Huang Yanyan's POV:
The shack's air was thick with dust, but it was the vault's ripple—global, crestless, cold as death—that choked me worse than the blood crusting my cheek. The hooded, starless figure stood before it, their hissing voice—"memory wakes"—a blade in my gut, sharper than Master Wu's smirk, his crest glinting as he lingered, blade flashing, a snake ready to strike. My star-etched dagger trembled, Yue's scratched seal dim, a Huang seal that broke the Nexus but left me drained, knife shaking, shoulder and thigh oozing, ribs screaming from every fight.
I stood guarding Dad's stretcher, Yang Wei's beeps slowing, Yue's hands trembling, her photo—her and Meilin, stars carved—shattered on the dirt. Chen Wei was gone, Gao too, their blood haunting me, family breaking, and I'd gut this starless freak, Wu, anyone, to save what was left—Dad, Yue, Haoyu, my heart, my fight.
