The Zhao Manor gates buzzed with uneasy energy. Second Steward Ma Tianyun clutched a stack of wanted posters, his face twisted in contempt. He spat on Lin Hao’s illustrated likeness, the phlegm obscuring the blind man’s milky eyes. "Worthless cripple," he growled, adjusting his bandaged groin. The Wolf Spider’s earlier attack still throbbed.

  "Careful," came a voice like winter steel. "Ambition often strangles the ambitious."

  Ma spun, sweat beading his jowls. Lin Hao stood ten paces away, rain-soaked cloak clinging to his frame. The Wolf Spider peeked from his collar, mandibles clicking.

  "You—!" Ma’s roar died as servants erupted in false cheer.

  "Third Young Master’s back!"

  "Praise the ancestors, our search ends!"

  Their relief was palpable—not for Lin Hao’s safety, but for respite from the downpour. Ma Tianyun seized the moment. "Where’ve you been, worm?! We’ve turned the city upside—"

  Lin Hao tilted his head. "Try peeling my skin. I’ll wait."

  The challenge hung like a dagger. Ma’s palm itched to strike, yet memory froze him—the Spider’s venomous embrace, nights spent screaming into bloodied rags.

  "Search him!" he barked at nearby lackeys. "That demon insect—"

  White silk shot from Lin Hao’s sleeve.

  Ma’s scream pierced the morning. The Wolf Spider’s latest gift struck true—his groin now a necrotic ruin. Servants recoiled as the steward collapsed, froth bubbling past clenched teeth.

  Chaos erupted. Guards poured from the manor, halberds gleaming. At their forefront strode Steward Zhao Rong, his earlier deference replaced by glacial authority.

  "Welcome home, Third Young Master." The old man bowed precisely fifteen degrees—a calculated insult masquerading as respect. His rheumy eyes flicked to Ma’s twitching form. "Dispose of that trash. The gardens need fertilizer."

  Lin Hao’s brow arched. This sudden obsequiousness reeked of theater. Before he could probe, wails erupted from the gate. Six maimed guards stumbled through, carrying a cocooned figure—Qin Chi, eyeless and tongueless, his moans muffled by Spider silk.

  Zhao Rong paled. The courtyard stilled.

  "Third Young Master," the steward began, voice taut as a garrote wire, "the Patriarch requests your presence. The ancestral hall."

  Lin Hao stroked the Spider’s carapace. "Lead on."

  They passed through corridors lined with whispering tapestries. The Fly mapped their route—three hidden crossbowmen in the rafters, five poison needles embedded in doorframes. Lin Hao smiled. Predictable.

  The ancestral hall loomed, its bronze doors etched with Zhao lineage triumphs. Patriarch Zhao Gaolie awaited before a hundred spirit tablets, ancestral swords crossed on the altar.

  "Nephew." The Patriarch’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "We’ve prepared a… welcoming gift."

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  He snapped his fingers. Servants dragged forth a cage—within thrashed a scaled monstrosity, its claws gouging steel bars.

  "A Basilisk Hound," Zhao Gaolie purred. "Tamed it myself in the Southern Wastes. Let’s see if your pets measure up."

  The cage exploded.

  Lin Hao didn’t flinch as the beast lunged. The Wolf Spider dropped from his neck, venom sacs pulsing. Somewhere above, the Fly’s wings hummed a death knell.

  Beyond the hall’s stained-glass windows, storm clouds gathered.

  Meeting the Patriarch

  The ancestral hall’s braziers cast flickering shadows as Patriarch Zhao Gaolie circled Lin Hao like a tiger assessing prey. Qin Chi’s corpse lay shrouded on a marble slab between them, the stench of burnt silk lingering from hasty cremation.

  “A blind man outruns the Nether Pavilion’s finest assassin?” Zhao’s boot heels clicked rhythmically. “How…convenient.”

  Lin Hao remained seated, Wolf Spider coiled around his wrist like a living vambrace. Through the Fly’s compound eyes, he watched Zhao’s qi pulse—a sixth-level warrior’s aura, unstable at the edges. Years of political scheming had eroded the patriarch’s cultivation.

