Gu Mang said nothing. His blue eyes looked into the black ones, while incense ash drifted silently around them.
Jiang Yexue’s sigh seemed to echo once more beside his ear. Jiang Yexue had told him—
“The year Lord Fuling left, Mo Xi was only seven.”
“Betrayed by the deputy commander, his body was separated from his head, and his spirit core was ripped from his body. In the unmailed letter, he even wrote, ‘Who says we have no clothes? I’ll share my robe with you.’”
“You did almost the same thing to him. How could you expect Mo Xi to forgive you?”
The incense ash was scattered by the wind, and the smoke from the incense blurred their surroundings. Gu Mang murmured softly, “Mo Xi, I think… I don’t want to fight wars either.”
When he said this, he did not know why, but his throat and heart felt bitter and tight, almost as if he were choking back sobs. Although he could not remember, he felt that these words came from the bottom of his heart.
It was Mo Xi who did not understand him. It was Mo Xi who had misunderstood him.
How could he possibly like war…?
So many people died. Mountains of corpses and seas of blood. For the success of one general, ten thousand bones would wither. How could he like it?
He was not fighting to turn his fortunes around. He was not fighting for fame and glory. He was not fighting for his own future—
Otherwise, he would not see so many ghosts, would not see them questioning him and blaming him. He had always lived within sin.
“I know… how you feel.”
The feeling of losing your father—I understand it.
I understand…
Mo Xi said nothing.
Before his father’s grave, he did not want to argue. He had once believed beyond all doubt that Gu Mang valued human life and human bonds above everything else. But now, he only found Gu Mang’s words ridiculous.
A man who had once said, “You can’t be too attached to old feelings,” a man who could point a sharp blade at former brothers-in-arms for the sake of revenge—how could he understand his feelings?
He was different from Gu Mang. He simply could not sever old feelings and old affections from the depths of his heart.
Just as, even now, he still did not like the sweet fragrance of osmanthus blossoms.
Just as he had never been able to forget everything about his father when he was alive, despite having been so young at the time.
As long as he wanted to, the moment he closed his eyes, he could see scene after scene from the past.
He could see Mo Qingchi standing beneath the osmanthus tree, his tall and upright back.
He could not even bring himself to like his own weapon, because after all these years, he had never forgotten the question he once asked his father—
“Father, what is your weapon made of?”
It was like a curse.
Mo Xi looked at the line of golden characters—
“Lord Fuling Mo Qingchi, may his heroic spirit rest forever.”
It was easy for him to sketch out every blade of grass and every tree in the rear courtyard of the Mo residence from those days.
And the promise between him and his father.
He closed his eyes and said, “You will never understand me.”
From the age of seven, he had understood what war meant.
He had learned it at the cruelest possible price—the life of his father.
At the time, Mo Xi had been young and inexperienced. At first, the child had not known what war meant. He had only thought it was impressive. The tales of fighting and avenging grievances had an indescribable allure to him.
So back then, when he pestered his father with questions, they were almost all about weapons.
He liked the way his father looked in military attire, solemn and imposing, with an extraordinary bearing.
He liked seeing his father head off to the battlefield. In his heart, his father could never lose. The flames of war had brought the Mo family nothing but supreme glory.
He had ultimately been far too naive.
He had no idea what the flames of war would take away from him.
As for Mo Qingchi, perhaps he had felt that his son was too young, and that speaking of matters of life, death, and righteousness was too heavy for a child. Thus, he had smiled and answered him, “Father has two. One is forged from the soul of Suiran. It is the ancestral weapon of our Mo family, and it will be passed down to you in the future. As for the other, I obtained it when I was young, just after entering the Cultivation Academy.”
Mo Xi’s eyes were full of admiration. He looked up and clutched his father’s sleeve.
“I want to see! I want to see!”
Mo Qingchi stood beneath the osmanthus tree and brushed away the tiny blossoms that had fallen onto Mo Xi’s forehead. Then he raised his palm and said with a smile,
“Xiaoyue, come forth.”
A golden light drifted out from his hand. Specks of spiritual light gathered into the shape of a sperm whale, leisurely swimming past the osmanthus tree.
With a sweep of its tail, osmanthus rain instantly filled the entire courtyard.
The little child stood beside his father’s leg, his black eyes widening in astonishment as he looked up.
“Transform.”
With Mo Qingchi’s command, the spirit of the sperm whale swiftly transformed into a golden shield. Mo Qingchi held it in his hand and lowered his head to smile at his son.
“Xiaoyue was forged from the spirit core of a whale that had gained sentience. After transforming into a weapon, it becomes a shield. This is Father’s second weapon.”
