That was the scene a month after his foundation had fully recovered, after he had resumed his grueling training.
That year, he was sixteen.
He told his father:
"Dad, I'm all better."
"My vitality index has reached 1.23!"
That night, his father was stunned at first, then ecstatic.
But as he laughed, his father went into the bathroom and closed the door.
Back then, in his youth, he hadn't thought much of it.
But now, he could clearly "see" that behind that closed door, the man who had been strong his whole life was clamping a hand tightly over his mouth.
His father was squatting on the floor, trembling silently, letting the tears—suppressed for ten long years and filled with endless sorrow, bitterness, and relief—stream down his face.
He just didn't want his son to see his vulnerable side.
...
As his consciousness drifted, a single, scalding hot tear slipped uncontrollably from the corner of Qin Feng's eye.
Yet the tear didn't even make it down his cheek.
