whispered condolences with voices that sounded genuine to anyone else, but I had been trained to hear the lies between the words; to read the shadows in eyes, the slight twitch of a finger, the tension that revealed too much.
Chen Liang approached first. "Tian… I'm sorry for your loss." His bow was precise, eyes bright with loyalty. I gave a small nod. Loyalty can be expensive. You pay in trust, and in this city, trust was a currency I had learned to spend sparingly.
Allies shuffled past: some offered words of comfort; others gave subtle nods that carried meaning only I could read. Rivals lingered along the edges, faces neutral, smiles thin, hands hovering near cuffs and buttons testing reflexes.
And then it arrived.
I felt it before I saw it: something foreign slipping into my periphery subtle, deliberate. Someone who did not belong.
A folded document, pressed lightly into my hand, its edge damp with a reddish stain. Blood, I noted instantly not fresh, but unmistakable.
I unfolded it slowly, eyes scanning each line. Forgery. Of course. Only someone clever enough to mimic my father's signature, but careless enough to leave the stain, would think it could escape my notice. The handwriting was deliberate, controlled. I could feel the hands that wrote this: someone skilled, confident maybe even arrogant.
And then my gaze hit a single line: Zi Yu.
A name I didn't know. Yet. But the precision behind it the way it had been planted set a spark in my chest that I could not ignore: curiosity, warning, something else. Something dangerous.
I tucked the document into my inner pocket, letting it lie close to my heart.
The ceremony continued, but my vision had sharpened. Candles flickered against the dark wood, casting shadows that moved like conspirators across the marble floor. I could see everything: gestures of betrayal, lines of plotting, faces masking desire and envy under a veneer of grief.
The mourners spoke in hushed tones: allies murmured plans; rivals whispered threats; some even smirked at the coffin as if death were a business deal rather than the loss of a man.
A note was handed to me by a silent attendant small, precise, folded twice. A warning? Perhaps. I pocketed it without reading. Timing matters.
The priest's voice recited words that meant nothing, but the ceremony demanded attention. Heads bowed. Hands clasped. I didn't bow. I didn't pray. I observed: every flicker of expression, a potential key — and I intended to use them all.
Chen Liang lingered at the edge of the crowd, eyes trying to read mine. I returned nothing but cold calculation. He was testing me; good. I would test him back.
Rivals loitered with polite smiles, calculating how they could benefit from my father's absence. I counted the seconds before someone would make the first move just to see who would blink.
The wind outside rattled the windows as if urging action. And the rain… relentless, pounding reminded me that this city gave nothing willingly.
I reached the coffin. Polished wood reflected my face, pale and unreadable, like a mask I had perfected over years. Death did not weaken me; exposure did. And this gathering was a minefield, designed to reveal the weakest link.
I stepped back and allowed a small group of allies to approach, shaking hands, murmuring condolences. Nothing felt real; nothing mattered except the name I had found: Zi Yu.
Outside, thunder rumbled, low and rolling. A flash of lightning lit the hall like a knife. I caught the glint of metal a watch, a ring, a weapon? Didn't matter. The city was full of threats. And tonight, I had already collected one.
I let the mourners perform their ritual, murmurs like a chorus of vipers. The document burned against my chest. Zi Yu. Whoever he was, someone wanted him and me entangled in something I would not ignore.
The storm intensified as if the sky itself recognized the tension. Each drop of rain against the window was a heartbeat. Mine was steady, deliberate. I would find Zi Yu. And when I did… I would know why someone dared pull his name into the shadow of my father's death.
Because curiosity in this city is dangerous — and I liked knowing where danger was hiding.
As I made my way through the final circle of mourners, my mother's gaze found mine at last. No words. No smile. Just that measured look, layered in meanings only we understood. Her hand rested lightly on the coffin's edge not in grief, but as if claiming the territory my father had left behind. I wondered if she mourned the man… or the power he carried.
Finally, I moved toward the exit, the storm still roaring outside. Two of my men were already in place one stepped forward the moment I appeared, raising a black umbrella so wide it turned the downpour into nothing more than a distant hiss. The other stood by the open door of the black Maybach, engine humming low, leather seats gleaming in the warm light from within.
I slid into the back seat without a word, the door shutting with a soft, decisive thud. Outside, the storm clawed at the streets, blurring neon and shadow into a restless smear against the tinted glass. Inside, there was only the steady purr of the engine and the heat of the leather beneath my hands.
Zi Yu.
The name pulsed in my mind like a quiet challenge.
Somewhere out there, he was moving. And I intended to move faster.