HCAW 26

Chapter 26: Astonishment Beyond the Norm

Ding-ling-ling, ding-ling-ling—

The flower-guarding chimes beneath the eaves swayed in the wind, their sound crisp as ice fracturing, clear and pleasant to the ear.

That sound instantly pulled Fang Jingyu from his memories. In that moment, he seemed to awaken from a dream. The ancestral hall remained dim, with vermillion-painted walls, and rows of memorial tablets set beneath. Only his brother Fang Minsheng’s tablet stood alone at the end.

The memories of the past dissipated like mist. It had now been eight years since his brother’s death.

Fang Jingyu walked out of the ancestral hall. Sunlight, like a golden cassock, draped over him. The bamboo grove leaned at an angle, the ground strewn with dry yellow leaves, long lost of their lush green vitality. He walked to the edge of the pond, where the green-tinged surface reflected his features—cold and pale like frost and snow. He had come of age now; the spindly, thin-limbed child had grown into a young man, tenacious and upright like a stalk of bamboo.

Yet the long-buried pain rose again in his heart. Suddenly, all the years of cold neglect within the estate, the despair when Xian Moutain Guards had taken his brother, the hardship of mastering the blade—these memories returned like a flock of startled birds. Fang Jingyu inhaled sharply and shut his eyes.

He had not forgotten. He had never forgotten a single part of it.

A soft set of footsteps approached from behind. Someone called, “Young Master Jingyu.”

Fang Jingyu turned and saw the old maid in a blue robe who had led him into the manor earlier.

She said, “The hour grows late, will you be dining in the manor, young master? When you entered the ancestral hall just now, you seemed so lost in thought. I called a few times, but you did not answer, and I didn’t dare disturb you, so the time passed. I hope you won’t mind.”

Fang Jingyu shook his head. “There’s no need. I just came to visit Father. I’m leaving now.”

But the old maid hesitated. After a long pause, she gave a wrinkled smile and cautiously asked:

“Young master… have you been well all these years?”

“I’m well now.”

“Please don’t resent the old master. Even if he treated you coldly in the past, he was always a blunt man, not skilled with words. He’s done much good for the people of Penglai. He’s not a bad man.”

“I know.”

Perhaps it was precisely because of his father’s blunt nature that he had so loathed the son who caused his wife’s death. There had been countless times Fang Jingyu had hated him to the bone, but eight years later, all of it felt like water under the bridge.

Turning his back to the old woman, he said, “I’m going now. No need to see me off. Take care of yourself.”

He could feel the weight of her gaze resting heavily on his shoulders. The farther he walked, the heavier that gaze became. A cold wind stirred, and a chill swept through. She stood alone behind him, like a drifting duckweed.

Passing through the red and green corridors, Fang Jingyu made his way toward the manor gate. But midway, he suddenly stopped, bit his lip, and turned back toward the main hall.

No matter what, this would be the last time he saw his father. No matter how indifferent his father had been, he should at least look on him once more.

Fang Jingyu walked to the front of the main hall. The windows were webbed with cobwebs, moss crept over the steps, and the once-clean bricks were stained and mottled. Nine years ago, he had knelt here, begging his father to teach him swordsmanship, only to be refused. Now, he stood silently outside the screen door and softly called:

“Father.”

The room remained silent.

“I’m leaving,” Fang Jingyu said with head bowed. “I’ve already severed ties with the Fang family. We are strangers now. I once hated you, but that’s all in the past.”

He stood quietly for a long time. Still, there was no response from within. Even for this final moment, Father would not spare him a glance? Fang Jingyu sighed softly and turned to go.

But just as he took his first step, a steady voice came from behind the screen.

“Jingyu.”

Fang Jingyu froze. It was the first time his father had ever called his name so solemnly.

In all his life, his father had never once looked him in the eye, rarely even calling his name. In his father’s eyes, he had always been a shadow, half-there and half-not. But now the voice behind the screen was calm and steady, like a parting benediction from father to son.

“Leave Penglai, Jingyu. You are destined to not be confined by this place.”

Fang Jingyu could hardly believe his ears. Were these really his father’s words? Had he mistaken him for his elder brother? But just now, his father had clearly called him by name. He wasn’t raving.

“Are you really talking to me, Father?”

“Of course. You, Fang Jingyu.”

“You’re not mistaking me for Minsheng…”

“Fang Minsheng is Fang Minsheng. Fang Jingyu is Fang Jingyu. I haven’t mistaken anything.”

