CHAPTER 135: ANOTHER SECRET IS ABOUT TO--

In truth, no weapons had been raised at all.

The silence that followed this realization was heavier than the iron scent of blood.

The corridor stretched endlessly, shadows clinging to the walls like watchful phantoms. Yet the presence of the soldiers made the air dense, oppressive, as though every breath carried the weight of a thousand unspoken threats.

The troops had arrived in perfect formation, their boots striking the ground in unison, echoing like war drums in a temple of judgment.

They lined themselves into two neat rows, flawless in posture, each man a reflection of the other—as though carved from the same mold.

Every soldier held his weapon in a showy and razor-sharp way, the barrels angled slightly downward, fingers grazing triggers in a manner that screamed readiness.

It was not the stance of peacekeepers, nor the restless fidgeting of amateurs. It was the calm precision of predators—ready, at any second, to strike and fire at any enemy who dared to step closer.

That alone was enough to unsettle the onlookers.

Everyone, without exception, was astonished by the sudden and theatrical entrance of these men.

Murmurs died on tongues. Fear and awe mingled in equal measure. Even Sian, who had faced horrors that would have broken lesser men, and Lan Qisheng, whose life had been riddled with battlefields and bloodlines of power, found themselves staring at the soldiers with grave, questioning eyes.

Sian, of course, was not the kind of man to overlook details. His gaze swept over the scene like a scalpel cutting flesh—precise, merciless, missing nothing.

He understood, without effort, that the news of his rebellion against the institute had traveled swiftly to the higher echelons.

That much was inevitable.

What puzzled him—what hooked at his sharp mind like a thorn—was not their presence, but their conduct.

None of them had raised their rifles against him.

None had even shifted into positions of attack.

Their gazes—sharp, wary, a thousand knives pressing down on him—were steady, alert, and ready.

And yet, within that collective glare, there was no trace of killing intent. No hunger for blood.

That contradiction, so delicate and deliberate, was what piqued Sian’s curiosity.

Lan Qisheng too, caught on quickly.

His body tensed, the instinctive reaction of a man who had lived too long on the edge of danger.

His hand twitched toward his pocket, where his phone rested.

The thought flashed: call his grandfather, seek aid, find an exit before the trap closed around them. But before the device could even leave his pocket, the sound of approaching footsteps froze him in place.

The cadence was unhurried. Confident.

A rhythm that belonged not to a soldier under orders, but to a man who commanded by nature.

A new figure was entering the corridor.

The atmosphere shifted with his arrival.

The soldiers, statuesque until now, reacted as though moved by a single unseen string. Their shoulders straightened further, spines locking like iron rods.

When the silhouette finally emerged into the dim light, the entire corridor seemed to hold its breath.

He walked calmly between the two lines of special forces, his stride measured, his presence undeniable.

As he passed, the soldiers saluted in perfect synchrony—sharp movements that split the silence. Not a word was spoken, but their respect was thunderous in its clarity.

His identity required no announcement, It was etched in the reverence of the men who served him.

Step after deliberate step carried him forward closing the distance.

Unlike others who might have paused at a respectful distance, he did not stop.

He advanced without hesitation, crossing into the space that belonged to Sian alone. Until, at last, only a breath, only a handful of steps remained between them.

For the first time that day, Sian’s brow lifted slightly, a flicker of reaction crossing his otherwise cold, impassive face.

The man’s behavior was unexpected—bold, even careless. His hand extended in greeting, palm open, fingers steady.

A faint smile touched his lips, the kind of smile that seemed carved into the face by long years of habit rather than genuine mirth. His sharp black eyes, however, betrayed his age; softened at the edges by wrinkles, they revealed decades of life lived and battles weathered.

"Hello, Young man" the man said, his voice slow and deliberate, never breaking eye contact. "I have heard many things about you recently. At last, we meet. It is an honor to make your acquaintance."

The corridor, filled with tension and silence, seemed to bend toward the words. Soldiers shifted slightly, anticipation coiling in the air. But Sian gave nothing back.

He looked at the man as one might look at an insect crawling across the floor—indifferent, detached, utterly uninterested. His expression was carved from stone, heavy with boredom so deep it could suffocate. He let the silence stretch long enough to taste bitter on the tongue before finally exhaling, his voice low, cool, dismissive.

"As for me," Sian said, "I find no honor in meeting anyone at all. Shouldn’t you introduce yourself before extending your hand to a stranger who doesn’t know you?"

