I command you in the name of Piao Guochang.

The passage behind the wardrobe was completely empty.

No one was there.

The depths of the passage were engulfed in darkness, with no end in sight.

Dozens of guns were trained on the entrance, fingers resting on triggers, waiting for anything alive to come darting out.

On the living room sofa, a woman in a black bodysuit sat with her legs crossed, paring an apple with a small knife.

The peel she carved off was as thin as a cicada's wing, hanging down in a continuous spiral, never once breaking.

Her eyes weren't on the apple.

Suddenly, she flicked her wrist.

The knife flew from her hand, its blade gleaming with a faint green light, cutting through the air with a piercing whistle before embedding itself precisely into a splatter of blood on the wall.

The moment the bloodstain clinging to the wall was struck, it began to trickle downward, its color deepening rapidly—from bright red to pitch black—until it finally dissolved into a few drops of dark liquid that hit the floor with soft patter sounds.

"Just as I thought." The woman pulled out another identical knife from her waist, her thumb gently tracing along the spine of the blade. "The intel said this guy can control blood."

She paused, glancing at the pool of black liquid in the corner. "He used blood to probe our position just now."

The man with the tin-foil perm bit down on his cigar, lips pressed tight. He didn't respond, just made a hand gesture signaling everyone to heighten their alert.

"Wait!" A bald man near the window suddenly shouted. "He's outside!"

Everyone's eyes shot to the surveillance monitor hanging above the hall.

On the screen, Lin Mo was walking slowly along the stone path leading to the villa.

His pace wasn't fast, wasn't slow—you could even call it leisurely.

But in his hand, he was holding a mass of blood.

Bright red, flowing, irregularly shaped—a clump of blood hovered just above his palm, spinning slowly.

"Aw, hell!"

Before the bald man could finish his sentence, Lin Mo in the surveillance footage raised his hand.

The mass of blood was hurled outward.

The front door exploded.

Not a bullet, not a charge—a clump of blood shattered the two solid wooden doors, and the shockwave that rushed in carried a thick, cloying smell of iron.

A mist of blood burst across the entire hall—from ceiling to floor, from left wall to right wall—every person's face, hands, clothes, and guns were all drenched in sticky, warm blood.

Someone instinctively wiped their face; their hand came away covered in red.

But there were no wounds on their bodies.

None at all.

No pain, no itch. Nothing had happened to them.

"What the hell? This blood—"

Before he could finish, a figure stepped through the shattered doorframe.

Lin Mo walked in over the splintered wood, hands in his pockets, scanning the room before offering a faint smile.

"Good evening, everyone."

His tone was as casual as if he'd arrived at a dinner party.

Everyone forgot about the blood on their bodies.

Barrels swiveled in unison toward Lin Mo—dozens of black, hollow muzzles aimed at a single man, less than twenty meters away.

At that distance, even firing with your eyes closed, you wouldn't miss.

Lin Mo made no move to dodge. He didn't even change his stance. He just cast a glance over everyone present.

Each one of them was covered in blood.

Beautifully even.

He nodded inwardly.

More than enough.

"Fire!" the tin-foil perm man barked through his clenched cigar.

Everyone pulled the trigger at the same time.

No gunfire.

Not a single bullet came out.

Some people yanked the trigger a second time, a third, their fingers straining desperately—but their index fingers felt like they had been welded in place.

No, not that their fingers wouldn't move—they did move, but in the wrong direction.

They looked down at their hands gripping their weapons.

Blood was spreading along the backs of their hands, crawling up like something alive, wrapping around their palms and fingers, seizing control of their muscles and joints.

The cold, creeping hand of terror truly sank in now.

Lin Mo smiled. "A person who pulls the trigger should be prepared to die by the gun, right?"

No one could answer him. Fear festered in their hearts.

"In the name of Piao Guochang, I command you!"

Lin Mo extended his right hand, fingers splayed.

"Die."

Everyone raised their guns in perfect unison.

Not aimed at Lin Mo.

Aimed at themselves.

The muzzles pressed up under their chins, cold metal against skin.

Someone's eyes went wide, their pupils swimming with desperate pleading, mouths opening and closing as they stammered out pleas.

"Please..."

"Have mercy!!"

But they didn't get to beg for long.

Their bodies no longer belonged to them.

"No!"

One muffled scream was swallowed by gunfire.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The near-simultaneous gunshots blurred into a single roar.

Bullets punched through the jaw, driving up through the skull.

Red and white matter sprayed in every direction, painting a dozen irregular patterns across the ceiling.

The tin-foil perm man had no gun—he held a crossbow.

A bolt from his own crossbow pierced his brain. His cigar dropped to the floor, still smoldering.

The whole thing took less than three seconds.

The hall went silent.

Only one person remained standing.

The woman who had been paring apples.

She held a knife, not a trigger to pull, so she was still alive.

Her reflexes were lightning fast—she immediately let go, trying to drop the blade.

But her hand wouldn't obey her.

Ten fingers locked around the handle, joints creaking audibly. Her arm bent backward at a twisted, unnatural angle.

"No!"

The point of the knife aimed at her own chest.

Her body was trembling, veins bulging on her forehead, every muscle straining against that unstoppable force.

But blood never stops.

Thump.

The blade sank into her chest.

She looked down at the hilt for a second, a thin line of blood leaking from the corner of her mouth, and her knees buckled as she crumpled to the floor.

Of the whole hall, no one was left alive but Lin Mo.

He stood among the bodies, all expression gone from his face.

He raised his right hand, and a banner's phantom image materialized in his palm—completely invisible to anyone else.

Their souls were all drawn into it—becoming one big, happy family.

Lin Mo put away his spirit-banner, brushed a speck of imaginary dust from his sleeve, and headed for the stairs.

Second floor.

The hallway was empty. Everyone who could fight had been stationed on the ground floor. Now they no longer needed to be stationed anywhere.

At the end of the corridor was the study.

Lin Mo walked up to it and was about to raise his hand.

"No need to knock—just come in,"

came a calm male voice from behind the door.

Lin Mo pushed the door open directly.

"I wasn't planning to anyway."

Shim Jae-hyeok sat behind the desk.

In his early fifties, hair combed back neatly, wearing a navy-blue cashmere sweater, a half-empty bottle of whisky beside him. No weapons. No bodyguards.

He looked at Lin Mo with a perfectly calm gaze, like he was welcoming an invited guest who had arrived on time.

Lin Mo gave the study a once-over, walked straight over, and pulled out the chair across from him, sitting down.

Shim Jae-hyeok poured a glass and slid it over.

"How about a drink for old times' sake?"

Lin Mo picked up the glass and downed it in one gulp. His composure made Shim Jae-hyeok shake his head, almost despite himself.

"Should've poisoned the bottle, I suppose."