Chapter 43
Beside him stood another man—similar, yet distinctly different.
Slightly younger in appearance, though not by much, his presence carried a different edge. Where Katsuro was composed like a silent blade, this man felt… looser, but no less dangerous. His black hair was tied back more casually, a few strands falling near his face, giving him a more approachable look—but his eyes betrayed him. The same sharp, onyx-brown gaze, identical in depth, identical in awareness.
Their builds were nearly the same—tall, well-structured, trained bodies that spoke of strength without needing to show it. Their clothing too bore resemblance—dark robes, elegant, minimal yet rich.
They stood like reflections of each other.
Brothers…? Weiyang thought instantly.
And beside them—
A child.
A young boy, no more than eight or nine, yet standing with the same posture, the same folded hands behind his back, mimicking them perfectly. His face was softer, of course—youthful—but his eyes… those eyes were already sharp. Already observant. Already learning.
It was almost unsettling.
The three of them looked like different stages of the same person.
Weiyang and Yinghua exchanged a quick glance.
Then they stepped forward.
As they approached, the men turned.
In perfect unison.
Their hands moved behind their backs, folding neatly, their stance shifting into something even more composed—majestic, effortless authority radiating from them. Even the child adjusted himself the same way, straightening slightly, copying them without hesitation.
Weiyang stopped before them and bowed slightly. "Greetings, Master Xuan."
The man beside Katsuro—his younger brother—let his gaze fall over the two unconscious figures. His eyes narrowed just a fraction. "Hmm… he's grown quite well," he said calmly, looking at Wuming. "But why is he in such a state?"
Before anyone could answer, the child stepped forward.
Without hesitation.
He walked right up to Weiyang and reached out, gently touching Wei Zhi's cheek, tilting his head slightly as he observed her. "Father," he said casually, "she's cute."
Then, as if that wasn't enough, he skipped over to Yinghua and reached up, pinching Wuming's cheek lightly. "He's cute too."
Yinghua froze for a second, caught completely off guard.
The younger man—Xuan Linghe—laughed softly. "Yes, yes."
Xuan Katsuro, however, did not laugh.
His gaze shifted fully to Wuming now, sharper, deeper. "What happened to him?" he asked, his voice calm but carrying weight.
A maid had already appeared at his call from within the estate, standing ready.
Weiyang scratched the back of his head awkwardly. "Um… well… I don't know. You should probably ask them when they wake up."
Katsuro's gaze lingered for a moment longer before he nodded slightly. Then, unexpectedly, his tone softened just a little. "You can call me Uncle Katsuro, little Weiyang."
Weiyang blinked, then smiled. "Then… what about the other uncle, Uncle Katsuro?"
Katsuro glanced to the side. "Ah. This is your first time meeting them." He gestured lightly. "This is my younger brother, Xuan Linghe. You may call him Uncle Linghe."
Before anything more could be said, the boy puffed his chest slightly and stepped forward again, cutting in confidently. "Let me introduce myself!" he said with a bright grin. "Hello, nice to meet you. I am Xuan Xie Zheng. You may call me Xie Zheng."
Weiyang grinned right back. "Nice to meet you too."
Xuan Linghe stepped closer then, his attention shifting toward Yinghua. He leaned slightly, observing her more closely, his tone lighter but curious. "And who might be this beautiful young lady… carrying my dear nephew on her back?"
Yinghua froze again, this time more awkwardly.
Wuming's weight pressed against her, his body not supporting itself at all, forcing her to adjust her stance to keep him balanced. Her arms were tense, shoulders slightly strained, and now with all eyes on her, she looked even more uncomfortable.
"I—uh—" she shifted slightly, trying not to drop him, "I'm Lan Yinghua…"
Her grip tightened a bit as she adjusted Wuming again, her voice a little flustered. "And he's… heavier than he looks…"
The boy giggled.
Linghe smiled faintly.
And for just a brief moment—
The tension eased.
Linghe's hand moved with effortless authority—one smooth motion, as if lifting a sleeping child rather than a half-conscious cultivator—and Wuming's weight shifted from Yinghua's back into his arms. The wuming's head fell against Linghe's shoulder, limp yet strangely composed, as though even in unconsciousness he refused to appear weak. The height of both Linghe and Katsuro became more apparent now—tall, towering figures at six-foot-four, their frames lean yet broad-shouldered, like blades forged for elegance rather than brute force. Their presence alone altered the air; it was no longer merely evening—it was territory.
Yinghua exhaled, her shoulders relaxing for the first time since the forest, though her hands still trembled faintly from exhaustion and dried blood. "Thank you… but I could carry him inside," she said, stubbornness softening her voice but not leaving it. Katsuro's gaze shifted to her, calm yet firm, the kind of authority that didn't need to be raised to be felt. "No," he said quietly, "a girl should never do such things. These are tasks for men."
Yinghua's brows furrowed, and despite her fatigue, her spirit flared again. "Be it a man or a woman… it doesn't matter. Wuming is our teammate. I don't mind carrying any of them on my back." Her smile—bright, unguarded, almost defiant—cut through the formality like sunlight breaking through a rigid hall of stone. For a brief moment, Katsuro's expression softened, something almost amused flickering in his sharp, onyx-brown eyes. "Well said," he replied, and this time there was approval in his tone rather than correction. "Come in, children. It's getting late."
