The van rumbled through Hebei's outskirts, its headlights slicing through the pre-dawn mist as Ruoxi leaned against the window, her thigh still aching from Xia Zhenguo's last strike. The phoenix blood had sealed the gash—slowly, imperfectly, a faint scar beneath the torn fabric—but its fire hummed in her veins, awake and restless since Beijing. Jiang Yukang drove, mask off, his arm bandaged from the sniper's graze, his silence a steady anchor after the chaos. Xiao Zheng sat in the back, leg propped up, typing furiously on his salvaged laptop, piecing together Shuren's data for their next move—Tianhua's mountain lab, the heart of her mother's stolen legacy.