The rays of morning filtered through the paper-paneled windows of Murong Prosperity Hall, casting long golden slants across the polished floor. Inside the main chamber, Zhao Ming stood beside Murong De, both men silently sipping tea as they awaited the dawn reports. The silence was thick—anticipation hung in the air like the scent of smoke before a fire.

A sudden, deep gong rang out from the city, echoing like thunder. It struck once, then again—an urgent rhythm no merchant or official could mistake.

Moments later, the sound of galloping hooves tore through the morning quiet. A city guard on horseback raced past the main street, shouting with a voice full of alarm, "Rebels! Riot in the south! They’ve breached the gate! Get to the governor’s office!"

Zhao Ming set down his teacup with a sharp clack. "It’s started."

Murong De's expression darkened as he stood. “South gate…” He stepped toward the outer balcony, the cold morning wind tugging at the hem of his cloak. Below, Murong family guards were already lining up in their winter armor, eyes sharp, weapons drawn.

“Fan out and prepare the inner perimeter,” Murong De commanded, his voice clear and measured. “Follow the contingency plan. Block all alleyways around Prosperity Hall—leave no path unchecked.”

"Yes, young master!" the guards chorused before dispersing.

Zhao Ming turned to Shopkeeper Wu, who had been listening silently at the doorway. “Send word to the estate. Have them ready defenses and seal the side gate. No one enters without signal.”

Wu nodded briskly and vanished into the hall with the swiftness of a seasoned veteran.

From the balcony, they could now see the southern streets beginning to boil. Refugees—no, rioters—poured in from the south like floodwaters unleashed. Many were wielding scavenged weapons: rusty spears, stolen swords, broken farming tools. Some ran toward the shops along the main avenue, smashing windows, dragging goods into the streets. Others torched wooden storefronts, the firelight painting their faces with wild, desperate glee.

Smoke spiraled into the sky. The city was being swallowed.

Then the chaos turned its eye toward Prosperity Hall.

A cluster of rioters rounded the bend of the main road, shouting, stumbling, eyes wild with fury or hunger. Some ran only because the crowd behind pressed forward, unable to escape the human wave. Ahead of them, the narrow alleyways had already been barred by heavy wooden barricades built during the night.

At one junction, several rebels slipped on a sheen of oil poured across the cobblestones, tumbling to the ground in curses and cries. Those that managed to keep footing found themselves facing rows of Murong guards—calm, armored, and ready.

“Take them alive if they cross the line,” Murong De ordered from above. “Those who hesitate, warn them.”

The first few men who stumbled past the barricade were instantly surrounded and wrestled to the ground. Shouts rose up as torches flared from above, illuminating the cramped alley like a furnace. Behind the trapped rioters, more people surged forward—but now they could see the glint of drawn bows aimed squarely at them.

“Stop where you are!” Zhao Ming’s voice rang out sharply from the second-floor balcony. His robe fluttered as he leaned forward, his eyes cold with authority. “If you value your lives, turn back! One more step—and you’ll burn or bleed!”

The rioters froze in their tracks. One man near the front raised trembling hands, his lips quivering. “We—we didn’t mean to come this way! There’s no room behind us!”

“Then make room!” Zhao Ming shouted. “Or face the consequences!”

The message was clear. Faced with mercenaries and well-armed guards, the untrained rioters hesitated. Fear overtook their frenzy. Like a stampeding herd seeing fire, they began to scatter—some shoving backward, others squeezing through side lanes in retreat.

Just as the crowd broke apart, Zhao Ming narrowed his eyes.

Among the disorganized mob, a few stood out—not by their weapons or strength, but by their calm demeanor. They did not panic, nor did they scream. They were giving orders—gesturing, shouting brief commands, urging the rest to move in certain directions.

Yellow bands tied to their arms or worn around their necks marked them clearly.

Zhao Ming’s brows drew together. “There,” he murmured. “They're not all refugees. Someone’s leading them.”

Murong De followed his gaze and scowled. “The Yellow Scarves…”

Zhao Ming’s expression hardened. “Then this isn’t just a riot. It’s a rebellion.”

Down below, Prosperity Hall stood untouched, surrounded by a ring of steel and discipline. But beyond its borders, the city had begun to burn.

And the battle for Beihai had just begun.

The fires still raged in the distance, their glow flickering against the early morning haze. Shouts echoed down the alleyways, the sharp ring of steel clashing here and there as Prosperity Hall stood firm against the swelling tide of chaos.

Zhao Ming stood on the balcony with Murong De, watching the unrest unfold. His eyes were calm, but the tension in his jaw betrayed the weight of calculation behind them.

“These rioters aren't soldiers,” Zhao Ming said quietly, arms crossed over his chest. “They’re disorganized, panicked. The real threat is the ones with yellow scarves—they’re pushing the chaos to unravel the city's defenses.”

Murong De nodded, arms behind his back, posture straight and alert. “Then we hold the perimeter. No matter what happens outside, Prosperity Hall will not fall. If they want to run wild, let them do it somewhere else.”

Zhao Ming didn’t answer immediately. His gaze drifted southward, toward the distant, burning horizon where the governor's estate lay. A thought surfaced, and with it, resolve.

“I’ll go to the governor’s office,” Zhao Ming said suddenly.

Murong De turned to him with a sharp look. “Alone?”

“Yes.” Zhao Ming turned his full attention to him. “There are documents—evidence of Governor Kong’s dealings with the eunuch faction. I need to find them before anyone burns them. And…”

Murong De raised a brow. “And?”

