As they moved through the halls, the flickering lanterns cast long shadows against the walls, their soft glow illuminating the rich carvings embedded in the wooden panels. Outside, the night remained eerily silent—too silent. The air was thick with tension, almost as if the world itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to unfold.

Shi Min's pace was brisk but measured. "Paps, I know you're worried," he said quietly, sensing his stepfather's unease. "But trust me—those warriors are more than capable of handling any threat that approaches."

Four Eyes exhaled, glancing once more at the door leading to the alchemy chamber. He had never been one to rely on others easily, but the sheer power radiating from the samurai had left little room for doubt.

As they stepped deeper into the estate, Four Eyes finally found himself allowing a fraction of his tension to dissipate. At least for now, he could take solace in the fact that Ling Li was protected.

But still—something about the silent darkness outside gnawed at his instincts.

And instincts were rarely wrong.

As the six samurai vanished into the night, Mushu and Pharsa instinctively stepped aside, making room for the remaining warrior. His presence was imposing yet effortlessly fluid as if he existed beyond the constraints of normal movement. Standing now as an unwavering guardian at the entrance of the alchemy chamber, his mere existence exuded a silent warning—none shall pass.

Mushu felt a surge of excitement course through his veins, his heartbeat quickening at the realization of such overwhelming strength. He had seen countless cultivators rise and fall, but this—this was a different kind of power, one that transcended the limits he had come to understand. His fingers twitched slightly, a habit he'd developed when battling frustration over his own cultivation stagnation.

Pharsa wasn't faring much better. She had always prided herself on her sharp instincts and control over the battlefield. However, standing before this immortal warrior, a bitter pang settled in her chest. How long had they been trapped at their bottleneck? Years of relentless effort, pushing themselves to the brink—only to find their progress locked behind an invisible barrier. Meanwhile, Otako's subordinates stood before them, unshakable, indestructible, existing at heights they had yet to reach.

A fleeting moment of jealousy crossed Pharsa's mind before she shoved it aside. Now was not the time for personal grievances.

Glancing sideways at Mushu, Pharsa noted his stiff posture. "Don't think too much about it," she murmured, her voice low enough that only he could hear.

Mushu huffed quietly, crossing his arms. "Easier said than done," he muttered back. His gaze flickered toward the warrior beside them, and despite his quiet bitterness, a deep respect bloomed in his chest. "Still... I suppose it's reassuring that they're on our side."

Pharsa smirked. "That's one way to look at it."

With a final glance at the alchemy room, both Mushu and Pharsa steadied themselves, discarding their personal frustrations in favor of the mission at hand.

Whatever lay beyond this night, they would face it—together.

Somewhere not far away, the tension in the lavishly adorned chamber was suffocating, thick with frustration and barely restrained fury.

"What do you mean you were ambushed before you could even discover where and who this powerful person is?! And you lost half of your group?!" The Young Master's voice erupted like a storm, his fury palpable as his sharp gaze bore into the bloodied figure kneeling before him.

The wounded man, his head bowed low in submission, trembled as blood continued to ooze from the deep gashes across his shoulder and back. His torn robes, now drenched in red, were a stark contrast to the pristine carpets beneath him. He swallowed hard, gathering the strength to speak despite the overwhelming pressure weighing him down.

"Master, I led a hundred men as per your order, but we never imagined seven samurai men would attack us." His voice was strained, laden with the shame of failure. "They were too powerful! Despite our numbers, we were instantly incapacitated and forced to retreat. Nearly half of our men perished before we could escape."

A chilling silence followed his words.

Then—

"Trash! Trash! You're all TRASH!!!" The Young Master bellowed, his rage uncontained. His hands gripped whatever item was within reach—a porcelain vase, a heavy inkstone, even documents—and hurled them at the kneeling man with relentless aggression. Each impact sent shards scattering, yet the injured subordinate did not flinch, unwilling to show further weakness.

"I don't care what methods you use, but I want that powerful elixir in my hands!" The Young Master's voice dripped with venom. "If you fail again, I'll personally bury your entire family alongside you!"

The bloodied man shivered. He wasn't afraid of death. No warrior of his rank feared such an inevitability. But his family—his parents, his siblings—he had fought all his life to keep them safe. Yet now, the cruel reality dawned upon him: hiding them wouldn't matter. His Master had already captured them, securing his control like an iron fist clenched around his very existence.

There was no way out.

Biting back the despair threatening to consume him, he forced himself to respond with unwavering submission. "Yes, Master." He cupped his hands together, pressing his forehead to the floor in a deep bow before rising, his steps slow and steady despite the sharp pain lacing his every movement.

The Young Master barely spared him another glance before turning away, pacing the length of his lavish living quarters, the silken rugs absorbing the restless sound of his footsteps. His expression remained cold, his brows furrowed as his mind raced.

'Samurai men?' The Young Master mused internally, the pieces of the puzzle still unclear. 'Only Otako and his subordinates are known to wear samurai garb. Could it be that Otako himself is handling the alchemy?'

His heart skipped a beat at the mere possibility, uncertainty coiling in the pit of his stomach. If Otako had truly entered the picture, then things had just become infinitely more complicated.

But then, reason fought against impulse.

'However, how could Otako be in Russia?' The Young Master's lips pressed into a thin line. 'Otako has no business here. It couldn't be Otako.'

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