Chapter four

The air inside the house was dense.

Cold.

Heavy.

The sweet scent of flowers that still clung to his clothes had been devoured by the metallic, bitter smell that lingered in the air.

A smell Xiu Zhao knew far too well — a smell that time could never erase.

His eyes moved slowly, as if they feared to see what his soul already knew.

That metallic scent carried a longing — a hunger — that Xiu Zhao had always wished to forget.

He followed the stone path, the smell growing stronger with every step he took toward the garden.

The ground was stained.

A dark trail, dry in some places, still fresh in others.

Bodies lay scattered across the floor.

All familiar faces — people who had threatened his life since the moment he learned to walk.

Xiu Zhao rubbed his nose, uneasy.

His gaze lingered on the lifeless bodies, but only one truly caught his attention.

He took a step. Then another.

Each sound echoed too loudly, as if the house itself was screaming for him to stop.

But he kept going.

He always kept going.

The crimson of his right eye glimmered — not with fear, nor with sorrow, but with a lonely light.

There she was — Lady Yi — eyes wide open, blood spilling from her chest and mouth.

Her face was pale and lifeless, yet even in death, she carried that same coldness that made Xiu Zhao despise her.

Cold hands covered his eyes.

“Don’t look at her."

A familiar voice spoke — gentle, tender, the kind of warmth Xiu Zhao could recognize even in the dark.

“It’s going to be all right.”

The man’s hand ran softly through Xiu Zhao’s dark hair.

“I know,” he whispered back.

“Let’s go home, my son.”

Yu Sheng removed his hand from his son’s eyes, knelt down, and lifted him into his arms.

“Clean this up,” he ordered, his tone icy.

“Yes, sir,” the servants bowed quickly.

“And one more thing,” Yu Sheng added, his gaze sharp as a blade.

“Take a bath. I don’t want anyone reeking of blood near my son.”

His cold voice made the servants tremble.

He carried Xiu Zhao to the carriage waiting outside.

At the steps, Yu Sheng turned to Dai Zhi.

“I want this place reduced to ashes by morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

…

Silence filled the carriage.

Xiu Zhao’s mind drifted, and a smile bloomed on his face — radiant and gentle.

His thoughts carried him back to Chen: from the days he found him irritating, to that bright, fleeting morning.

“You look quite cheerful,” Yu Sheng teased softly.

Xiu Zhao turned his face toward the window, his cheeks tinted a shy red.

Yu Sheng chuckled lightly, running his fingers through his son’s hair.

As the carriage rolled on, Xiu Zhao frowned at the darkness beyond the window.

“Where are we?”

“Don’t be afraid,” Yu Sheng said, his tone filled with rare tenderness. “It’s just a path carved through the mountain.”

…

The carriage traveled for a long while before finally stopping.

They had arrived — at a sect.

Xiu Zhao’s eyes lit up at the familiar sight. Excited, he stood up quickly.

Yu Sheng stepped out first, offering his hand to help his son down.

When the disciples saw their master, all work halted.

They lined up neatly, bowing deeply in respect.

Then —

Xiu Zhao’s vision blurred, the world spinning around him like a shroud of mist.

Voices faded. Footsteps echoed distantly.

And then — silence.

When Yu Sheng turned, his heart froze.

His son lay collapsed on the ground, pale as a dying moon.

Without hesitation, he ran to him.

Panic filled his chest — a feeling he had not known in years.

He carried Xiu Zhao in his arms, rushing through the long corridors of the mansion.

The echoes of his steps mingled with the wind whispering through old windows.

He brought him to a distant chamber, far from everyone else — as if trying to hide what little he had left to protect.

Time passed.

When Xiu Zhao opened his eyes, the room was drowned in dim light.

Faint sunlight slipped through the curtains, brushing across Yu Sheng’s face as he watched in silence.

But what Xiu Zhao saw in his father’s eyes wasn’t concern.

It was anger.

A cold fury, years in the making.

Without a word, Yu Sheng turned away and left.

The corridors stretched endlessly.

Strangers passed by, bowing their heads in reverence — but to Xiu Zhao, the gesture felt empty.

He wasn’t worthy of anything.

Not respect.

Not affection.

Nothing.

Just… lost.

Then, a calm voice called to him.

A man in dark robes, with chestnut hair and a serene smile, stood watching him.

“Are you lost, Xiu Zhao?”

Hearing his name in the stranger’s voice made him tense.

He nodded hesitantly, and the man chuckled — not mockingly, but kindly.

“Come. I’ll show you around.”

Through the cold halls and quiet courtyards, the man guided him patiently.

He showed him the sect, the training grounds, the resting quarters.

Xiu Zhao listened, but his mind was somewhere far away — every word felt like a whisper fading into emptiness.

At last, they stopped before a large chamber.

“This will be your room,” the man said with a gentle smile.

“Thank you… um—?” He faltered.

The man laughed softly, already knowing.

“Xiao Yan.”

The name rang faintly in his memory.

“You’re… the man who used to send me gifts every year?”

Xiao Yan’s smile softened.

“Yes. You’ve grown so much. You look more and more like your father… well, almost.”

He pointed at Xiu Zhao’s red eye.

Instinctively, Xiu Zhao covered it with his hand.

But Xiao Yan’s gaze remained kind — compassionate, even.

“If you wish, I can change its color.”

Xiu Zhao blinked, surprised.

“You can?”

“Of course. What color do you want?”

He pointed to his other eye — blue, clear as the sky he’d once seen with Chen.

Xiao Yan placed a hand over his face, closing his eyes in concentration.

A faint, ancient warmth filled the air.

Slowly, the red faded away, replaced by a serene shade of blue.

When he opened his eyes, both reflected the same calm sky.

“It’s beautiful…” he whispered, smiling for the first time in what felt like forever.

Xiao Yan smiled back — but his tone grew firm.

“Keep that joy, boy. Tomorrow… your training begins.”

The words fell like a shadow over the light.

Xiu Zhao only nodded, still glowing faintly with wonder, before retreating to his room.

Later, they called him for dinner.

The table was set, and to his surprise — there was no meat.

His heart quietly lifted.

Unlike his mother, who always made two separate meals, his father had filled the table with his favorite dishes.

Dinner passed in silence, broken only by the faint clink of utensils.

When it ended, Xiu Zhao stood, bowed slightly, and left.

In his room, he shed the heavy layers of his robes, lying down and surrendering to sleep.

Meanwhile, in another chamber, Xiao Yan spoke with the man who sat in the heart of darkness.

“Have the patrols been completed?” the man asked, eyes fixed on a crimson-covered book.

“Yes. All of them eliminated. A barrier now surrounds the sect,” Xiao Yan replied firmly.

“And the boy?”

The man turned a page, his voice as cold as winter.

“Do not concern yourself with him. Just train him. Show no mercy. He must become strong — the greatest soldier of the three realms.”

Xiao Yan exhaled quietly, bowing his head.

As he stepped out into the dim corridor, his voice fell to a whisper barely louder than the wind:

“Stubborn man!”

And his footsteps disappeared into the silence of the night.

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