The morning sun filtered gently through the window, casting a soft, golden light across the room.
At the dining table, Jiaying, Fang Zheng, and Fang Yuan ate in silence. A warm breeze stirred the air, carrying the quiet scent of breakfast.
Jiaying sat at the table, her once dark hair now streaked with more gray than ever before. Her face, marked with deep lines, reflected the weight of the years.
Nearing forty, she looked as though time had taken more than it should—especially after the injury that had left her bedridden for two months. The scar of that mission still lingered in her bones.
Finally, Jiaying broke the silence. "The tavern keeper mentioned they haven't received their wages."
Fang Yuan glanced up, his expression impassive as he spoke. "I'll handle it, Mother."
She didn't say anything more.
The conversation shifted, and Fang Zheng spoke up. "Mother, can I have more of the sweets you brought last week?"
Jiaying's lips twitched into a small smile. "I'll order more from the tavern."
Fang Zheng grinned. "Thanks, Mother."
Fang Zheng was thin and frail, his face plain, no different from any ordinary twelve-year-old boy.
In contrast, his twin, Fang Yuan, already carried the outline of a young man. His body was lean yet solid, muscles faintly visible beneath his clothes.
He stood a head taller than Fang Zheng, the difference between the two like the gap between heaven and earth.
They were twins by birth, and their basic features remained similar—though some might question them.
Fang Yuan's face carried a faint firmness, a trace of maturity that came from constant training and discipline, while Fang Zheng's was still soft and rounded, untouched by hardship.
After breakfast, Jiaying quietly left the dining room, her figure disappearing through the courtyard door.
Moments later, Fang Zheng turned to his brother. He fumbled with his robes and drew out a small pouch.
"Brother, you gave me this a week ago," he said softly.
"You told me to always keep this storage Gu with me. Don't you want it back?"
"Shh."
Fang Yuan's hand moved swiftly, pressing over Fang Zheng's mouth. His tone was calm, but his gaze carried a quiet sharpness.
"Keep it with you. Always."
He paused, lowering his hand. "Inside that bag are primeval stones."
"They are the foundation of our future. Guard it carefully. Don't let it leave your side."
Fang Zheng nodded earnestly and tucked the pouch back into his robes. "Don't worry, Brother. I'll protect it."
"Mother will definitely recognize your efforts one day."
His eyes shone with pure admiration, untainted by the complexities of the world.
Fang Yuan's lips curved into a small smile. "If you need some money, you can use what's inside."
"But don't show the bag to anyone. Not even to Mother. Understand?"
Fang Zheng nodded again, his expression serious. "I'll keep it a secret."
Fang Yuan smiled once more—gentle, reassuring. Yet behind that faint curve of his lips, no one could read what thoughts stirred in his heart.
The morning light fell across his face, warm and soft. But within his eyes, there was only a quietness—like an ancient pool, unmoved by the passing of time.
....
After breakfast, the household dispersed.
Jiaying made her way toward the clan pavilion, her steps steady though her body still carried traces of weakness.
Fang Zheng remained at home. The maids tended to him, fussing over small comforts, while he spent his time idly.
As for Fang Yuan—he sat alone in the wine tavern, the sunlight filtering through the paper windows, painting faint lines across his face. Before him lay an account book, pages filled with neat rows of inked numbers.
Across from him stood the old tavern keeper, his hands clasped, head bowed, sweat trickling down his wrinkled face.
Fang Yuan flipped through the pages slowly, his expression unreadable. Finally, he spoke, his tone calm and level.
"Old man."
He didn't raise his head. His fingers paused on a page. "I've noticed something… odd."
"The monthly income in this register doesn't match the numbers you've been reporting for the past few months."
He finally looked up. His eyes were sharp, cold, like the edge of a blade hidden in still water.
"Tell me—are you embezzling the tavern's money?"
The old man trembled, then fell to his knees with a dull thud. "Young Master, I would never dare! Never!"
Fang Yuan rose from his seat slowly, his every movement precise, deliberate. He walked past the old man, his steps echoing softly in the quiet tavern.