Meanwhile, Weiyang shifted Wei Zhi's unconscious form more securely in his arms, her weight light yet somehow heavy with everything unsaid. Katsuro stepped forward slightly. "Let me take her. You must be tired." Weiyang immediately stepped back, tightening his hold without even thinking. "No. I'll carry her." His voice wasn't loud, but it was firm in a way that didn't invite negotiation. Katsuro studied him for a second longer, then gave a small nod. "Are you sure, Weiyang? Your hands are hurt… and bleeding. The same goes for you, Yinghua. Get inside."
The maids arrived swiftly, their movements practiced and silent. One carefully received Wuming from Linghe, bowing her head slightly before carrying him inside with precision. Another approached Weiyang, hands extended to take Wei Zhi, but he shook his head. "Just… show me the way." There was no arrogance in it—just a quiet insistence. The maid nodded and turned, leading him through the corridors.
The estate was vast, but not in a way that felt empty—it was structured, deliberate, every hallway aligned with purpose. Weiyang followed, his footsteps slower now, not from hesitation but from the careful balance of carrying someone fragile. Yinghua trailed behind him, her earlier energy dimmed but not extinguished, her gaze flickering between Wuming's direction and Wei Zhi in Weiyang's arms.
They reached Wuming's room first—wide, minimal, yet dignified. The maids placed him gently on the bed, adjusting his robes and posture with practiced care. His face, once pale and strained, had regained a faint steadiness, though his stillness carried an unsettling quiet—as if something inside him was merely waiting.
Another maid guided Weiyang further down a corridor, slightly apart from the main wing. "This way," she said softly. The room they entered was smaller, simpler—but it carried a different weight.
Weiyang stepped inside and placed Wei Zhi carefully on the bed, adjusting her head so it rested comfortably against the pillow before pulling the blanket over her. His movements, usually restless and careless, were now slow and precise—almost cautious. For a moment, he just stood there, looking at her.
The room itself spoke more about her than any words ever could. It was plain—almost stark—but not empty. In front of the window stood a wooden table, its surface covered in open books, some stacked, some marked, some left mid-thought as if abandoned in urgency. Titles ranged from martial arts theory to advanced formations, from weapon mastery to obscure texts that few her age would even attempt to read. There was no decoration, no softness—only purpose.
And then there were the weapons.
Kunai knives hung neatly along the wall near the window, arranged not as display, but as readiness. Each one placed with intent, within reach, aligned like silent sentinels. The faint light from outside filtered through them, casting thin shadows across the walls—sharp, disciplined, unyielding.
Weiyang let out a small breath, almost a laugh, but softer. "You really are something else…" he muttered under his breath.
This wasn't a room of a child. It was a room of someone who had chosen a path—and walked it alone.
The maid's voice came again, softer this time but carrying the same quiet authority. "Sir Weiyang, please come to the living hall. The physician is waiting."
Weiyang gave one last look to the still figure on the bed before turning away. The door slid shut behind him with a muted whisper, as if sealing the silence inside. Outside, Yinghua was just finishing closing Wuming's door. She turned, catching his gaze, and smiled lightly—tired, but relieved. "They're both fine… and safe."
There was something grounding in those words. Not certainty, not knowledge—but faith.
Together, they followed the maid.
The corridors of the Xuan estate stretched long and composed, like veins of a living organism—every turn deliberate, every lantern placed with intention. Their footsteps echoed faintly against polished wood as they passed through multiple halls, each one quieter than the last, until the air itself seemed to grow heavier with presence rather than sound.
And then—they reached the living hall.
The moment they stepped in, the atmosphere shifted.
Warmth wrapped around them first. A contained fire burned in a metal basin at the center, its coals glowing a deep, breathing orange beneath a steel lattice that held them in place, preventing even a single ember from escaping. The heat was steady, controlled—like discipline itself.
And beyond that warmth sat the three figures.
Katsuro, Linghe, and Xie Zheng.
They were not merely seated—they were positioned.
Katsuro leaned slightly to one side, one leg folded while the other stretched just enough to show ease without losing authority, his elbow resting against the armrest, fingers lightly touching his temple. Linghe mirrored a different variation—one knee raised, arm draped over it, posture relaxed yet sharp, like a predator at rest. Xie Zheng, smaller yet uncannily similar, sat with one leg folded over the other, chin resting lightly against his knuckles, observing with curious amusement.
They did not look like men in a room.
They looked like rulers waiting in a court.
Like something between stillness and danger.
Like the image of a conqueror lounging upon a throne after war—calm, because nothing remained that could challenge him.
A maid stood nearby, gracefully pouring tea into fine cups, the aroma drifting through the air—warm, slightly sweet, mingling with the delicate scent of osmanthus mooncakes arranged neatly on a tray.
Linghe lifted his hand lazily, fingers gesturing forward with a subtle up-and-down motion. "Come here."
It wasn't an order.
But it was obeyed like one.
Weiyang and Yinghua stepped forward and sat down before them, the warmth of the fire brushing against their tired bodies. For a brief moment, the exhaustion of the day seemed to settle into their bones.
Katsuro's gaze landed on Weiyang. "How is your training going?"
Before he could answer, the physician approached quietly, kneeling beside him and gently taking his hands. The moment cloth touched skin, a faint sting shot through his fingers. His hands were bruised, pale blue in places, the skin roughened and cracked from overwork, faint traces of dried blood along the edges.
End of 43