The words sliced, sharp, and merciless.

And though the soldiers stiffened at the insult, the man did not flinch. His hand lowered, his smile unchanged. Though softened by age, his eyes gleamed faintly with something unspoken—something far older and heavier than pride.

Of course, Sian knew.

He knew, instinctively, that the man before him was no ordinary person. His sixth sense, honed by survival and sharpened by battles beyond reason, whispered the truth to him.

This man was strong.

Not with muscle or brute force. Not someone who could defeat him in single combat. But strong in a more dangerous way—carrying the aura of a ruler. The presence of one who could bend the will of others without raising a finger, who could command obedience as easily as drawing breath.

That alone made him dangerous.

And yet, Sian was unmoved.

He had no interest in kings or sovereigns. No patience for crowns or commands. So long as they did not disturb him, so long as they did not dare demand his submission, he had no reason to care.

Lan Qisheng, however, was drowning in unease.

The men in black radiated hostility—subtle, restrained, but undeniable. They were soldiers, that much was certain, yet none bore faces he recognized. And Lan Qisheng was not a man unfamiliar with the military. He had worked alongside special forces more times than he could count, and he was certain: none of these faces had ever stood on any battlefield with him.

Still, their presence was unmistakable. They were trained, disciplined, and deadly.

So then—where had they come from?

And more importantly... who commanded them?

Suspicion gnawed at his thoughts, but Lan Qisheng pushed it aside. His attention snapped back to Sian, who now stood locked in silent confrontation with the older man, his glare sharp enough to peel flesh from bone, his features twisted with disdain and disgust.

Lan Qisheng’s pulse quickened.

He felt as though he might lose his mind within the hour, caught between Sian’s madness and his endless thirst for blood.

It was too much.

He had seen Sian kill with less provocation, had seen him snap when patience frayed. If he grew angry here, if he lost control and slaughtered this man, the consequences... no, Lan Qisheng dared not imagine them.

He drew in a breath, ready to intervene, to say something—anything-to defuse the storm gathering between them.

But before he could speak, the older man broke the silence once more.

His expression remained calm, even kind, but his aura—no, his aura was anything but ordinary. It pressed against the air, heavy, suffocating, a reminder that his presence could never be mistaken for that of an "ordinary" man.

"Kira says she wishes to meet the leader of the first group," the man said evenly. "Shall we go see her together?"

One sentence.

Just one.

And it shattered Sian’s world.

The control he had perfected over the years, the mask of indifference he wore like a second skin—it cracked, fractured, collapsed.

His lashes trembled violently. If they had been longer, the flutter might have stirred winds capable of capsizing ships.

Beneath those lashes, his amber eyes widened, burning like molten gold. His pupils trembled, erratic, frantic, shaking with disbelief.

His body betrayed him, shuddering as though struck by lightning.

The figure who had always seemed like an angel in form but carried the presence of a devil—the figure who had made even seasoned soldiers tremble in dread—was gone.

In his place stood someone else entirely.

If you had asked the witnesses then, they would have sworn the devil had fallen. That he had been stripped of his wings, his claws, his fangs, and left standing as nothing more than an ordinary young man.

Push them further, and they might have said he looked less like a man and more like a boy. A student—fragile, breakable, the kind whose weakness drew bullies like wolves to prey.

Lan Qisheng could not believe his eyes.

He had seen Sian in ways no one else had: in moments of triumph, in depths of despair, in weakness, even in tears. But this—this was different. This was something else. Something heavier, more dangerous, more terrifying in its fragility.

What meaning could one sentence hold, that it could undo Sian so completely?

As for Sian himself—he was gone.

His consciousness had slipped away, drowned the moment those words touched his ears.

His thoughts scattered, spiraling into chaos, torn between belief and denial. Between hope and despair. Between yearning and refusal.

He did not know how to act.

He did not know how to feel.

How does one respond when a ghost steps out of memory?

How do you breathe when someone you once loved, once lost—someone you had believed condemned to nothingness—returns?

The questions swirled, violent as a storm:

Where was Kira ?

How was she ?

When had she arrived to this world ?

Had she crossed the same worlds as he had?

But above all, one question devoured him whole:

Was she truly the same Kira he had known?

The same Kira he had thought of in endless nights, the one whose name was chasing hi in endless nightmares?

The silence stretched.

And in that silence, Sian trembled.