Huo Meilin's champagne flute shattered against the penthouse's glass wall, golden liquid streaking down the floor-to-ceiling view of Shanghai's Pudong skyline. The luxury suite—rented under a false name in Lujiazui's priciest tower—was her war room tonight, its sleek marble and velvet screaming power she no longer felt. Her latest X video—Jingran's endgame—HuoTech falls—was meant to bury her adopted sister, but Jingran had survived Zhabei's factory, crushed Xiwen's six-tailed fox, and sparked a #ShanghaiWitch fanbase that mocked Meilin's #HuoLegacy. The Huo name, her birthright, was slipping, and rage burned hotter than the city's neon below.
"She's a cockroach!" Meilin screamed, her silver gown catching the chandelier's light as she paced, heels cracking a fallen shard. "I frame her, and she's a hero?"
A low chuckle answered from the suite's shadowed bar, where Zhao Wenxu lounged, swirling a whiskey glass. His jade ring glinted, his suit as sharp as his gaze—Suzhou clan cunning wrapped in charm. "You're loud, Meilin," he said, voice smooth but edged. "Jingran's pendant's a problem, not your videos. She's got the Core's heart now."
Meilin's glare was venom, her nails digging into her palm. "Don't lecture me, Zhao. Your 'plan'—your videos—failed! Xiwen's constructs failed! I'm the one cleaning your mess!"
Zhao's smile didn't waver, but his eyes darkened, pinning her. "My mess? You're the one who posted too early—again. Guangli's calling you reckless, Qiongyu's freezing your accounts. Careful, princess—your throne's wobbling."
Meilin's breath hitched, Zhao's words slicing deep. Her parents—Huo Guangli's fury, Qiongyu's ice—had always favored her, their true heir, over Jingran, the adopted failure. But Jingran's vault win, her Core heart, stirred whispers of HuoTech's sorcery past, and Guangli's boardroom allies were wavering. Meilin's videos, meant to ruin Jingran, had exposed cracks—her family's Bei deals, the jade seal's theft—and Zhao knew it all, his Suzhou spies too close.
"Don't threaten me," Meilin hissed, storming to the bar, snatching his whiskey and downing it. "I've got files—HuoTech's contracts, Guangli's secrets. I'll burn Jingran and Xiwen if you screw me over."
Zhao laughed, soft but dangerous, rising to tower over her. "Burn them? You're playing with matches, Meilin, and Shanghai's a tinderbox. Jingran's headed for Xiwen's temple—Pudong, ley line nexus. My sources say she's weak, bleeding. Push now, or lose."
Meilin's pulse raced, the whiskey bitter on her tongue. Jingran, weak? Her Zhabei fight—runes blazing, fans cheering—felt unstoppable, but Zhao's intel was gold. Xiwen's failure meant an opening, and Meilin's deal with Zhao—power for loyalty—was her last card. She'd leaked HuoTech files to him, framing Jingran, but his calm screamed control, not partnership.
"What's your angle, Zhao?" she demanded, stepping back. "You're not just here for Xiwen's scraps."
He tilted his head, jade ring catching light. "Scraps? I want the Core, same as you want the Huo name. Xiwen's slipping—her ritual's glitching. Jingran's the key, and you're my… spark."
Meilin's lips curled, hiding unease. "Spark? I'm the fire, Zhao. Give me something—now—or I walk."
He slid a USB from his pocket, jade-cased, gleaming. "New video—Jingran at Zhabei, edited to look unhinged. Audio's doctored—she 'admits' to sabotage. Post it when she hits the temple. Shanghai'll turn on her."
Meilin snatched it, grin feral. "This'll gut her," she said, plugging it into her tablet. The footage—Jingran's runes, twisted screams—made her look like a demon. Perfect.
She drafted an X post: Jingran's madness—HuoTech's traitor unmasked. #NotMySister. Her finger hovered, Zhao's gaze heavy, but a ping stopped her—a text, no sender: Puppets break, Huo. Flames rise.
