Oscar turned back to Naomi."That," he said, "is a matter for the underground society."His voice had not changed—still calm, still measured, still carrying the specific authority of someone who is accustomed to being the person in the room whose statements are treated as final."You don't deserve an answer for it," he said. "Not because the answer doesn't exist, but because the answer is not something that gets shared with people outside the decision-making structure. You made choices. Those choices had consequences. And now those consequences are arriving."He straightened slightly."Let's cut this short," he said. "We came here for one thing. We came to kill you. That's the assignment. That's what's going to happen tonight. Everything else—your questions, your grievances, your feelings about how the rules were applied in your father's case—all of that is irrelevant to what happens next."Alice spoke for the first time.His voice was similar to his brother's—not identical, but close

The question hung in the air—simple, direct, carrying underneath it the weight of genuine concern that had nothing to do with tactical assessment or strategic positioning. Just the straightforward inquiry of someone checking on another person's well-being."Are you okay?"David's voice was steady. Calm. The same voice he had used throughout everything that had preceded this moment—through Bushman's arrival, through the systematic dismantling of fifty men, through the entrance of Oscar and Alice and their thirteen companions. The voice of someone who does not raise their volume to communicate seriousness because seriousness is simply the default register they operate in.Naomi looked at him.And in her face was something complicated—gratitude, certainly, but also the specific, uncomfortable awareness of someone who has just been rescued from a situation they should have been able to handle themselves and is now processing what that rescue means.But before she could answer—Alice laugh

His fists came in rapid succession—not one punch, not a combination, but a continuous, overwhelming barrage of strikes that blurred together into something that looked less like fighting and more like a natural disaster given physical form. Each punch carrying enough force to break bone. Each one aimed with the specific intention of causing maximum damage.And underneath the physical assault, something else was happening.His cultivation energy was doing something.David could feel it—could feel the way Oscar's energy was not just powering the strikes but was actively trying to invade, to penetrate, to force its way into David's system and disrupt it from the inside. The specific, invasive technique of someone who fights not just with their body but with their energy, who uses their cultivation to attack on multiple levels simultaneously.Oscar was fully committed now.Fully unleashed.The restraint that had been there when he walked in—the professional, measured approach of someone e

The smile arrived before anything else.Not a large smile—not the wide, theatrical expression of someone performing confidence for an audience. Just a small, quiet curve at the corners of David's mouth. The specific smile of someone who has just heard something they find mildly amusing. The smile of someone who is comfortable. Who is, in the most genuine and complete sense of the word, unbothered.The man standing in front of him—the one who had walked across the room with the measured, deliberate pace of someone approaching a task, who had delivered his promise of death with the flat certainty of a professional describing his work—registered the smile.And something moved through his face.Not anger. Not yet. Something more complicated than anger—the specific, momentary dissonance of someone who has just encountered a response they did not expect and whose mind is briefly occupied with the project of reconciling expectation with reality.He had expected fear.Or defiance—the hot, rea

His hand was bleeding now—small amounts from several points along the knuckles and the back of the palm where the skin had given way under repeated, accumulated impact. The price of managing this much force with this much frequency.He noted the bleeding.Did not concern himself with it.Because he had what he needed.He had felt their techniques fully now—had absorbed the rhythm of them, the specific energy signature of each man's attack, the way their cultivation moved from their center outward through their arms and into the strikes they were throwing. Had cataloged the exact speed, the exact angle of approach, the precise frequency at which the energy pulsed in the moments before each attack committed.He understood their techniques.Not theoretically. Not as an observer describes something they have watched. The way a musician understands a piece of music they have just heard—as something that now lives in them, that has been incorporated into the same system that produces their