In a heavily guarded estate on the outskirts of the city, panic had taken root like a spreading rot.
The study room of Liang Cong, head of the Liang Syndicate, reeked of cold sweat and burning incense. The blinds were drawn. His trembling fingers clutched a half-finished cigar, its ash long forgotten. Across from him, two trusted subordinates stood frozen, not daring to move.
His daughter's corpse hadn't even been returned. There was no note. No demand.
Only silence.
And silence from Black Sir was never a good sign.
"Foolish girl…" Liang Cong muttered, pacing back and forth. "Stupid, arrogant, spoiled little thing. I told her to charm him, not die—"
His voice cracked halfway through, and he turned abruptly, pointing a shaking finger at one of the men. "Why didn't anyone stop her from going into his room? Why didn't anyone monitor her?!"
"She said she was invited," the man croaked. "She said she was only delivering wine—"
Liang Cong flung the crystal ashtray across the room. It shattered against the wall.
"She lied to you, and now she's dead. Do you understand what this means?!"
The other man remained silent.
Liang Cong collapsed into his armchair, breathing hard. "He killed her. No hesitation. No negotiation. Not even a warning."
He clutched at his temple with one hand, muttering through gritted teeth. "She was my only child. My only heir."
But grief didn't last long in his world. Not when survival outweighed blood.
"I gave her the order," he whispered. "If he finds out… If he knows I sent her—"
The silence that followed was loud.
He closed his eyes.
He already did know.
That man didn't move without purpose. He didn't kill recklessly. If the girl was dead, then it wasn't only because she crossed a line.
It was a message.
Liang Cong stood again. "Prepare everything. Every deal we made under his syndicate—cancel it. Shift it all out of sight. Scrub names. Kill leaks. No connection left."
"Yes, Sir."
"And find out where he'll strike next. We may not be able to run, but we can delay."
The men nodded and moved.
Liang Cong poured himself a shot of liquor with trembling hands. He stared down at the glass for a long moment, then tossed it back.
"She failed," he whispered again, voice empty. "And now I'm next."
He didn't know when.
He didn't know how.
But when Black Sir moved, it was already too late.
And the silence would be the first sign of his death.
-----
By midnight, the Liang Syndicate no longer existed.
Not in the underground database.
Not in the trading chains.
Not in the whispers of the black market.
Everything—assets, connections, codes, routes, weapons—was cut clean.
The orders had been given hours earlier. Quietly. Precisely. Without warning.
And because they came from Black Sir, they were executed without question.
Liang Cong's factories were burned to the ground. His safehouses turned into ash. His informants disappeared from the streets—one by one—until even the rats didn't dare speak his name.
No negotiations. No mercy. No room to explain or apologize.
Because scheming against him—attempting to manipulate him—was not something to be forgiven.
Liang Cong's private server was hacked and scrubbed clean in less than three minutes. Every bank account encrypted under false syndicate names was traced, drained, and redirected. The people he trusted most fled first. The few who stayed were found, gagged, and left to rot in their own vaults.
It wasn't loud.
It wasn't theatrical.
It was surgical.
By the time the sun rose, every trace of the Liang name had been erased from the underworld chain of power.
Only one message remained—planted quietly in what used to be Liang Cong's private office, where his portrait once hung:
"This is what disloyalty costs."
Nothing more.
No signature.
Everyone knew who had sent it.
In the underworld, power was often built on fear. On image. On manipulation.
But with him, it was different.
He didn't need theatrics.
He didn't need noise.
He only needed a reason.
One betrayal. One attempt to deceive. One order to seduce him under false pretenses.
And everything burned.
In the shadowy corners of the underground, syndicate leaders and smugglers, weapon dealers and black op brokers, all learned the same lesson in one night:
Don't scheme against him. Don't touch what's his.
He may smile in the boardroom. Wear suits and shake hands as Shen Rui.
But here, behind the mask—he was the executioner.
And he never missed.