Carved from dark volcanic rock, the room was dominated by a massive, sunken pool of steaming, blood-red water infused with rare, intoxicating herbs designed to loosen a victim’s meridians for easier harvesting.

The walls were draped in heavy crimson silks, and the air was thick with a cloying, sweet incense that made Ji’an’s head swim.

"Strip him," a harsh voice ordered.

Ji’an was shoved into the center of the room.

Two female attendants, their eyes hollow and dead, likely former captives themselves whose minds had been broken by Tu’s arts, approached her with unblinking obedience.

They reached out to pull away her torn, mud-stained white tunic.

"Do not touch me!" Ji’an barked, slapping their hands away, channeling every ounce of aristocratic, young-master arrogance she possessed. "I am the heir to a noble house! I will not be pawed at by common slaves! Untie my hands, and I will bathe myself!"

The attendants hesitated, looking toward the heavily armored guard standing by the door.

The guard sneered. "Let the little brat have his dignity. It won’t matter once the Boss gets his hands on him. Take off the ropes, but leave the cuffs on."

The heavy hemp ropes were sliced away, though the heavy iron Null-Stone cuffs remained locked securely around Ji’an’s wrists, rendering her functionally mortal.

"Out! All of you! I demand privacy!" Ji’an ordered, pointing toward the door with her cuffed hands.

The guard rolled his eyes, signaling the attendants to leave. "You have ten minutes to get clean, pretty boy. After that, we drag you into the Master’s bedroom, clean or not."

The heavy oak doors slammed shut, followed by the definitive clack of an external locking bar falling into place.

Ji’an was entirely alone.

The moment the door closed, the arrogant young master facade vanished.

Ji’an scrambled away from the steaming red pool, pressing her back against the cold volcanic rock wall.

Her mind raced at a thousand miles a minute.

’Okay. Assess the inventory. Assess the environment,’ Ji’an muttered to herself, her eyes darting around the luxurious prison. ’ I am locked in a bathing chamber that connects directly to the bedroom of a Golden Core psychopath. There must be something I can use around here. I can’t use Qi for now, so I must think of some tricks.’

She looked down at her muddy robes.

If they had actually stripped her, the entire charade would have been over. The chest binder would have been exposed.

The fact that she was a girl would have been revealed.

Blood-Hand Tu might not have cared either way, but the psychological element of surprise was the only weapon she had left.

Ji’an reached down to the hem of her wide, flowing trousers.

Before the infiltration, knowing the immense danger of the Null-Stone cuffs, Ji’an had adamantly refused to be completely disarmed.

She hadn’t surrendered her primary weapon.

She hiked up her trouser leg. Strapped tightly against her calf, hidden entirely from view, was a simple, unassuming object.

It wasn’t a legendary sword. It wasn’t an explosive talisman.

She unbuckled the leather strap and pulled it free.

The cold, heavy cast-iron grip of her Black Iron Spatula settled perfectly into her palm.

Even without her Qi to fuel it, the spatula was a formidable hunk of solid, tempered iron.

It had a perfectly balanced weight, a sharpened front edge, and a handle designed to withstand the heat of a roaring hearth.

Ji’an gripped the spatula with both of her cuffed hands.

"Right," Ji’an whispered to the empty, steaming chamber, a feral, terrifying glint in her dark, silver-flecked eyes.

She wasn’t going to be harvested or wait for Xiao Yichen or Commander Mo to save her.

She walked over to the steaming pool, ignoring the scented water entirely.

She moved to the far wall, where an ornate, gilded door stood slightly ajar, leading directly into the Master’s bedchamber.

Ji’an didn’t cower or weep.

She stepped through the gilded door and went to meet the Butcher of the Blood-Iron Syndicate.

***

Far across the subterranean labyrinth of the Blood-Iron Syndicate, in a room that smelled distinctly of spilled ale, cheap perfume, and unwashed leather, the Imperial Second Prince of the Azure Empire was currently experiencing a psychological torment so profound it transcended the mortal plane.

Xiao Yichen, the sociopathic mastermind, the untouchable genius whose mere smile could dictate the rise and fall of noble houses, was tied securely to a wooden chair.

He was still wearing the peach and gold silk dress, and the rouge was still heavily applied to his flawless, aristocratic cheeks.

And, most devastatingly of all, the two plush travel pillows and bundled linen shirts were still aggressively jammed down the front and back of his bodice, gifting him the incredibly generous, buxom silhouette of a towering warhorse-maiden.

Across the dimly lit room, Vice-Chief Mad Dog was currently pouring two massive goblets of cheap, pungent wine, his scarred back turned to his "prize."

’I am going to flay him,’ Yichen’s internal monologue was a serene, terrifyingly calm lake of pure, unadulterated murder. ’I am going to peel the skin from his bones in ribbons. I will use his tendons as bowstrings. I will turn his skull into a wine goblet.’

"You know, sweetheart," Mad Dog rumbled, turning around with the goblets, a crude, lustful grin stretching across his metal-plated face.

He took a slow, deliberate look at Yichen’s linen-stuffed cleavage. "I’ve had my share of noblewomen. But they’re always so fragile. They snap like twigs. But you? You’re a tall glass of water. You look like you could take a real beating and ask for more."

Yichen’s dark, fathomless eyes locked onto the Vice-Chief.

Because the Null-Stone cuffs completely suppressed his Golden Core cultivation, Yichen could not physically break the ropes binding him to the chair.

He was, functionally, a helpless, incredibly top-heavy mortal woman.

But his mind was still a lethal weapon.

"If you take one more step toward me," Yichen whispered, his voice a smooth, melodic, chillingly calm caress that completely abandoned any pretense of female pitch.