Suddenly, Fang Jingyu’s heart wavered and faltered. He couldn’t understand why his father had changed so drastically. Had time peeled away the hardness from him, layer by layer? His chest ached as if slashed by a dull blade.

But he gritted his teeth and turned around, clenching his fists as he asked, “You’re only saying this now because my brother is gone and I’m the only one left to entrust the Fang family to, aren’t you?”

He thought he already knew the answer. In the past, every time Minsheng clashed with their father, the man would always tighten his face and bark: You must not act rashly, for you are the son of Langgan Guard, and it is your duty to protect Penglai!

So he expected the same words now. That his father would shout: Because you are the son of Langgan Guard!

But to his surprise, the voice behind the screen instead said:

“Because you are Fang Jingyu. One born to astonish and defy the norm.”

In that instant, Fang Jingyu trembled from head to toe.

He felt as though a bolt of lightning had pierced through his body, stunned into speechlessness. His ears seemed covered with a thin veil; everything he heard came muffled and indistinct. He heard the man’s voice from behind the panel door, dreamlike and distant:

“Come in. I have something to tell you.”

His legs moved of their own accord, as if pulled by invisible threads, and he ascended the stone steps. Pushing open the door, he saw that the bamboo-patterned curtain inside had already been drawn, making the room clean and bright. The gauze canopy over the eight-step bed was lifted, and a man sat upright within it—his figure thinner than before, yet his jade-colored robe was neatly arranged. The man was still as imposing as he had been ten years ago, eyes like cold stars. Though he had aged, the aura he bore was still mountain-like and unshaken.

Fang Jingyu stared dazedly at his father. How could this be the demeanor of a madman? Nine years ago, he had been used to seeing his father in wild fits of madness, yet now, faced with this calm, self-possessed man, he felt as though a lifetime had passed.

Langgan Guard said, “The time has come. The Fang family has done its utmost, and at last, the day has arrived.”

The man picked up a sword beside him—its black sandalwood scabbard wrapped in python skin, the blade gleaming white as snow. It was the treasured sword bestowed by Emperor Bai himself, the Fang family’s ancestral heirloom—Hanguang.

Suddenly, Langgan Guard staggered to his feet. Fang Jingyu instinctively moved to kneel, but before he could, the man had already knelt first, presenting the sword with both hands raised above his head. With his head lowered, he solemnly said:

“This is Hanguang, the sword bestowed by the late emperor. The Fang family has safeguarded it for many years. Now, it should be returned to its rightful master. Your Highness, please accept it.”

A strange chill rushed up from his feet. Fang Jingyu shook his head slightly, murmuring blankly, “Y-Your Highness?”

Why would his father address him that way? A terrible premonition crept over him.

“Twenty-three years ago, the Tianfu Guard came to our home and entrusted the dragonborn to me,” Langgan Guard said.

“You are the son of Emperor Bai—Ji Zhi.”

His voice was calm and steady, each word carrying a weight that shook the heart. He knelt before Fang Jingyu with utmost reverence, like a vassal before his sovereign. But to Fang Jingyu, it felt as though a thunderclap had exploded over his head—he trembled from head to toe.

He couldn’t believe it. He didn’t want to believe it. He had spent a decade in the Fang manor living worse than a servant, trampled on and humiliated—how could he be the so-called heir of Emperor Bai? He was no jade branch of royalty—he was a grub from the dirt.

“But… wasn’t my brother… wasn’t Minsheng the orphan of Emperor Bai?”

“Twenty-three years ago, on a stormy night, the Tianfu Guard brought a child to the Fang manor—that child was Your Highness. That same night, my wife gave birth to a son. From that day forward, I declared to the world that the Fang family had been blessed with twin sons,” Langgan Guard said quietly. “And from that moment on, I resolved to protect Your Highness at all costs.”

Fang Jingyu’s heart churned like a storm-tossed sea. His eyes flew open, bloodshot and wild. He nearly screamed, “If that’s true—then why treat me like that? Why make me live like a beast in this house, left to be kicked and insulted by everyone!”

“To protect Your Highness’s life. The Fang family has long held fame and reputation—many eyes were on this manor. And I, as a loyal subject to the former emperor, was the first the Xian Moutain Guards would suspect if they discovered that you were missing from the celestial palace. To avert suspicion, I had to treat Your Highness with coldness. Forgive me.”

“Then why did the Tianfu Guard bring me here? If the Fang family would be the first suspect, why not hide me in some far-flung corner of the world, somewhere beyond reach?”

