Dawn.
Light slips timidly through the tall windows, washing the suite in soft gold. Adrián opens his eyes, still wrapped in a haze of sleep. He feels warmth. There shouldn't be warmth—the sofa is narrow, and the night was long.
Then he notices.
Meilan is asleep beside him.
Her face is close, her breathing calm and soft. One hand clutches his shirt, almost desperately. It isn't desire—it's the instinct of someone afraid of losing something irreplaceable.
Halfway between sleep and waking, she murmurs:
"Don't die like that again…"
Adrián understands. He doesn't need to ask. She's had that dream again.
Even in sleep, she's tense—muscles tight, as if trying to hold him in place, to keep him from disappearing.
So he does something simple, but final: he doesn't reach for her waist, doesn't touch her inappropriately. He just wraps an arm around her—steady, secure. Present.
She wakes slowly. Blinks, confused, realizing where she is—on the sofa, beside him, far too close for excuses.
But instead of pulling away, the first thing she does is press her hand against his chest, searching for his heartbeat.
That alone says everything. There's no lust—only relief. A silent confirmation that he's alive.
Only then does the air change.
Their eyes meet.
Their breathing deepens, the distance between them shrinking to a breath.
And in that small shared space, fear transforms into something else. Into possibility. Into certainty.
They didn't leave the room all morning.
The door remained closed; footsteps that approached to announce breakfast stopped short at the first muffled sound from inside. No one insisted.
Inside, time stopped being measured in hours.
Meilan didn't let go of him. Not even when the air seemed scarce, not even when her strength faltered. Her fingers clung to his back as if, with a single lapse, he might vanish again in her arms.
It wasn't possession.
It was an ancient fear.
In another world, beneath a violet sky, she had felt him fade against her chest. She had held his lifeless body while the world burned around her. After that, she fought—not for glory or justice, but for rage. Years later, she died covered in the blood of others, never having overcome that moment.
With her last breath, she regretted not being the one to fall first.
Perhaps the heavens—or whatever moves the unseen threads—granted her a second chance.
And that morning, in the golden dimness of the suite, she refused to lose it.
Every time he moved, she sought him again.
Every time his breathing shifted, she confirmed he was still there.
It wasn't only desire filling the room.
It was certainty.
It was reaffirmation.
The desperate need to engrave into this life's memory the real weight of his existence, the warmth of his skin, the steady beat beneath her palm.
Outside, the mansion carried on with its flawless routine.
Inside, Meilan fought a battle quieter than any war of power.
And this time, she wasn't holding a lifeless body.
This time, he was the one holding her.
As the sun lit the Valmont suite, hundreds of kilometers away, Valenheim awakened beneath the morning mist—elegant and distant, its towers barely suggested through the haze.
From the back seat of the vehicle, Lin Yue watched the city. It wasn't imposing.
It was a fortress—contained, secure, observant.
Ye Chen scanned the surroundings before the car crossed the bridge into the old district.
"Once we're inside," he said without looking at her, "they don't react. They evaluate."
Lin Yue turned the invitation between her fingers—gold seal, engraved initials.
Valmont.
"Perfect," she replied, eyes still forward. "So do I."
Ye Chen didn't smile.
"They don't lose."
She gave the city one last look.
"Then let's make sure they don't know we're playing."
The car stopped in front of the historic hotel hosting the gala. A few blocks away, on the top floor of a discreet tower, someone had already received the alert:
"Asian delegation confirmed."
The meeting was scheduled for the morning.
But Adrián didn't answer calls.
Didn't return messages.
Didn't check notifications.
His schedule—always impeccable—was blocked under "internal matters."
Across the office, Meilan watched him in silence. When he set his phone face down on the desk, she raised an eyebrow slightly.
And smiled.
Not a wide smile—small, precise, satisfied. The conflict, it seemed, was resolved. Or at least contained.
Lin Yue waited all morning. At first, she thought it was a power play—the Valmonts marking territory, measuring her patience, evaluating every detail. Every passing minute reinforced the illusion that her value lay in enduring the wait.
But as the clock moved forward, discomfort turned into irritation.
Until she saw him.
That man.
And before she could stop it, her face flushed red, betraying the calm she had worked so hard to maintain.
Almost unconsciously, she touched her lips—just a brush—as if the air carried back an impossible memory.
Adrián Valmont didn't look up from the report.
"The daughter?" he asked.
"Yes."
Silence.
"Interesting."
