The strategy session deepened as the night wore on, transitioning from broad tactical strokes to the granular mechanics of a cold, professional occupation.

They meticulously mapped out the alchemy rooms to be hidden within the Jin Clan’s fortified warehouses, calculating the precise number of Alchemists required to maintain a steady, untraceable supply. Lixue and Meng Yan collaborated on a roster of alchemists whose loyalty was beyond reproach, while Shen Yu dictated the formation of "Guardian Cells", small, lethal units of shadow guards trained to kill silently the moment an outsider breathed too close to the brewing chambers.

By the time the final ink dried on the revised trade maps, the candles had burned down to guttering stubs, and the heavy silence of midnight had claimed the estate. The intellectual fire that had fueled the room for hours finally settled into a thick, expectant tension.

"The board is set," Shen Yu said, his voice a low, sovereign rumble that shattered the quiet. He turned his golden eyes toward Meng Yan, his gaze lingering with a weight that made the air feel thin. "Matriarch Meng, the hour is far too late for a guest of your standing to be traveling the streets, even with the Jin estate so close. It would be poor form for the Tang Clan to let our most vital partner depart under the cover of such a dark moon. You shall stay the night with us."

Meng Yan’s heart skipped a beat. She looked at Lixue, who offered a demure, knowing smile, and then at Shen Yu, whose smirk was a clear, predatory invitation. She knew this had nothing to do with "poor form" or the safety of the midnight streets.

"If the Tang Clan is so insistent on my safety," Meng Yan replied, her voice smooth despite the slight, breathless tremor, "then I would be honored to accept your hospitality."

Mei Yilan, satisfied with the professional unity, offered a tired but proud nod. "It is already handled. Lixue personally oversaw the preparation of the western guest suite today. It is one of our most refined rooms, situated in the inner circle of the estate, strategically close to the primary residence for maximum security."

While a triumphant atmosphere bloomed within the Tang Estate, fueled by the blueprints for their impending conquest of Crimson Iron City, a toxic miasma of failure permeated the Peng Estate across the city. The air there was thick with the stench of rot, not of flesh, but of a legacy turning to ash.

In just a few short days, the Peng Clan had bled out twenty percent of its total reserves. It was a catastrophic hemorrhage driven by crippling compensations and the frantic, failed research to stabilize the side effects of their defective pills. The clan was no longer fighting for dominance; they were clawing against a destiny of total collapse.

In the cavernous, dimly lit grand hall of the manor sat Patriarch Peng Kai. His eyes were a web of broken capillaries, his hair a matted nest of grey, and he reeked of high-proof spirits and unwashed desperation. The proud leader had already fallen from grace, but what remained in his gaze was not regret; it was a lethal cocktail of rage and nihilism.

He stared at the figure standing in the center of the hall: a man draped in black robes stitched with skeletal red threading that seemed to pulse like dying veins.

The stranger wore a charcoal-colored, mouthless iron mask, featuring a vertical "Third Eye" crystal and skeletal ridges along the jawline. His eyes were mere slanted slits of shadow, and a sealed mouth plate engraved with dampening runes ensured he spoke only when necessary. Though he stood in the direct light of the lanterns, it felt as if the room’s luminosity was being sucked into his silhouette. He was a reaper of the Thousand-Ghost Syndicate, known only as Wraith-043.

"Whose death do you request?" The Wraith’s voice was hollow, as cold and final as a tombstone slamming shut.

Peng Kai let out a jagged, drunken bark of laughter. "I want the Tang Clan erased. There are only three who matter: the brat Tang Wei, the girl Tang Lixue, and their Matriarch, Tang Yilan."

The assassin remained perfectly motionless for a full minute, his internal clock calculating the risks and the karma involved.

"Well?" Peng Kai barked, his voice thick with liquid courage and fading arrogance. "What do you think of my request? Is it beyond your ’ghosts’?"

"We will accept," the Wraith replied with chilling calm. "But you are aware of our protocols. We are the blade that never misses, but we do not move unless you agree to our terms in full."

Peng Kai’s face contorted. The Syndicate’s policies were notorious, hated by many for their inflexibility, yet respected because that very rigidity guaranteed results. Their prices were predatory, and their methods were an affront to the heavens, but their success rate was absolute. Peng Kai had no cards left to play; he was a man jumping off a cliff, hoping the devil would catch him.

"Fine. I agree. Whatever it takes," Peng Kai growled.

"Then let us discuss the toll," the masked man said. "The targets consist of a Golden Core, a Foundation Establishment, and a Qi Condensation cultivator. The price for such a purge is one thousand spirit stones."

Peng Kai recoiled as if struck, momentarily sobered by the staggering cost. Even for a clan of their stature, a thousand spirit stones was a king’s ransom. In the world of high-level cultivators, a single spirit stone was technically valued at a thousand gold coins per spirit stone, but no one in their right mind would make that trade. Spirit stones were condensed essence, the fuel for rapid cultivation and the only way to instantaneously recover Qi during a life-or-death struggle. They were the true currency of the immortal path.

"Fine," Peng Kai hissed, his desperation finally strangling his greed. "Take them. Just make sure the task is completed. I want them wiped from the face of this city."

"If your information is accurate and does not violate our policy, the contract is already etched in blood," the Wraith said.

As the final word left his lips, his form began to distort, bleeding into the darkness of the hall. He didn’t walk away; he simply ceased to be, vanishing into the shadows as if he had never been more than a nightmare born of Peng Kai’s drunken despair.