Morning broke over Cloudbridge City, pale sunlight cutting through the curtains and casting long shadows across the bedroom floor. Xu Haoran stirred from sleep and reached for his phone, the screen lighting up with a message from Uncle Zhou.
"The team has arrived in Cloudbridge. Seven men total. I've sent you their leader's contact."
Haoran read it twice, then sat up, rubbing his temples. The storm wasn't coming. It had already arrived. He stepped out to the small balcony, the cityscape humming faintly with traffic below, and dialed the number sent to him.
A sharp, clear voice answered immediately. "Leader Ming speaking."
"We're meeting in thirty minutes," Haoran said. "Silver Wok Restaurant. East District."
The line cut. No greetings. No wasted words.
Silver Wok wasn't the kind of place that raised eyebrows. Tucked between an old massage parlor and a closed lottery booth, it looked like a greasy spoon trying to survive. But as Haoran stepped inside, seven men in black suits were already seated at a far table. Cold eyes. Postures upright. Professional to the bone.
"We'll talk somewhere private," Haoran said, and turned to leave.
No objections. No confusion. Just movement.
Two taxis were hailed. They rode in silence to Langde Crown Hotel, a discreet building nestled between two commercial towers. It didn't scream money—but it held the privacy Haoran needed. He booked a conference suite under a borrowed name, and led the group inside.
In the room, he removed his jacket, set it on the chair, and stood before them.
"We're splitting into two teams," he began. "This is a containment operation. Precision over violence."
He turned to the first fighter—a tall, square-jawed man with a presence like a granite wall.
"Chen Long. You'll lead the first team. Take two with you. You'll go straight to the Red Fang's turf. Rumor is a group called the Iron Vultures just arrived from Blackthorn City. If the reports are true, these guys aren't street rats. They're elite. Top-tier gangsters. Keep your heads down. Observe. Do not engage unless you're forced to. Understood?"
Chen Long gave a firm nod. "Understood."
Haoran shifted his gaze to the second fighter, a younger man with narrow eyes and a wolfish alertness. "Xiao Ren. You take the remaining three. I want you stationed around my house. Don't be seen. My wife is the priority. Anyone moves suspiciously near her—intercept, subdue. No mercy if there's real danger. Clear?"
"Crystal," Xiao Ren replied.
Haoran laid out additional instructions—escape routes, signal protocols, and an emergency code they were to send only if overwhelmed.
When the plans were set and repeated, Haoran looked over the group one last time.
"I want an update the moment the Iron Vultures make a move," he said.
With a final nod, the men stood and left, peeling off in groups. As the door closed behind them, silence returned.
Haoran didn't linger. He left the hotel and headed to Blaze Auto Rentals. The showroom shimmered with luxury, but he bypassed the obvious choices and pointed at a matte black Nexon Veil GT—a sleek, low-slung beast with the aura of a predator.
He paid in cash. No questions were asked.
The car purred as he drove past his neighborhood, looping once around the block before he parked quietly down the street. Caution had become second nature.
He walked the rest of the way home. It was quiet. Zhao Ailin was out with her friends. Wu Yuting, most likely, had gone to work.
Haoran entered his room, locked the door, and knelt beside the bed.
From beneath it, he pulled out a long, iron case wrapped in old cloth and marked with faded red seals.
He unwrapped it slowly, revealing the Dragon Soul Sword.
The metal was like shadow, reflecting no light—its blade edged in a faint, crimson pulse. The hilt bore an ancient dragon etched in coiled fury, its ruby eyes shimmering faintly as if waking from slumber.
Haoran ran a thumb across the edge and sat back against the wall.
Then the memories came.
Not like a story—more like a wound reopening.
There was a time when he had nothing. No name, no money, no home. His father had exiled him quietly after the crisis. He'd been left to rot outside the gates of Skyreach, surviving on scraps, hunted by those who wanted revenge against the Xu name.
But sometimes, in the stillness of sleep, he had dreams.
Visions of fire. A roaring storm. A blade that called to him in a voice not human:
"Come. Claim what was always yours…"
One night, he followed that voice across rivers and mountains to Northfall Ridge—a desolate spine of cliffs and ruined temples lost to time. There, beyond the fog, he found it:
A black altar surrounded by broken statues and ash. Embedded in obsidian, untouched by wind or rain, was the sword.
Even without touching it, he felt the heat pulsing from it—alive, as if it breathed.
"Are you ready to carry fire?" the voice had asked, not in words, but in his soul.
He didn't answer. He simply reached out.
The moment his fingers closed around the hilt, his body screamed. Lightning tore through his veins. His past shattered. His rage, his guilt, his sorrow—it all fed into the blade.
Then—darkness.
He woke three days later, under a tree, with rain falling gently on his face.
An old monk, draped in white, sat beside him with a teacup in hand.
"So… the blade chose you," he'd said with a faint smile. "Now let's see if you can survive it."
That monk was Master Fengyu.
For eight years, he trained Haoran—on mountain cliffs, frozen caves, and in silence broken only by the clash of sword against stone. He taught him not just to wield the Dragon Soul Sword—but to resist it.
Because the blade had a spirit inside.
A fire god's remnant.
A cursed dragon who had once tried to devour the heavens and been sealed into steel.
And now, that fire slept inside Haoran's hands.
He could feel it now—thrumming faintly with purpose. Not rage. Not chaos.
Purpose.
His phone vibrated, snapping him back to the present.
A message.
Chen Long: "Eyes on the target. The Iron Vultures have arrived."
Haoran stared at the sword for a long moment. Then he stood.
The game had begun. And this time… he had the fire on his side.