  “Fortune favors the unprepared,” Lin Hao replied blandly. “Perhaps Heaven took pity on this humble son-in-law.”

  Zhao’s laughter boomed, too sharp to be genuine. He stopped abruptly, looming over Lin Hao. “Let’s dispense with theater. I know you’re Jing Ke.”

  The Spider’s venom sacs tightened. Lin Hao kept his breathing even. “A blind cripple? An assassin? Patriarch jests.”

  “Two days ago,” Zhao hissed, “a Nether Pavilion agent intercepted correspondence between Qin Chi’s brother and the Second Prince. Seems young Qin Yu discovered his brother’s…indiscretions…and sought royal intervention.” His jade ring glinted as he tapped Qin Chi’s shroud. “Yet before the courier could reach the palace, someone slit his throat. Left a wolf spider carved into his collarbone.”

  Silence thickened. Somewhere in the rafters, the Kung Fu Fly adjusted its trajectory—optimal strike angle for Zhao’s jugular.

  “Impressive deduction.” Lin Hao leaned back, abandoning pretense. “What do you want?”

  Zhao’s demeanor shifted like quicksilver. He sank into the opposing chair, suddenly avuncular. “To protect family. Qin Yu returns in ten days for his brother’s funeral. The Second Prince’s envoys arrive sooner.”

  “And?”

  “Stay married to my daughter.”

  Lin Hao’s mockery died as Zhao produced a scroll stamped with the imperial phoenix seal—a betrothal annulment decree signed by Zhao Ling’er.

  “She petitioned the Crown Princess herself,” Zhao said bitterly. “But with this…” He fed the document to a brazier. Flames devoured Ling’er’s delicate calligraphy. “Let the palace blame bureaucratic delays.”

  The Spider hissed. Lin Hao’s scales itched beneath his sleeve. “Why?”

  Zhao leaned forward, eyes alight. “The Nether Pavilion hasn’t produced a Monarch-grade Beast Tamer in three centuries. With you anchoring our bloodline…”

  “You want breeding stock.”

  “I want immortality!” The patriarch’s composure shattered. He gestured wildly at the ancestral tablets. “My grandfather served the last Beast Emperor! Our lineage once commanded armies of sacred creatures! Now?” His fist clenched around a ceremonial dagger. “We grovel to upjumped scholars!”

  The Fly’s wings stilled. Lin Hao’s mind raced. Zhao’s desperation reeked of deeper schemes—perhaps connections to the shadowy factions Zhar’goth had mentioned.

  “Agree,” Zhao pressed, “and I’ll gift you the Forbidden Menagerie. Its beasts have languished since Grandfather’s death. With your talent…”

  Lin Hao stood abruptly. The Spider flared its chelicerae in warning. “I’ll consider it.”

  Zhao’s smile returned, brittle as antique porcelain. “Of course. Take tonight to—urk!”

  A silk thread lashed his throat—not enough to break skin, but sufficient to silence. Lin Hao leaned close, scales rippling across his right cheek. “Threaten me again through Ling’er, and your ancestral tablets will need a new compartment.”

  He departed through swirling ash motes, Fly mapping escape routes. Behind him, Zhao Gaolie massaged his throat, equal parts fury and awe flickering across his face.

  Dawn found Lin Hao atop the eastern watchtower, city spread below like a game board. The Forbidden Menagerie’s obsidian gates glinted in the distance—and within, something ancient stirred, sensing the dragon blood in his veins.

  Zhar’goth’s chuckle vibrated through his bones. "Mortal games amuse briefly. Shall we hunt bigger prey?"

  Lin Hao watched imperial couriers gallop through the south gate, their banners bearing the Second Prince’s crimson phoenix. “Patience. Let the pieces fall.”

  The Spider wove a new web between tower stones—a fractal map of political alliances. Somewhere in the capital, Qin Yu’s sword sharpened.

  The game deepened.