At the time, he had been both envious and curious. He reached out and carefully touched the surface of the shield.
“So the weapons cultivators use are all transformed from spirits?”
“Almost all of them.” Mo Qingchi smiled. “Weapons forged from copper and iron often cannot withstand spiritual currents. Moreover, they cannot form a pact and be summoned, so they have to be carried around at all times. Therefore, hardly anyone chooses ordinary iron.”
Mo Xi had only half understood. He blinked in confusion and looked at the shield again.
“Father, will I have one too?”
“You are the only son of the Mo family. You will enter the Cultivation Academy in the future, so of course you will have one too.”
Mo Xi’s heart immediately leaped with joy.
Like a newborn calf unafraid of tigers, he had no reverence for weapons or death yet. He only thought it was all very impressive. In the future, he wanted to mount a warhorse like his father and campaign across the land.
At that time, he had never experienced separation through life and death. He recklessly and ignorantly believed that he would surely love such a blood-soaked life.
A longbow breaking through wind and snow, returning with one’s corpse wrapped in horsehide.
What a magnificent hero’s dream.
Mo Xi could not help raising his hand to touch his father’s shield. Light flickered in his eyes as he asked, “Then what will mine be? Will it be a big fish like Father’s?”
Mo Qingchi bent down, bringing himself as level with his son as possible. He smiled and stroked the child’s soft black hair.
“The elders of the academy will give you an assignment. During that assignment, you will summon the divine weapon most closely connected to your soul. Yes, you might obtain a big fish like Father’s, or it might be something else. Birds and beasts, spiritual trees and strange flowers—anything is possible.”
“Do I get one as soon as I enter the academy?”
“More or less.” Mo Qingchi smiled.
“Then let’s go to the Cultivation Academy right away!” He tugged at his father’s robe, his eyes full of longing. “Can we go tomorrow?”
“Haha, not tomorrow. At the very least, you have to wait until you are seven. The academy doesn’t accept children younger than seven.” Mo Qingchi patiently explained, “Once you are seven, Father will submit a request to His Majesty and obtain permission for you to enter the academy. Then you can accept that assignment. After completing it, our little fireball will officially become a little cultivator.”
The innocent child had just begun to look happy when he suddenly seemed to remember something. He froze for a moment before hesitantly saying, “Father…”
“Hmm?”
“Is that assignment difficult? What if I can’t pass and they send me back?”
A child of four or five years old was, after all, bound to feel nervous.
“No.” Mo Qingchi smiled. “It’s an assignment even a fool could pass. You could lie down and pass it. You could even pass it with your eyes closed. There’s nothing for you to be afraid of.”
After a pause, he suddenly slapped his forehead.
“Oh, right. There will also be an older martial brother or sister accompanying you. If you run into any difficulties, they’ll help you.”
Only then did Mo Xi relax.
His father’s words filled him with yearning. He seemed almost unable to wait to grow up quickly so that he could obtain a weapon of his own.
Father had said he would take him there when he turned seven.
So every day he looked forward to it, waited for it, counting down the days until he turned seven.
He had even taken out a copy of the Chonghua Calendar and, every night before going to bed, carefully drawn a line on it.
Every mark he made seemed to mean that he was one step closer to his dream of becoming a God of War who would command armies and dominate the battlefield.
He liked war. He could hardly wait to obtain a weapon, advance in cultivation, grow into an adult, and then fight alongside his father.
How exhilarating.
Later, the Liao Kingdom invaded.
As always, Mo Qingchi took command of the army and hurried to the battlefield.
That year, Mo Xi finally reached the age of seven.
But what he had been waiting for was neither a spirit weapon nor entry into the academy.
Instead, he received a military report from thousands of miles away.
Before he could even understand what life and death meant, white mourning cloth already hung from the Mo residence, and funeral bells tolled throughout the royal palace.
“Lord Fuling has died—!”
The entire city was filled with mourning.
Paper offerings fluttered all over the ground, like snow that had fallen for years and would never melt.
Everyone was crying and wailing.
Those he knew, those he did not know, those whose faces were familiar, those he had met only a handful of times—one group after another came to the Mo residence to shed tears and offer wine at the funeral.
His mother had already cried herself unconscious several times.
Even his wolf-hearted uncle had put on a show of deep grief at the time, personally handling the funeral arrangements for his sworn elder brother.
Everyone wore mourning clothes.
Even when the Monarch came, he was dressed entirely in plain white.
“I have lost Fuling as though I have lost my own liver and gallbladder…”
The old Monarch leaned his head against the coffin, tears streaming down his face as he sobbed in grief.
