The monsoon winds had long passed, leaving the Qing Mao mountain behind in a veil of mist, its peak hidden from sight.
Inside a dimly lit wine tavern, Fang Yuan sat, unfazed, his fingers tracing the figures in the monthly ledger. His calm demeanor was a sharp contrast to the tension in the room.
Across from him stood the new shopkeeper, a middle-aged man whose posture was stiff, hands clasped, head bowed low—his submission evident.
Fang Yuan's reputation had spread far and wide, his cruelty seeping into every corner since the death of the former shopkeeper. Not a soul dared to defy him anymore.
Fang Yuan glanced up, his expression as unreadable as ever.
"Fine," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Send the primeval stones to the house."
With that, he rose from his seat, his movements smooth and deliberate, as though he had nothing in the world to rush for.
Without a backward glance, he walked out into the glaring afternoon sun.
A year had passed, and though still only thirteen, Fang Yuan had grown—his face now sharpened, his posture more imposing, his muscles hardening under his robe.
He walked the streets with the air of someone far beyond his years, the whispers of the crowd barely grazing him.
But Fang Yuan was unmoved, indifferent to their whispers, their opinions meaningless. They were no more than barking dogs in their cages—distant and powerless.
As he made his way home, the scorching heat of the sun seemed to do little to affect him, his steps steady and unyielding. Yet when he arrived at his doorstep, a new scene awaited him.
His mother had returned early, but her face was drawn, the years etched into her skin.
The pallor of her complexion had deepened, and the streaks of white in her hair had multiplied—worsening with each passing day.
Beside her, Fang Zheng sat, his hands trembling as they clutched hers, worry etched deeply on his face.
Fang Yuan's gaze darkened as he approached, his voice cutting through the stillness like a blade.
"What happened?"
Fang Zheng's anxious voice broke through the silence.
"Brother, you're here!" His eyes flickered nervously to Jiaying. "Mother... she was injured during the clan mission."
Fang Yuan's sharp eyes moved to Jiaying, his expression unreadable. He approached her with calm precision, his every movement deliberate as he examined her condition.
His voice was quiet, but his words held weight. "What happened, Mother?"
Jiaying didn't respond, her eyes empty, her body barely reacting to his presence.
But Fang Zheng, clearly on edge, spoke in her place. "Just now, three Gu Masters brought her home unconscious."
"They said her cultivation had regressed... and told me to tell her not to take part in any future clan missions for the next few months."
Fang Yuan's brows furrowed deeper, his gaze cold and penetrating as he looked at Jiaying, his mind already piecing things together.
"Your aperture was damaged." It wasn't a question, but a statement of fact.
Jiaying remained silent, her lips pressed together, her body still like a statue. But her silence spoke volumes, and Fang Yuan's suspicion was confirmed.
He stood still for a moment, calculating, before his voice rang out, sharp and commanding.
"Servants!"
Three young maids and two guards appeared instantly, their faces pale as they bowed in unison.
"Young Master!"
Without missing a beat, Fang Yuan's ordered, "Bring the primeval stone boxes from my room and two of you, follow me to the Clan Pavilion, including you, Mother."
Jiaying's eyes widened, panic and confusion flashing within them. "You—what do you intend to do?"
Fang Yuan turned his gaze toward her, his expression calm, detached—his tone as steady as a still lake.
"You've suffered a grave injury," he said coldly, his eyes cutting through her defenses.
"Judging by your condition, you must have brushed against death itself."
He took a slow step closer, his shadow stretching long under the flickering light.
"I don't care if you hate me," he continued, voice firm and unyielding. "But if you seek death by throwing yourself into clan missions again… then I will not permit it."
Jiaying's face trembled, her eyes turning red with a storm of emotions—grief, guilt, anger, all mixing into something fragile.
"You—!" she began, her voice breaking.
But Fang Yuan didn't let her speak. His gaze shifted to Fang Zheng, his tone still eerily calm, each word cutting like a knife.
"Our father died during a clan mission when I was young. You blamed me for it—believing that if you had gone with him, he might have survived."
He paused, his dark eyes unwavering.
"But have you ever thought… that if you had gone too, you might have died alongside him?"
Jiaying's breath hitched. Her lips parted, but no words came. Her head lowered, shoulders trembling slightly.
Fang Yuan's words pierced straight into the truth she had buried for years—truth she had tried to deny, but could never escape.
The bitterness, the resentment—all of it had long since rotted inside her heart.
Fang Yuan's voice softened slightly, though the chill in it remained.
"You have never shied away from danger or from clan missions," he said, turning away.
"But have you ever considered what would become of us if you were gone too?"
He turned sharply, his gaze like a blade, his voice suddenly fierce.
"Do you intend to leave us as orphans?" The shout rang through the room, echoing in the silence that followed.
Jiaying's eyes welled with tears; her lips trembled as a single tear fell, tracing the lines of her weary face.
"I'm sorry…" she whispered, her voice breaking.
No one understood what her apology meant—neither Fang Zheng nor the servants who stood frozen nearby.
But Fang Yuan knew.
She wasn't apologizing to him.
She was apologizing to herself——for the years of blind resentment, for her weakness, and for all the love she never gave.