*Warning: This chapter contains violence and gore.
On 1st January 2042, the winter sun filtered softly through the glass-panelled windows of the east wing as Mr. Amou Rumi—stoic, immaculately dressed in a dark charcoal robe—stood by the shōji doors, watching the breath of the wind roll over the stone lanterns in his garden. His gloved hands, usually steady, trembled faintly as a small white bundle of fur wriggled in his arms, letting out a curious whine.
"A fine creature," Mr. Amou muttered, his voice barely more than a breath. "American Eskimo… spirited, alert. Quite a gift."
Across from him, seated with relaxed dignity, was Xiang Mingxiang, former colleague and longtime friend, his traditional winter changshan neatly pressed. A mild smile played on his lips as he sipped from a porcelain teacup, nodding with quiet satisfaction.
"Ha! Nonsense, Amou," Xiang replied, setting down the cup with care. "It's nothing more than a gesture between old warhorses. We've shed blood and ink together. You deserve something pure in this grim age."
Mr. Amou chuckled faintly, his usually unreadable features softening for a fleeting second.
"You always had a flair for sentimentality, Xiang."
"And you always needed a soul to remind you of your own," Xiang quipped, rising with a casual elegance. "I've taken one for myself too, by the way."
"Oh?" Mr. Amou raised a brow, intrigued.
"A German Shepherd," Xiang replied, pride flickering in his gaze. "Loyal. Intelligent. Fierce when necessary."
Mr. Amou stroked the little pup's head with surprising gentleness. "Quite the contrast to this fellow… soft as clouds, but with spirit, I can feel it."
"They were both suggested by a curious man I met recently," Xiang added, reaching into his inner coat. "He owns a boutique pet emporium at Jīnlóng Heights in Lóngchāng—goes by the name Caiuang Suying. Eccentric, yes, but understands animals better than most surgeons understand flesh."
He handed over a small ivory card, the name and number etched in gilded ink.
Mr. Amou took it with a nod, slipping it into his breast pocket.
"Thank you, old friend. For this... and the thought."
Xiang gave a slow, respectful bow, his tone warm as he turned to leave. "May the little one remind you that not everything pure is weak."
Mr. Amou sat alone in his study, swirling a glass of plum wine beneath the muted glow of a lacquered lantern. His eyes lingered on the ivory business card in his hand—Caiuang Suying, Jīnlóng Heights, Lóngchāng. A gilded number glinted softly beneath the stylised kanji of a lotus blossom.
He reached for the receiver on his desk and dialled.
The line clicked once. Then, a voice, smooth as polished jade.
"Caiuang Suying speaking."
"Mr. Caiuang," Amou said with his signature calm. "Your gesture was… deeply appreciated. The pup is a marvellous creature. Obedient. Serene."
A soft chuckle replied on the other end. "It's my pleasure, Amou-sama. After all, your protection has ensured my little establishment flourishes without... inconvenient red tape."
"Hmm." Mr. Amou's eyes narrowed faintly. "Let's keep it that way."
They exchanged a few more pleasantries before the call ended with a courteous bow from both ends.
As the line went dead, Caiuang Suying's smile did not—it twisted. Dark. Measured. He leaned back in his leather chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, and whispered to the silence, "He won't see what's coming."
"Katoge," Mr. Amou called as he descended the stairwell, Chataro cradled in his arm like a pearl in silk. "Take him for a walk. Let him stretch his legs."
Katoge bowed. "Yes, sir."
Not long after, he strolled through the serene trails of Kurohane Dog Park, nestled among plum blossom trees and moss-covered stones. The wisteria had begun to thread through the trellises, cascading like lilac waterfalls. Lanterns swayed gently in the wind, casting trembling shadows over the gravel path.
As soon as Chataro touched the earth, he bolted.
"Oi! Slow down, you rascal!" Katoge called with a rare chuckle, adjusting his spectacles as he jogged after the pup.
