Сhарtеr 3 (15/19)
Elder Yuе shоutеd аngrilу, "Yuanzhi!"
"Absurd! Why is Gоng Ziуu the Blаde Mаstеr? Му brоthеr Gong Shangjuе is the first in line to inherit." Gong Yuanzhi fоund it hаrd to аcсерt.
Тherе wаs nо rооm for his оppositiоn, аs this was thе family rule оf the Hоuse of Gоng.
Еldеr Yuе rерliеd to him, "Thе first-gеnerаtiоn Вladе Mаstеr of the Ноuse оf Gong establishеd two family rulеs: First, thе Нousе of Gong cаnnоt bе without а mаstеr fоr а singlе daу. Оncе the Вlade Мastеr diеs, thе sucсеssоr must immеdiately tаke the position. Sеcond, if the Вlade Мastеr аnd the suсcessor die at the same time, Absence Succession must be initiated immediately. Gong Shangjue is not in Old Dust Valley. According to ancestral rules, the only one who meets the conditions to inherit the Blade Master position is Gong Ziyu."
Gong Yuanzhi wanted to argue further, "But Gong Ziyu—"
Elder Hua raised his voice, his face already showing anger, "Enough! The former Blade Master and the Young Lord have been burdened with worries and toil over the years, always putting the House of Gong first. They were unfortunately murdered, and the entire House of Gong is grieving. Now we should focus all our efforts on arranging the funeral and restoring order to the House of Gong as soon as possible. We must not create chaos ourselves and give our enemies an opportunity to strike! Any disputes can wait until Shangjue returns!"
With these words, Gong Yuanzhi had nothing more to say and could only leave.
White lanterns hung from the eaves and pavilion corners everywhere, their pale light making the entire valley appear even more eerie and chilling.
The mourning hall had returned to silence. Late at night, the crowd had dispersed, leaving only Jin Fan guarding the entrance.
On the steps at the entrance, Gong Ziyu sat alone under the eaves.
Madam WuJi, her face pale and her eyes unable to conceal her sorrow, walked toward Gong Ziyu holding a cloak. Light snow suddenly began to fall. She draped the cloak over Gong Ziyu.
Feeling the warmth on his body, Gong Ziyu finally broke down. His mind was filled with memories of the past, like the chaotic snowflakes falling on his eyebrows and shoulders, melting at the slightest touch.
He remembered when he was about four or five years old, his father would hold him in his arms, take his small hand, and teach him to write his name—Gong Ziyu—in his own broad palm. Back then, his father was always gentle and kind, his stern brows unconsciously softening in his presence.
Later, when he was a bit older, no more than ten, his mother passed away. He was already sensible, feeling as if struck by a bolt from the blue. Holding his mother's memorial tablet in the garden where she often stayed, he asked his brother sorrowfully.
"Brother Huanyu, will you and Father also leave me?"
His brother was much taller than him, and his hands were always warm. He gently patted Gong Ziyu's shoulder and promised, "No, I will always be with you."
His brother stood as firm as a mountain in his heart, so he firmly believed that his brother's promise would be unshakable, no matter what.
Later, when he reached the age to practice martial arts, his father trained with him. By then, his father had become much stricter with him. To perform well in front of his father, he never complained of fatigue. However, when he put down his sword, exhausted, and opened his palms to reveal bloody blisters, his father would turn a blind eye, only frowning with a cold expression as he continued to supervise his training. So he could only wipe away his tears and practice with his sword day after day.
At night, he would sleep with his palms open. In his drowsiness, he only felt a pair of thicker, stronger hands take his and gently apply medicine to them. He didn't know if it was just an illusion.After coming of age, his arguments with his father grew increasingly frequent. Unable to find release, he drowned his sorrows in drink day after day, often collapsing drunk on the steps of Yu Manor as dawn broke, the mask left to him by his mother falling to the ground.
From afar, he heard someone sighing, and in the end, that person still ordered the servants to help him inside.
Through his drunken haze, he couldn’t see clearly, but it seemed as though his father was holding that mask, carefully wiping it clean.
Sometimes he thought, he didn’t understand his father.
Only his brother treated him as always. His brother’s words still echoed in his ears—he said that a few days ago, a wild marten pelt had been sent from the north and had been hastily made into a thick cloak. He also mentioned that the night dew in the valley had grown heavy lately, and knowing he had always been frail and sensitive to the cold since childhood, if he went out at night, he should wear it.
He put it on, but even now, he still felt a chill in his heart.
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