Tianming pressed his back against the cold wall as the echo of approaching footsteps grew louder. The corridor was dim now, red emergency lights blinking against the sterile white walls. His grip tightened around the staff, blood still dripping from its tip.
He closed his eyes for a second, calming his breath, feeling his heartbeat slow—not from exhaustion, but focus.
Survival wasn't just instinct now. It was a calculated choice.
The old man’s voice had said five more were coming. And Tianming knew they wouldn’t be like the last wave. These would be professionals—hitmen, not street thugs.
The Lotus Clan wasn’t playing anymore.
He crouched low and moved like a shadow across the corridor, slipping through the cracked security door into the west wing. The halls here were narrower, and that would work in his favor.
Then he heard it—the sound of boots, synchronized and sharp. Five men, dressed in all black, night vision goggles activated, moving with tactical precision. The lead gave a silent hand signal, and two of them broke off to flank from the right. Tianming had seconds to act.
He struck first.
Leaping from the shadows, he brought the staff down hard on the nearest man’s knee, snapping it sideways. The man screamed, and Tianming used his weight to spin the staff back upward, striking under the chin with enough force to send the attacker flying into the wall. The others turned quickly, raising their weapons—compact submachine guns.
Tianming kicked the downed man’s weapon into the air, catching it mid-spin. As one fired, Tianming ducked, rolled forward, and let off a short burst—three shots, two hits, both center mass.
The corridor exploded with gunfire. Bullets chipped the walls and tore through the fluorescent panels above. Tianming dropped low again, sliding across the tile floor, narrowly dodging a spray of rounds. He came up behind another man and slammed his elbow into the back of his helmet, then twisted the man’s arm and forced the gun upward.
A final burst.
Another man down.
Only two left now.
They split apart, one moving to flank, the other laying down suppressing fire. Tianming slipped behind a vending machine, breathing hard now. The staff was slick with blood. His shoulder throbbed—grazed. He could feel warm blood running beneath his shirt.
He needed to end this.
He reached into his belt and pulled the last smoke grenade Lu Qingshan had given him. "Use this only when you’re outnumbered and out of time," he’d warned. Now seemed appropriate.
He yanked the pin and tossed it into the corridor. Thick white smoke filled the hall instantly. Shouts rang out. Confusion. Coughing.
Tianming moved through the fog like a ghost.
He emerged behind the flanker, yanking him into a chokehold, twisting his body into the line of fire as the last man opened fire blindly. Bullets tore through his own teammate’s body.
Then silence.
Tianming charged.
He closed the distance in two swift strides, ducking low and driving his shoulder into the shooter’s gut. The man dropped his weapon. They struggled hand to hand. The attacker swung, but Tianming caught his wrist, twisted, and brought his knee up into the man's face. Blood sprayed. A grunt. Then another hit—Tianming slammed the staff into the side of the man’s head. He dropped like a sack of bricks.
Silence fell.
The smoke began to fade, revealing the carnage. Five elite killers—down. Tianming stood amid it all, bloodied but upright.
The old man appeared at the end of the corridor, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"That… was not bad," he said.
Tianming exhaled slowly. "Is that what passes for praise from you?"
The old man gave a small smirk. "You want answers? Fine. The bracelet I wear—it belonged to your father. And he was the first to ever bring the Lotus Clan to its knees."
Tianming’s eyes widened.
"You’ve inherited more than you know, boy. And now they know you’re alive."