Author's POV:
The star-sealed shack trembled in Wuhan's slums, its walls scarred by blood and dust, the crestless vault silent, its memory—Huang vows, peace, wars, crests broken—ended by Yanyan's blood, now a ghost in the air. A new figure stood, tall, robed, star-crested—not Huang, not Wu, but global, blade flashing, ice-eyed, their voice a hiss: "Keys, truth's reborn." Meilin's star-dagger pulsed, void-eyes cold, global, not her own, her humanity fleeting, now a puppet of some deeper force. Huang Yanyan lay in Wu Haoyu's arms, star-etched dagger dead, Yue's scratched seal dark, a Huang seal drained, her breath faint, blood crusted on her cheek, shoulder and thigh oozing, ribs still.
