The silence in the penthouse bedroom was so profound that every ticking of the clock felt like a hammer strike against Zain Yan's brain. Outside, the city of Shenzhen lay asleep under a blanket of neon lights, but inside this room, time seemed to have frozen.
Suddenly—
"No! Mom! Jiya!!"
Zhen sat up in bed as if pulled by invisible chains. His body leaned forward, his breaths tearing through his chest as they escaped. His broad chest heaved up and down like ocean waves crashing against the rocks.
Cold sweat glistened on his skin. Zhen's 195 cm height and his powerful, sturdy physique cast a terrifying shadow in the dark room. He gripped the bedsheet so tightly in his fist that his knuckles turned white and his veins bulged like wires.
Zhen covered his face with his hands. This was Yan Zhen—the CEO who could build an empire with a single signature, whose one gaze could silence boardrooms. But in this darkness, he was just a broken man.
He reached his hand under the pillow. His fingers felt the cold iron. That same old cake-cutting knife. He pressed it against his chest. This wasn't just steel; it was the last memento of his sister.
"Fifteen years..." he muttered in a heavy voice. "Fifteen years have passed... but those screams still haunt me today."
Echoes of Punishment: Shenzhen Warehouse
A few hours later, lightning struck over an old warehouse on the outskirts of Shenzhen. Zhen stood there, wearing a long black overcoat. His 195 cm tall stature and his deadly looks made him appear like a fallen angel.
Before him, a man was tied to a chair. Zhen took off his expensive Rolex and placed it on the table. Then, with great calm, he began to remove his white gloves. The sound of his shoes echoed on the concrete floor—like a march of death.
Zhen stopped beside the man. His voice was soft yet laced with poison.
"A human dies," Zhen said slowly, "but memories never die."
"Do you remember that 11-year-old boy... whose birthday you stained with blood?"
The man began to tremble. "N-No! You are dead! That boy... that boy escaped!"
Zhen leaned close to his ear. "Death is cheap. You gave that to my mother as a gift. But I am not that merciful. I will show you a hell where you will beg for death every moment... but death will not come."
The deathly silence of the damp warehouse walls was broken only by the man's gasping breath. Zain slowly pushed up the sleeves of his overcoat. His jaw was so tight that the bones of his face stood out.
"N-No... Mercy... Let me go! I was only a small part of that night!" the criminal pleaded, the water of terror flowing from his eyes.
Zain's face was completely flat—a cold, silent storm. Without wasting a moment, he grabbed the man's hair in his fist and jerked his head back with full force.
"Aaaaaah!" A scream echoed, hitting the iron rafters of the warehouse and bouncing back.
"Mercy?" Zain's voice was so cold it felt as if the temperature of the place had dropped. Leaning near his ear, he said, "When you slit my mother's throat, did your sword speak of mercy? When my sister was screaming, did your ears hear it?"
He pressed his shoe heel onto the man's foot with such pressure that the cracking sound of bones was clearly audible. The man's body began to convulse and his face turned blue, but Zain's grip did not loosen.
"People like you do not deserve death... you only deserve torment," Zain pushed him away as if he were a pile of trash. His aura was so calm and dangerous that even his own men stepped back in fear. Zain wiped a few splatters of blood with his handkerchief and turned to walk out without looking back, leaving behind only the final agonizing voice of the sinner.
Zain stepped back and cleaned his fingers with a white handkerchief, as if touching that man had made him dirty.
"Cut off both his legs," Zain ordered with a cold mind. "Take him to a place where no one can hear his screams."
The Dragon King's Message
Back at the penthouse, Zain stood under the shower. Hot water flowed over his broad shoulders and down his scarred back. There were many marks on his body—some from training, some from the battles he fought hidden from the world.
Stepping out of the shower, he wrapped only a towel around him. Just then, his phone vibrated.
Unknown Number.
He opened the message. Along with the message was a profile picture (DP)—the face of a terrifying Dragon King Tattoo.
The message read:
"By killing my pawn, you have dug your own grave, Zain Yan. Does your dear sister Fengning know that her brother's hands are stained with the blood of innocents? Next time you cut a cake... use this gift of mine."
Something broke inside Zain. A red glow descended into his eyes that would terrify death itself. The coffee mug in his hand shattered with a sharp crack. Hot coffee spilled onto his hand, but he felt no pain.
He picked up that same old cake knife and ran his finger along its edge. A thin line of blood emerged. He looked out the window at the dark city.
"If you even raise an eye toward my sister..." his voice was cold as death, "...I will open the gates of hell inside your home."
He called his right-hand man, Qian.
"I want the auction files," Zain commanded. "Find out everything about the Dragon King's main killer. His name, his family, every single secret. I want the report on my desk by tomorrow morning."
The call ended. Silence filled the room once again, but now, there was the hint of death in this silence.