Chataro darted through the open field—ears flapping, tail a blur of joy. His paws skimmed the grass like they knew freedom.
Katoge paused, watching. The memory crashed over him like spring rain.
A boy, five years old, sprinting barefoot across a sun-warmed field. Behind him, laughter—deep and honest. His father chasing, arms wide, shouting, "Stop, thief! You'll never outrun the law!"
A blink—and the park returned.
He exhaled softly, clearing his throat, "Chataro! Let's head back."
The puppy, panting happily, bounded to his side. Katoge knelt, gently patting the little white head, lips curling into a rare, unguarded smile.
"Hoshida-sama," one of the maids bowed. "The morning feeding is ready."
"Very good," she replied, elegant in her black and gold silk robe, the morning sun catching the crimson in her hair. She carried a dish of warm milk and rice toward Chataro's kennel, humming a lullaby once sung to the boys of the house.
But something was wrong.
"Chataro?" she called.
Silence.
She knelt beside the kennel, brows furrowing, "Chataro? Come now, it's breakfast."
Still no response.
She opened the gate and reached inside. Her hand touched cold fur. Lifeless.
A scream cracked the still air.
Moments later, the estate's in-house doctor arrived. His face pale, stethoscope already discarded.
"I'm sorry," he said solemnly. "It's too late. Chataro is… gone."
Hoshida stumbled back, hands trembling. "No… that's impossible… he was fine just yesterday."
As staff whispered and a shroud of grief settled over the household, somewhere far away, Caiuang Suying lit a stick of incense and placed a black-stamped envelope into his safe.
And smiled.
As the news sank in, sorrow rippled through the household. Mr Amou's shoulders slumped, a silent storm behind his eyes, and Hoshida's lips quivered, her fingers brushing Chataro's empty bowl as if hoping for a miracle.
Moments later, the phone heralded further tragedy. Mr Amou's brow furrowed as he listened. On the line, Mr Xiang Mingxiang's voice cracked: "Meiaong Mingxiang is dead too." The joint sorrow hardened swiftly into anger.
Within the drawing-room's polished solitude, an icy tension gathered as Mr Xiang slammed his fist upon the table. "How can this be?" he thundered, his voice echoing against silence. "Our dogs were hale and hearty—then suddenly lifeless. Can this be mere coincidence, Amou?"
Mr Amou folded his hands, lips tracing a thin line. "I'm uneasy too—something is gravely amiss," he replied evenly, though his eyes flickered with concern.
Mr Xiang seized his phone. "I'm calling Caiuang Suying." A pause. No answer. Another call—equally unanswered. His face whitened as he slammed the handset down. "I'm going to his shop myself."
Mr Amou rose, urgency in his posture. "Please, wait! This isn't safe."
But Mr Xiang's determination was adamantine. "I must know what he's done," he said, voice low and resolute—and strode from the room.
Hours passed. Mr Amou grew pale with worry. Every passing minute without word from his friend deepened his dread. Finally, unable to sit idle, he summoned Katoge and his personal bodyguard.
They assembled quickly, nodding in affirmation. "Find out if Caiuang's at his shop," Mr Amou instructed, voice tight with restraint. "It's at Jīnlóng Heights, Lóngchāng. Go now."
Katoge swallowed, jaw set. "Understood."
By daylight, Jīnlóng Heights appears as the shining crown of Lóngchāng — an elevated fortress-city within a city, perched above the sprawling labyrinths of the urban mainland. Enclosed within vast perimeter walls laced with reflective cloaking mesh and electromagnetic shielding, the district is the bastion of military governance, tactical command, and elite heritage.
The sun glints off towering jade-and-gold alloy spires, shaped in the likeness of coiling dragons and phoenixes—a blend of imperial nostalgia and cutting-edge brutalist design. To outsiders, it's sacred and unreachable. To those inside, it's power incarnate.