“…And I want to find Lu Qianyi. If she’s still inside the estate, I’m going to get her out.”

Murong De stared at him for a long moment, then slowly a grin spread across his face.

“Hah!” he laughed, shaking his head. “I knew it. Forget the documents—you're just rushing off to save a beautiful girl.”

Zhao Ming’s brow twitched. “That’s not the main reason.”

“Oh, of course not. It’s just the noble thing to do,” Murong De smirked. “Still, you remind me of a young me. Rushing into danger, heart pounding for a woman you barely understand. Greedy for beauty in your arms, playing the hero to a damsel in distress. Typical.”

Zhao Ming exhaled through his nose, clearly unamused.

Murong De gestured to one of his guards. “Bring a common cloak and a straw hat.”

He turned back to Zhao Ming, tone now a touch more serious. “Change your outer robe—look like one of the refugees. Wrap a scarf around your face. If you're going to sneak into the estate in the middle of a riot, you'd best not look like the young master of Prosperity Hall.”

The guard soon returned, handing Zhao Ming the disguise. As he started changing into the plain cloak, Murong De chuckled again.

“You’re lucky I like you, nephew-in-law,” he said. “Though I should be helping you secure your standing in the family, here I am aiding you to chase another woman.”

Zhao Ming shot him a glare. “Then why don’t you just go ahead and charge into Lady Yu’s chambers and have the rice cooked already?”

Murong De’s face froze.

“…Tch.” He stamped his foot and turned away, clearly flustered. “You little bastard.”

Zhao Ming smirked in triumph, tying the scarf over his lower face and settling the wide straw hat over his head. His lean frame was now hidden beneath the rough fabric—just another commoner in the chaos.

As Zhao Ming moved toward the side door, Murong De stayed behind, arms crossed, brows furrowed in thought.

Lady Yu…

He sighed.

“Damn him. Now I’m thinking about her again.”

The thick, fragrant smoke curled through the inner chamber of the Jade Elegance Pavilion, winding like a lazy serpent toward the rafters above. The room was dimly lit by a soft lantern glow, its amber light flickering across the silken screens and lacquered furniture. Sitting cross-legged atop a cushioned dais, Lady Yu exhaled slowly from her long, slender pipe. Her assassin garb—black silk layered with crimson embroidery—clung to her form with effortless grace, like the final petal of a deadly blossom. The medicine Zhao Ming had concocted filled her lungs with warmth and clarity, numbing pain and sharpening her senses.

Standing by her side were Yu Lan and Yu Mei, both clad in tight-fitting operatives’ attire, their hair pinned up for combat, eyes sharp and ready. A row of short blades rested in their belts. Every girl in the pavilion had already changed into their night operations gear, and the perfume of rouge and powder had long been replaced with the metallic scent of hidden steel.

The chamber doors slid open with a rustle. Yu Ying stepped in briskly, her cheeks flushed with urgency beneath the faint sheen of sweat.

“Mistress,” she reported, falling to one knee, “the riot has begun. Just as Zhao Ming predicted—it started at the southern refugee camp and has now spread through the eastern market and western quarters. The guards are in chaos.”

Lady Yu’s eyes did not blink. She inhaled once more, held the breath, then tapped the pipe gently against the porcelain tray beside her. With a soft clink, she set it down. Rising to her feet with fluid grace, she walked toward the window and drew aside the silken curtain.

Beyond the window, the dawn light painted the city rooftops gold—but plumes of black smoke rose in the distance, curling from the direction of the south. The city was beginning to burn.

“We are in the north,” Lady Yu said calmly, her tone like a razor’s edge wrapped in velvet. “For now, the flames have not reached us. But they will. Soon.”

Turning back, her sharp gaze swept across her women.

“Yu Ying,” she commanded. “You’ll come with me. We’re going to the governor’s office. That banquet… it might still be intact. But I want to know who’s still sitting at the table as the house burns down.”

Yu Ying nodded, eyes steely. “Yes, Mistress.”

Lady Yu turned to Yu Lan and Yu Mei, who stepped forward at attention.

“You two—take several girls and direct a wave of the riot westward. Fan it near Zhao Feng’s manor. Amid the chaos, breach the estate and extract the girls he’s kept locked inside. We’ll let the fire expose his sins.”

Yu Mei’s lip curled in satisfaction. “Consider it done.”

“Like peeling a silk curtain,” Yu Lan added, eyes gleaming with promise.

Without another word, the two girls bowed low, then swiftly exited the chamber, their footsteps soft but sure. Moments later, the sound of their operatives following behind echoed through the hallway like the brush of wind in reeds.

Left with only Yu Ying, Lady Yu reached for her twin daggers—curved, wicked things with black lacquered hilts—and secured them across her lower back. She moved with elegance honed by violence, her every motion honed through years of practice.

“Come,” she said quietly.

Then, in a flurry of movement, she leapt from the window, her figure soaring like a shadow across the tiled roof. Her lightness skill was exquisite—barely a sound followed her passage as she touched down on the neighboring roof and bounded again, cloak billowing behind her like dark wings.

Yu Ying followed close behind, her form more forceful but just as nimble. From behind them, several more women from the Jade Pavilion emerged—silent, deadly, disciplined. They moved across the rooftops in a flowing line, weaving through the rising smoke, heading straight for the governor’s office.

The Jade Pavilion was no longer a house of rouge and fans. It had become a nest of blades—and the city was their stage.