“There is no escaping the eyes of the Xian Moutain Guard,” Langgan Guard sighed. “The most dangerous place is the safest. If the Tianfu Guard fled with you, you would have died nameless in the wilderness. But raised in the Fang manor, perhaps there was a sliver of hope.”

“Then… what about Minsheng? Why was he taken?”

“Fang Minsheng was a decoy. The more brilliant and gifted he appeared, the more eyes would turn away from Your Highness.”

A sudden helplessness overwhelmed Fang Jingyu. Despair poured into his chest like a bottomless abyss. Everything he knew had been turned upside down—he had thought his brother was the beloved jewel of the Fang family, and he himself merely an unwanted shadow. But now, it was all reversed—he was the orphan of Emperor Bai, and his brother… his brother had merely been a chess piece to protect him.

He asked in a trembling voice, “Did… did my brother know?”

If he truly was the heir of Emperor Bai, then his brother’s arrest, torture, and death… all of it was his fault. Fang Minsheng had no blood ties to him. He could have lived a peaceful life, still been the proud and shining young man he once was. But once entangled with him, he was doomed to cruel torments and a tragic end. Fang Jingyu clenched his jaw so tightly he thought it would shatter.

“Minsheng knew,” said Langgan Guard. “He was willing to give his life for you.”

“Why! Why would he sacrifice himself for me!”

“Because you are the sovereign, and he the subject. The Fang family, through generations, has served the imperial blood with loyalty and honor. That will never change.”

All the strength seemed to drain from him. Fang Jingyu shook his head, dazed. “But—but nine years ago, Yu Ji tested both our blood with the bone-drip method. Only Minsheng’s blood merged with the bone—”

“The so-called ‘bone-drip’ involves dripping blood onto bones. If the blood is of kin, it merges. But what if the bone brought by Mohe Guard… was not the bone of Emperor Bai?” Langgan Guard replied.

A violent shiver overtook Fang Jingyu as understanding dawned. He watched Langgan Guard lift the hem of his jade robe, unfastening his greaves. He had heard that his father suffered an old leg injury from the battlefield—he had often walked with a limp. But now, with the greave removed, Fang Jingyu saw the truth.

His father’s ruined leg bore a terrifying scar, deep and raw, still split open and unhealed. Beneath the wound—gleaming white bone.

“Twenty-three years ago, I asked the Tianfu Guard to open the emperor’s tomb and replace the remains,” Langgan Guard said calmly. “What Mohe Guard brought was not Emperor Bai’s remains—but my own leg bone.”

A chill wind swept the courtyard. The wind chimes rang like a curtain of rain. But all Fang Jingyu could hear was the roaring of blood in his ears. Sweat soaked his back.

So that was it… That was it!

He remembered hearing whispers of a ‘King Yama’ in Penglai—someone who, over two decades ago, had dared to violate the tomb of Emperor Bai and steal his body. But the culprit wasn’t ‘King Yama’—it was his father and the Tianfu Guard. They had stolen nearly all of the remains, leaving behind only one leg bone… his father’s.

And so, when Minsheng’s blood merged with the bone—it wasn’t because he was the emperor’s son. It was because the bone was from the man who had raised them both.

A plan so deep, so far-reaching, it had taken decades to unfold.

His eyes blurred with water. Fang Jingyu trembled. To protect him alone—how many lives had been sacrificed?

He wasn’t a child abandoned by the heavens. Quite the opposite—he was Heaven’s chosen one.

Still reeling, he saw Langgan Guard rise, rearrange his robes, and kneel once again, offering the sword with both hands.

“Your Highness, the Fang family has fulfilled its ancestral oath—guarding Your Highness until this day.”

In the flowing sunlight, motes of dust danced like faint starlight. In a daze, Fang Jingyu remembered a mural he had once seen in a temple—vassals bowing low like a sea of stars, all facing Emperor Bai. Now, his aged father’s kneeling form overlapped with those mural figures. And the emperor in the center—had become him.

“What do you want me to do?” Fang Jingyu asked hoarsely.

Everything he had believed in until now had vanished. A different path now stretched before him.

Langgan Guard said, “Your Highness may follow your heart and live out your days in peace. But this old man has one impertinent request—”

He bowed low to the floor, head pressed to the ground. Sunlight fell through the window lattices like swords upon his back. The old room, quiet and bleak, suddenly brimmed with the grandeur of a throne room.

“May you take up the cause of the late emperor—cross the Heavenly Pass—and rise again!”