High-altitude drones sweep the skies above, forming a dome of continuous surveillance. Their shimmer almost looks like a fake sky—clearer, brighter, manufactured.
The streets below are lined with marble-patterned walkways embedded with microcircuits, which flash softly with every step, silently tracking biometric data.
Despite its militaristic rigidity, Jīnlóng Heights honours its ancient legacy:
Prayer bells toll every morning from the Pagoda of the Eight Seasons, reverberating through the reinforced steel ground.
Cherry blossom gardens, genetically engineered to withstand pollution and weather-warp, bloom along the upper terraces—each petal etched with nanocode tracing a lineage of fallen war heroes.
Artisans of the old martial houses, now state-commissioned, display holographic calligraphy that dances across stone walls as kinetic art.
They paused before the brass plaque over the door: "Caiuang's Curios & Companions"—a deceptively quaint name for a pet emporium.
"So, this is the place?" the bodyguard muttered, his brow furrowed.
Katoge's instincts bristled. "It seems so. Let's proceed."
They entered. The shop, bathed in warm lamplight, brimmed with cages and aquaria, from cerulean parakeets to curious ferrets. A soft jingling announced their arrival.
Caiuang Suying emerged instantly, smoothing his neat handling of a porcelain teacup. "Welcome, gentlemen. Please, have a seat and some tea."
Katoge accepted warily, gesturing for his comrade, who seated himself. There was a strange tension in the air—an unseen current of malice.
"My lord Xiang Mingxiang called on you?" Katoge probed, his voice measured.
Caiuang shook his head, his smile still sweet: "No, sir. He didn't come."
Katoge nodded and lifted the cup gingerly. As warm liquid touched his lips, a cold dread settled in his gut. At that precise moment, the bodyguard convulsed, collapsing like a discarded puppet. Foam frosted his mouth; his eyes glazed over. Within seconds, he lay motionless.
Katoge staggered back, clutching his own stomach. Waves of nausea pulsed through him.
"What did you lace the tea with?" he hissed, voice brittle.
Caiuang's lips curled into a satanic grin. "A touch of sulphuric fluoride. Quite exquisite, don't you agree?"
Katoge's face blazed with fury. "You—vermin!"
Before he could advance, the door burst open. Mr Amou strode in, icy resolve etched in his expression. Without hesitation, he delivered a crushing blow to Caiuang's jaw, the impact echoing around the shop.
"Take Katoge to the hospital—immediately!" he ordered, voice taut as a drawn bow.
Katoge glared at the fallen Caiuang. Blood drained from his pallid lips, but his gaze remained steel. "Sir—let me stay. Let me finish what he started."
Mr Amou's eyes, steely and unwavering, met Katoge's. "This isn't your war to fight right now. Go."
Katoge bowed scarcely, resignation warring with rage, and allowed himself to be supported out of the shop—leaving Mr Amou to face the venomous calm of Caiuang.
The air in the dimly lit chamber was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid sting of antiseptic—a sterile hell where justice would be served.
Mr. Amou stood motionless, his silhouette carved from shadow, his voice a glacial whisper that seemed to freeze the very air.
"No need. I will handle him."
His words were final as a guillotine's drop, each syllable laced with quiet, murderous intent. His eyes—black as a starless night—burned with a cold fury that sent a visceral shiver down Katoge's spine. The sheer weight of his aura pressed down like an executioner's blade, making even the hardened Katoge feel like a mouse before a cobra.
Katoge, still recovering from his injuries, could only watch as Mr. Amou turned his attention to the bound man before him.
Caiuang Suying groaned, his vision swimming as consciousness returned. He blinked, disoriented, before realizing his predicament—shackled in chains, stripped to the waist, his skin prickling under the clinical glare of overhead lights.
Mr. Amou loomed over him, his presence a suffocating force.
"For killing Mr. Xiang Mingxiang, his dog, and my beloved Chataro…" Mr. Amou's voice was deceptively soft, like a razor sheathed in silk. "And for the chemical poisoning of my men. Do you feel even a flicker of remorse for the gravity of your actions?"
