I had supernatural awareness before ascending to the First Realm. Now it's exponentially sharper. Even in slumber, I detect the subtle crunch of tires turning into my driveway.

  I know exactly who they are before peeking through curtains—I've rehearsed this little dance since the first shooting. Some visitors just can't take a hint.

  It's 10:03 p.m. From my second-story window, I focus my enhanced vision on the car below. One glance tells me everything: agents from the Discipline Commission—the Party's very own boogeyman squad.

  Qiuhan Wang has decided to upgrade our game from covert to semi-overt.

  Unlike regular police, these heralds of Kafkaesque bureaucracy can detain anyone without cause for up to ninety days. Not in anything as pedestrian as a prison cell, mind you, but in what they euphemistically call a "designated residence outside detention." How quaint.

  This procedure isn't found in any law book—it's nestled in the Party Constitution, called "shuanggui": disciplinary inspection at designated time and designated location. Bureaucracy always sounds better in Rubian.

  Originally, it applied only to Party members. But Qiuhan, ever the innovator, extended it to anyone adjacent to corruption. Guilt by proximity. Efficiency through terror.

  "Designated location" might sound cozier than jail, but it's actually worse. Without prison's pesky surveillance systems, anything goes in these remote hideaways where the Discipline Commission plays by their own creative rulebook.

  These rooms feature immaculate white décor—walls, furniture, bedding—without a trace of color. A minimalist's dream and a psychologist's case study of environments designed to induce distress and desperation.

  Padding on every surface, no sharp objects, not even a pen or toothbrush. They've thoughtfully removed all suicide options—how considerate.

  Guards are forbidden to talk. Days pass in silence until the interrogator arrives. By then, the detainee is so starved for human contact they can't stop talking. They'll fabricate confessions just so the interrogator doesn't leave. It’s not justice. It’s psychological warfare.

  In the Ruby Republic, vanishing is routine even for prominent figures. Some reappear. Many don’t.

  This is Qiuhan’s favorite tool. Xi’s knife. Anti-corruption as a weapon. Loyalty measured in blood.

  However, I'm certain Qiuhan's flying solo this time. He's clearly sided with the rebellion, quite possibly its mastermind. Their goal? Crash the market. Humiliate Xi. Rewrite the power map.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  He wouldn’t dare investigate me openly. Even the other Ruby Five would panic. Evidence in the Commission’s files poses a threat no one can tolerate—whether or not it’s ever used. We survive on mutual blackmail. It’s the only thing holding alliances together.

  Two agents step out—man and woman, dressed in suits so dark they absorb the surrounding night. Silent. Expressionless. Their faces are blank, bureaucratic, terrifying in their lack of emotion. The kind of people accustomed to making others soil themselves without raising their voices.

  The doorbell rings—such polite harbingers of doom.

  Most people would collapse. Legs jelly. Mouth dry. Bowels loose.

  But I’m not most people.

  I’ve prepared a welcome.

  Qiuhan wants discretion. He can’t afford to alert Xi or the other Ruby Five. But I don’t share his concerns. I want this visit to leave a mark, ensuring these agents and their colleagues never darken my doorway again.

  I descend to the library. Behind a movable shelf is a tunnel entrance—cliché, yes, but effective.

  Beneath the Western Hills lies Mao’s legacy: a decaying network of tunnels built during his “Dig deep, store food” paranoia. Now abandoned because their architectural integrity couldn't possibly withstand modern warfare. But they serve my purposes beautifully.

  I connected my estate to the system. My entry point can collapse on command. Plausible deniability.

  Fifty yards in, I reach a rusted gate. Low growls echo beyond. I unlock it and peer inside.

  Five wild boars. Feasting. The spotter’s corpse is half gone.

  Native to the Western Hills, wild boars typically avoid humans, but these specimens are ravenous—we found them hungry, then starved them another day.

  Now they’re manic. They see me and charge. Mistake.

  I channel Aetherion, my aura flooding the space with menace. Recognition dawns in their primitive brains. Two begin to tremble. They remember me—their captor, their master. One wave of my hand previously sent them flying twenty yards.

  “Follow,” I command.

  They obey.

  We exit through the garage.

  The agents, alerted by the noise inside, approach with guns drawn. First tactical error of many.

  As the garage door rises, the boars hesitate, eyeing the humans suspiciously.

  But the scared cries are a dead give away. They smell fear. Without my prodding, the boars charge.

  The agents run. Another mistake.

  Outrunning wild boars? Please.

  The woman falls first—gored, screaming. The man trips, fires wildly. One shot. Two. Three. Then the whole magazine. The boars scatter after the third round, but he keeps firing like a toddler having a tantrum.

  Fortunately for him, he doesn't hit any boars. He merely frightens them rather than enraging them further. Now he must call for medical assistance—his colleague is severely injured. So much for discretion.

  I disappear into the night. Slip back into bed. Never seen.

  My surveillance cameras caught everything—night vision, crystal clear. The sedan’s headlights, which they conveniently left on, help too. Idiots.

  The video will hit the internet tomorrow, digitally enhanced, with the innocent title: "Wild Boars Attacking Humans." Most viewers will click from morbid curiosity.

  But the Cyberspace Administration staff, will flag it as harmful content, after recognizing these are Discipline Commission agents. Someone reading their reports might connect the dots to my property.

  Even if they don’t, Qiuhan will sweat. He’ll hesitate. With the market crash only three weeks away, he can't afford to get too clever and expose the entire operation all by his own doing.

  Let him rethink his next move.

  Let him remember what happens when he knocks on my door.