Author's POV:
The star-sealed shack stood as a crumbling grave in Wuhan's slums, its walls trembling under the weight of blood and dust, the crestless vault's hum—global, rippling, alive with memory—pulsing like a heartbeat. The shadow-crested figure stood before it, robed, ash-eyed, blade pulsing, their voice cold: "Huang, Wu, memory's claimed." Meilin's star-dagger blazed, her eyes void-like, global, not her own, while Huang Zhao's twisted crest gleamed, blade hungry, their attack stalled but poised.