"You wouldn't dare?" His voice was calm, almost casual. He turned slightly, his gaze indifferent.
"But you dared to complain to my mother about your unpaid wages."
The words hung in the air, cold and heavy.
The old man's face turned pale as the words struck him. Panic flooded his eyes.
He stumbled forward and dropped to his knees, clutching at Fang Yuan's leg in desperation.
"Young Master! I was wrong! Please—spare me!"
His voice cracked, trembling with fear.
But before he could continue—
Bang!
A sharp crack split the air.
A wine bottle smashed against his skull, shards scattering across the floor.
Blood mingled with spilled liquor, running down his wrinkled face in crimson streaks. The scent of alcohol filled the room—thick, bitter, and heavy with violence.
At some point, Fang Yuan had already seized one of the bottles from the table. Now he stood above the kneeling man, his expression calm and indifferent, as if striking down his life was nothing more than swatting away a fly.
"You filthy old thing," Fang Yuan's voice was low but cutting, his tone steady, his eyes cold as frost.
"You dare lay your hands on me?" He stepped back, brushing off the blood on his sleeve with quiet disgust. The broken bottle slipped from his grasp and shattered on the floor.
"Get out," he said, his voice void of emotion. "Before I kill you."
The old man staggered up, trembling, his knees weak as he stumbled toward the door.
Fang Yuan didn't watch him leave. He simply stood there amid the shards of glass and spilled wine, his gaze distant, his calmness more terrifying than any outburst of rage.
In the still air, only the faint sound of dripping wine remained—thick and red, indistinguishable from blood.
No matter the world or the era, there would always be mouths that whispered in the shadows. People who spoke behind another's back, twisted truth into venom, schemed and stole under the guise of civility.
Fang Yuan did not despise such people. On the contrary—he found them amusing. If possible, he would fan the flames from the shadows, let them crawl blindly toward their own destruction, and watch with amusement as they burned themselves alive.
But should those same mouths dare whisper about him, he would not be angered.
They were nothing more than moths drawn to a flame—fragile, desperate, and utterly incapable of affecting it.
Would a flame care if a moth flapped its wings in panic? No. It burns on, indifferent.
If the moth scorches and dies in the heat, whose fault is it? None. The flame simply exists—bright, unyielding, and inevitable.
But what if the moth became bold?
What if it tried to snuff out the flame with its tiny body, daring to strike at something far beyond its strength?
Then it would be consumed.
Its wings would char, its body would ignite, and in its struggle, it would shatter into ash.
The flame does not need to act intentionally—it merely exists, and the moth dies by the law of its own foolishness.
Perhaps the truth is even simpler.
The flame is not a mere candle. It is a fire born from the Gu of ages, fed and tempered by countless schemes and strength. When it burns, everything foolish enough to oppose it is obliterated without hesitation.
So who is to blame for the moth's death? The flame? Or the moth itself, for forgetting its place?
Some would say the strong must protect the weak. Fang Yuan sneered at such thoughts. The weak exist to learn fear, obedience, and reverence. Nothing else.
Outside the tavern, the old man's body finally gave way.
Fear hollowed him. The wound gnawed at his flesh, and age had drained the last sparks of life. He collapsed, blood spraying like black-red oil across the cobblestones.
His screams ended in gurgles, wet and suffocating.
Fang Yuan glanced through the open door. His eyes were cold, unreadable.
Then, with detached precision, he tossed a few primeval stones onto the table—the sound echoing like the crack of a whip.
"Drag him away," he said evenly, as if issuing an ordinary order.
The old man's lifeless gaze followed him as he dragged back, but Fang Yuan's attention never wavered. When the corpse was removed, he returned to the account book as if nothing had happened, as if death itself were just another trivial task.
And in that silent room, the faint smell of blood and scorched wood lingered—a reminder that the flame never notices the moth's struggles, but it will destroy any who foolishly draw too close, burning them completely, leaving only charred remains and the echo of their screams to mark their insolence.
....