Inside, the question kept turning: What are these two doing here?
Memories of the cultivation world surfaced in his mind. If not for Meilan, he would have wanted to erase them entirely.
Returning to the documents, Adrián knew strategic interests outweighed any emotion. And in the end, the final word wouldn't be his—but his father's. If it were up to him alone, he would have expelled them from the city without hesitation.
In Valenheim, alliances are not born.
They are designed.
And Lin Yue had just stepped into the laboratory.
Days later, the sun barely touched the skyscrapers of the Fire Nation when Ling Feng walked through his offices like a general inspecting his empire. Every step was precise, every glance filled with determination. Around him, screens flickered with figures, contracts, mining maps, and transport routes—data and projections that seemed to dance to the rhythm of his ambition.
Under his leadership, engineers had transformed deposits into high-tech mines, operating with near-perfect efficiency. International contracts were signed, agreements sealed—exclusive exports across entire continents. Ling Feng's influence spread like a controlled fire, surprising even his most seasoned allies.
The European giant, once relentless, now sat at the table as an equal—forced to acknowledge his strategic advantage. For the first time, the Fire Nation moved on its own terms, without chains, without overseers.
Local markets flourished. New industrial hubs rose, the mining middle class expanded, and prosperity could be felt in every city and town. Ling Feng reviewed the reports with a faint smile: his plan didn't just grant him power—it gave him legitimacy. Every move had been anticipated, every decision calculated through his memory of the future, leading him straight to the top of the global command chain.
The streets celebrated his name. Officials praised him as a savior, businessmen as a visionary. Every economic indicator supported his strategy: he was untouchable, unstoppable—the architect of an irreversible transformation.
Ling Feng hadn't just executed a plan.
He had redefined his nation's destiny.
But while Ling Feng moved through offices and victories, feeling in control of every number and strategy, on the other side of the world, Adrián Valmont studied the reports from his office in Europe. A faint smile touched his lips, his gaze seeming to pierce through oceans, maps, and contracts.
To Adrián, every strength Ling Feng possessed was also an invitation—a weakness waiting to be found, an opportunity ready to be exploited.
Then the first shockwave hit from Europe.
Adrián Valmont, seated before his monitors, didn't need to raise his voice. His fingers were invisible fists; his financial contacts, lethal projectiles; each decision, a calculated strike Ling Feng could barely anticipate.
First blow: strategic contracts.Partners of the Fire Nation received safer, faster offers. Each adjustment was a silent punch; Ling Feng's network of trust began to crack. Doubt seeped in—every glance turning into a quiet question.
Second blow: key markets.Adrián took positions in stocks and commodities. Charts once solid as walls now trembled under the invisible assault. Margin after margin, each unstable indicator was an uppercut to Ling Feng's confidence.
Third blow: covert diplomacy.Adrián's envoys whispered among the Fire Nation's allies. Soft words became invisible hooks—questioning decisions, weakening loyalties, opening fractures that spread without control.
Fourth blow: internal fractures.Officials began to doubt, argue, hesitate. Each tension was a direct hit to the gut, eroding his stability from within.
The returning hero blocked, dodged, restructured strategies. Every screen was a shield, every report a defense, every renegotiated contract a counterstrike.
But Adrián's attacks were unpredictable—patternless, invisible, devastating.
Then came the master stroke—the final combination.
An international contract closed.A key market acquisition secured.A diplomatic move perfectly synchronized with internal allies.
Three simultaneous strikes, executed with surgical precision.
The effect was immediate: logistical delays, frozen investments, partners questioning the Fire Nation's stability. Ling Feng felt the impact as if a giant had slammed him against the walls of his own command center. His authority—once unshakable—wavered.
He took a deep breath, fists clenched beneath the table.
For the first time, he understood:
Knowing the future only grants a temporary advantage.
No matter how perfect the plan—human reactions, unexpected decisions—can break it.
Adrián didn't celebrate.
He didn't need grand gestures.
Every strike had been invisible, silent…
But its effect was as real and devastating as a knockout in the ring.
Ling Feng straightened, feeling each economic blow like a physical impact. Every loss, every delay, every doubt among his allies was a brutal reminder:
True power doesn't come from memorizing the future.
It comes from adapting, anticipating, and reacting in real time.
The returning hero had suffered his first strategic KO.
Not through violence.Not through war.
But through intelligence, patience, and surgical precision.
The fight had only just begun.
But the lesson was undeniable:
Even someone who knows the future is not invincible.