“Heaven above, why have you treated me so cruelly!”
The assembled ministers knelt in a vast sea, their cries shaking the heavens.
Outside the main hall, offerings of gold and silver paper ingots were piled as high as mountains.
The High Priest blew into a yak-horn spirit instrument.
A golden light slowly drifted out from the coffin.
Specks of golden light transformed into a swimming whale, circling several times inside the great hall before swimming out into the courtyard.
The osmanthus tree outside the courtyard had long since lost its blossoms.
When the great fish swam past, the scene of osmanthus rain filling the courtyard from years ago could never return.
It soared toward the high heavens and disappeared into the sea of clouds.
“The divine weapon has been released,” the High Priest chanted, kneeling and bowing his head.
“May the soul… rest in peace…”
Everyone began to weep and bow.
“Lord Fuling was a heroic soul!”
“May his heroic spirit return—!”
Among this crowd of white-clad spirits and ghosts, only Mo Xi did not cry.
He knelt there without making a sound, staring blankly and bewilderedly.
Who was gone?
Who had died…?
Who was the hero?
Who was the heroic spirit?
What did it mean to be a hero?
Those two words he had heard since childhood suddenly became so unfamiliar because of his father’s death.
The dazzling words he had once thought so glorious, the battlefield he had once yearned for without limit—
What exactly were they?
“May the heroic spirit return—may the soul rest forever in peace—”
“No, no—”
He suddenly began to tremble.
He did not want him to be a heroic soul. He did not want his father to become some great hero. He only wanted his father to stand in the courtyard, and in autumn, take him to gather osmanthus blossoms filling the courtyard and brew a jug of sweet wine.
He only wanted his father to come back.
To come back, take his hand, bend down, and smile as he said to him, “Little Fireball, you’re seven this year. Father will take you to the academy. You must listen and follow the elders properly in your cultivation.”
As he thought this, it was as though he truly saw his father standing at the doorway.
He turned his head and suddenly smiled at him.
“Little Fireball,” he said to him, “good boy, come here. Let Father have another look at you.”
Mo Xi dazedly walked toward that figure illuminated by the daylight.
Suddenly, the firecrackers accompanying the funeral exploded.
The sharp, cracking sounds were like a dream deep within his soul being abruptly awakened.
“Father?”
He looked around blankly.
“Father, where are you?”
You… where are you?
There was no one at the doorway.
Only white mourning cloth hung and swayed gently.
His fingers were icy cold.
And in that unbearably cruel moment, he seemed to suddenly understand what “death” meant.
He abruptly screamed, calling for his father, and ran after him toward the outside of the main hall.
The assembled ministers were even more shocked and grieved at the sight, constantly wiping away their tears.
His uncle hurried out and scooped up the struggling Mo Xi, his eyes red.
“Xi’er, be good. Come to Uncle. Come here to Uncle…”
“I saw Father! I saw him!”
He shouted.
But as he continued shouting, his voice suddenly broke. He collapsed into his uncle’s arms and finally burst into loud sobs.
“I saw him… Why did he leave? Why did he leave? Why didn’t he want me anymore!”
The seven-year-old child cried out with all his strength, each cry more heartrending than the last, tears streaming down his entire face.
In the end, with trembling lips, he could only murmur one sentence:
“Why didn’t he want me anymore…”
He was seven.
The seven years he had desperately waited for, counting the days with utmost seriousness, the seven years he and his father had looked forward to together.
It turned out to look like this.
So this was war.
And this was the price of glory.
More than half a year later, his birthday arrived.
He was still wearing mourning clothes, made with the finest threads and most exquisite workmanship. The Mo family’s mourning honors were at their highest, and their status was even more prominent than before.
But so what?
He came to the window.
Outside, the osmanthus blossoms had bloomed again.
The graceful green branches were covered in golden stars, every blossom resembling a reflection of the previous year.
Amid the rich, pure fragrance, he sat down and took out the Chonghua Calendar he had been marking for more than two years.
It was already covered in a thick layer of dust.
“How many days until I turn seven?”
The voice of his younger self from years ago seemed to echo right beside his ear.
Back then, Mo Qingchi had placed his large hand on his head and lovingly ruffled his hair.
“Don’t rush.”
“But I’m really in a hurry, Father.”
He had grumbled, “I really want to skip these two years. I want to open my eyes and be seven already.”
Mo Qingchi had burst into laughter.
That laughter gradually became indistinct, and finally turned into the gentle rustling of leaves outside the window.
At the time, Mo Xi had not understood what the future would bring.
