Weapon — Ozias

The earth hadn’t settled over the grave when the whispers began.

He’ll take the throne.
Blood inherits blood.
The son always finishes what the father starts.

Xianle heard them all.

He ignored them all.

Xianle buried his father at dusk beneath a sky the color of bruised steel. No tears. No speeches. No grief cracked his voice. Just men in dark suits with colder eyes than grave they stood around. The man in the coffin had ruled the underground like a god and raised his son inside marble walls that echoed with screams no one outside ever heard.

But Xianle had chosen differently. He had chosen the light.

He dismantled accounts. Disbanded crews. Closed doors that had once opened only for violence. The empire trembled in confusion.

And the mansion—

The mansion went quiet.

Too quiet.

Silence in a house like this was never peace.

It was aftermath.

—

The west wing always felt colder than the rest of the estate. Even as a child, Xianle had sensed it. Servants avoided it. Guards rotated near it. His father had once caught him standing near the corridor and simply said:

“Not that way.”

No explanation.

Just command.

Now there was no one left to forbid him.

The hallway lights flickered as he walked. His footsteps echoed across polished stone. Portraits of long-dead men watched him with oil-painted eyes, all sharp suits and sharper smiles.

The steel door waited at the end.

Three locks.

One key ring.

The tag attached to it bore a single engraved word:

ASSET.

Not a name. Never a name.

The first lock clicked open.

The second groaned.

The third resisted before finally giving in.

Cold air rushed out like the exhale of something long caged. The basement smelled of rust and damp stone. Old iron. Old blood. And at the center of it—

A cage.

Not decorative. Not temporary.

Built into the foundation itself.

Inside, crouched in the shadows, was a..man? He didn’t scramble. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

He watched. Like he expected violence. It’s what he used