Caiuang Suying's lips curled into a defiant sneer, his voice dripping with smug contempt.
"I did what needed to be done. Those beasts were worthless—no one wanted them. And your men? Collateral damage." He spat on the floor, his eyes alight with arrogance. "Remorse? Don't make me laugh."
A deafening silence followed.
Then—
Mr. Amou's fist slammed into Caiuang's mouth with piston force, shattering teeth and sending a spray of blood and enamel across the concrete.
"Enough of your blabbering," Mr. Amou hissed, his voice a venomous whisper. He straightened his cufflinks, his composure unnervingly intact, as if the violence had been merely a formality.
Caiuang Suying sagged in his chains, gurgling through broken lips, his defiance now drowned in his own blood."
Mr. Amou stood over Caiuang Suying, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, his hands gloved in latex, already slick with red. His expression was that of a scholar dissecting a rare specimen—curious, methodical, utterly devoid of mercy.
Caiuang hung from rusted chains, his body a patchwork of blooming bruises and shallow incisions, his breath coming in wet, ragged hitches.
"You thought yourself clever," Mr. Amou murmured, selecting a scalpel from a gleaming tray. "Poisoning men. Butchering beasts. Did you truly believe there would be no reckoning?"
The blade kissed Caiuang's collarbone, parting flesh with surgical precision. A guttural scream tore from his throat as Mr. Amou began to peel back the skin in a single, unbroken ribbon, the sound like wet parchment tearing.
"This is for Chataro," he whispered, as Caiuang's shrieks crescendoed.
The torture was methodical, almost liturgical—each cut a verse in a psalm of vengeance.
Fingers splayed and pinned like insect specimens.
Ribs exposed, the bone scraped clean as ivory.
Skin flayed in symmetrical strips, hung like macabre bunting from the ceiling hooks.
Caiuang's voice had long since deteriorated into animalistic whimpers, his body twitching in ruined defiance.
Then—silence.
A final, rattling exhale. His head lolled forward, a marionette with severed strings.
Mr. Amou stripped off his gloves, tossing them onto the ruined tableau of Caiuang's remains. He turned to his men, their faces etched in grim deference.
"Release the animals. Close this place to the ground."
A nod. No words were needed.
As his men moved to obey, Mr. Amou paused at the door, casting a final glance at the carnage he had authored. His lips curled, not in triumph, but in quiet satisfaction.
ed Chelsea Countessa, radiant in a soft pink crop top that shimmered beneath the overhead lights. Her usual playful confidence preceded her, her bubblegum hair bouncing with each step. She held a modest fruit basket in her arms, but her gaze was quietly observant—gentler than usual.
Katoge blinked. Then flushed crimson.
"Che—Chelsea?" he stammered, struggling to sit up straighter, only to wince and fall back with a groan.
She gave a light laugh and sat down beside him, placing the fruit basket on the table. "Careful, hero. Don't rupture your stitches trying to look dashing."
Katoge gave a weak smile, brushing a hand through his silver-grey hair. "I… wasn't expecting you."
"I heard what happened," she said, her tone softening as she looked at him. "I figured you could use some actual company instead of a drip and bad TV." She paused. "So, how exactly did you end up in here? You look like you've been to hell and back."
Katoge hesitated, eyes flickering towards the ceiling as if it might hide the truth. "I trusted the wrong person. Didn't see the poison in the tea… until it hit."
Her expression changed—her playful demeanour replaced by concern. She leaned in, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "You really scared them, you know. Even Noda looked like someone kicked his dog."
Katoge chuckled faintly, then glanced at her, sincerity colouring his voice. "Chelsea… I'm grateful you came."
She tilted her head, offering a small, genuine smile. "You saved my life once. We're square now."
Katoge looked away, a rare softness in his gaze. "No. We're not."