He had only thought those two years were long and boring. He wanted to hurry through them so that he could reach the day he turned seven as quickly as possible, bringing him closer and closer to the battlefield he yearned for.
But he did not know that the two years he had hurriedly wished away would turn out to be the final period of his entire life in which he would have his father.
From that moment onward, no matter how much he regretted it or how much wiser he became, he could never return to that time—
The time he had once despised, the time he had wished desperately would pass.
The final seven hundred or so days.
He hugged that calendar.
The marks on the Chonghua Calendar had stopped forever on New Year’s Eve of the sixteenth year of Chonghua.
The very day they received the military report.
“Father…”
He murmured softly.
“The day we promised each other has arrived. I can go to the academy now.”
He waited for a while.
No one answered him.
No one would ever answer him again.
Mo Xi lowered his head deeply and curled up in front of the table. His shoulders trembled slightly, and in the end he could no longer make a sound through his sobs.
“Father… can we stop fighting wars? Please… don’t go… come back…”
Come back…
The words “heroic soul” were too cruel.
I only want you to stand in the main hall, and in autumn, look at the osmanthus blossoms blooming again with me.
Come back…
When I grow up, let me go to the battlefield instead, okay?
I won’t do it for fame or wealth anymore.
I don’t like fighting wars anymore either.
I only want to protect you.
I want to stay by your side.
I want you to come home.
Father…
“You will never understand me.”
At the mountaintop of Battle Soul Mountain, surrounded by drifting clouds and mist, Mo Xi, now already thirty years old, slowly opened his eyes.
His gaze lingered on the jade stele of Lord Fuling for a moment before turning toward Gu Mang.
He said calmly, “If you hadn’t become consumed by war for the sake of your own sense of righteousness, I would not understand why you defected to the Liao Kingdom.”
“…”
“Chonghua wronged you. We owe you. But there was more than one road before you. Even if you wanted to betray the country, there was more than one place you could have gone.”
“But you chose the Liao Kingdom.”
Mo Xi’s black eyes were cold and clear.
“You were thinking of revenge, for your ambition, for your comrades, for your way out. You didn’t care about the additional blood that would be spilled by everyone else.”
“Mo Xi…”
Mo Xi almost mocked himself as he said, “I’m sorry. It was because I was useless. Even when I wagered my life, I still couldn’t make you turn back back then.”
Gu Mang looked into his eyes.
Those eyes were too black, too cold, too deep.
They carried seven full years of disappointment.
Under the bright daylight at the summit of Battle Soul Mountain, it was all so painfully clear.
A powerful surge suddenly rose within Gu Mang’s heart.
He did not know what kind of emotion that surge represented.
He only knew that he did not want to see Mo Xi looking like this.
He did not want Mo Xi to keep seeing him this way.
Amid the turbulent emotions in his heart, the words burst from his mouth:
“Can you believe me one more time?”
The sentence was like a cold arrow.
Both the person who spoke it and the person who heard it were caught completely off guard.
Mo Xi’s eyes widened slightly.
There was surprise on that handsome face, as well as a rare bewilderment, and even a trace of dazed confusion.
“What?”
Gu Mang bit his lip.
He stood up and looked at him against the daylight.
“I don’t know what kind of person I used to be. I’ve forgotten everything from before.”
“But the person I am now thinks you’re right.”
“I don’t like fighting and killing either. I don’t like being betrayed either.”
The biting cold wind made his white robes billow loudly.
At that moment, a thick layer of clouds slowly drifted across the sun.
Countless rays of golden light pierced through like arrows shooting through a forest, falling from behind Gu Mang.
It was as though they were trying to ambush and kill someone from yesterday.
Or perhaps they were trying to pierce through someone’s heart.
The beast of the altar who had once stood at the pinnacle of his glory now stood before Mo Xi.
Against the light, Mo Xi could not see his face clearly.
But the voice that reached his ears was as steady as it had been before he lost his memories.
“I want to atone for my sins. I don’t want to disappoint you.”
Gu Mang’s voice carried that innate strength that seemed to strike directly into the soul.
“Can you believe me one more time?”
“…”
His sleeves fluttered in the wind.
Gu Mang knelt down on one knee before Mo Xi.
For the first time, he truly lowered his head in every sense of the word.
Respectful.
Ashamed.
Carrying hope and warmth, yet burdened by blood and cold.
He lowered his voice.
“I beg Your Highness, teach me.”
Mo Xi was speechless for a moment.
And just then, two claps suddenly sounded.
A cold, faint voice like thin smoke came from not far away.
“How touching. What play are you putting on? The prodigal son returns and is worth more than gold?”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk. I’m practically moved to tears.”