Meilin gasped, tablet slipping. "Not this again," she whispered, the penthouse's lights flickering. The same shadow—Strings snap from the estate—haunted her, colder now. Not Zhao—his eyes narrowed, curious, not guilty. Not Xiwen—too blunt. Someone tied to the seal, the Core, HuoTech's sins.
"What's that?" Zhao asked, voice low, stepping closer.
"Nothing!" Meilin lied, clutching the tablet. Her heart pounded, the room's air thick, like magic—ley lines? A jade figurine on the bar—HuoTech's old logo—seemed to glow, then dim. She blinked, shaking it off, but another text hit: Truth bites, Meilin.
Her scream was silent, swallowed by pride. Zhao watched, amused, and she hated him—hated Jingran, hated the Huos. She posted the video, defying the texts, watching likes surge—#TrashHeiress spiking, Shanghai's elite frothing.
The penthouse's windows rattled, a low hum vibrating—construct? No, something else. Meilin's tablet pinged, X trending: Jingran's alive—Zhabei hero? Her fans, fighting back, her legend growing.
"No!" Meilin hissed, hurling the tablet. It cracked, Zhao's laughter echoing.
"Careful, Meilin," he said, leaving her alone, the city's glow mocking her. Jingran was coming, and Meilin's fire was burning her own hands.
Zhabei's factory was a wreck of scorched steel as Huo Jingran limped through its back exit, the jade seal's runes dim in her clutch. The six-tailed fox was gone—her runes, Mingxu's pulse, Haoran's gun—but her body screamed: leg bleeding, back gashed, mana drain like a crashed server. Lu Mingxu flanked her, blood on his glasses, stun baton sparking low. Teng Haoran scouted ahead, proto-gun ready, his arm a mess but steady. Shao Lanyi hauled her laptop, ley line data pointing to Xiwen's temple—Pudong, their final play.
"Xiwen's got a season pass to Bossville," Jingran panted, dodging rubble. "Where's my XP boost?"
Mingxu snorted, weak but real. "You're leveled up, Huo. Temple's gonna hate you."
Haoran's voice cut through, sharp. "Focus, Jingran. Xiwen's ritual—ley lines are spiking. We're close."
Lanyi muttered, checking her phone. "Close? Meilin's new video says you're a 'traitor.' X's a warzone—your fans are loud, boss."
Jingran's grin hid pain—Guangli's betrayal, Qiongyu's scorn, Meilin's knife, raw as ever. "Fans? I'm a brand," she quipped, seal pulsing.
Her pendant blared: Jade Whisper alert: Task—Infiltrate temple, stop ritual. Ley line surge imminent—Bei sorcery critical. Success chance: 52%.
"Fifty-two?" Jingran groaned, kicking a crate. "My RNG's on strike!"
Focus, Host. Seal's runes can disrupt temple wards. Mingxu's tech—viable aid.
"Mingxu," Jingran muttered, eyeing him. His Zhabei save—Don't die—earned points, but his Bund trap lingered. Ally? Risk? Her gut leaned ally, barely.
Lanyi's laptop pinged, temple map glowing. "Pudong—underground, ley line nexus. But Xiwen's got eyes—constructs, wards, maybe worse."
Haoran's gun hummed, catching fog. "Worse is here," he said, nodding to Mingxu. "Prove yourself, Lu."
Mingxu's smirk was tired, bloodied. "Proving it, Teng. Temple's rigged—Xiwen's desperate."
Jingran's phone buzzed—anonymous: I'm here, Huo. Watching. Her blood chilled, Mingxu's earlier texts—No flaking—clashing with this. Not him—someone deeper.
"Stalkers," she muttered, seal flaring. A memory hit—HuoTech, Guangli's locked files, whispers of Bei—and Meilin's shade felt small, a pawn in something bigger.
The fog thickened, ley lines humming—temple close. A new sound—not fox, not machine—slithered, low, alive. Jingran raised the seal, runes blazing, grin fierce. "Party's starting," she said. "Let's crash it."