Police were already outside the old building, observing quietly. Su Hui was trapped.
No sirens were used—just the red and blue lights cutting through the thin curtains. Inside, Su Pu and Su Hui faced each other, swords in hand.
Su Hui had grown up pampered, trained in fencing at school. He could handle the weapon easily.
But he hadn’t expected Su Pu had also learned fencing. When? He remembered keeping a tight watch when registering, unwilling to spend a single extra penny.
Su Pu, understanding his limits, had never told Su Fengxian about the course. The fees, though a small part of Su Hui’s pocket money, had been an unattainable luxury for Su Pu.
Yet now, Su Pu held the sword in one hand, the other relaxed, legs moving nimbly, eyes locked on him—already in combat stance.
Fluid and confident, hardly a beginner.
The duel began in silence.
Su Hui attacked first, but Su Pu blocked every move, retreating with ease, controlling the space behind him without showing constraint.
After forcing Su Pu back half a meter, Su Hui stopped—Su Pu’s gaze was unwavering, penetrating.
They had no protective gear, could see each other’s expressions clearly.
Su Pu’s lips pressed tightly, stance nimble, like a stubborn sparrow or a soaring hawk.
Su Hui stepped back, unsettled. Not because he had hurt Su Pu, but because he couldn’t predict what Su Pu was thinking, what he had prepared.
Did he want his life, or his dignity?
Su Hui paused, torn—he had always lived for appearances, for the world’s eyes.
Su Pu took a moment, adjusted his stance, and launched his formal attack.
“Sometimes attacking is the best way to defend oneself,” Li Jichuan had told him the first time he held a foil.
Now, he whispered it in his heart:
En garde.
Advance.
Advance.
Advance.
Three successive steps, pushing Su Hui back, until he was trapped in a corner.
Su Hui was cornered, yet calm. Family mattered most to Su Pu; bring up the family, and he would compromise without question. That desire was ingrained in his blood.
Even at the brink, Su Hui wasn’t worried. Su Pu would forgive him—he always had.
Su Hui’s calculating mind clattered—yet Su Pu pressed on, advancing relentlessly.
The blade pressed against chest, stomach, and thighs—an attempt to subdue completely.
Su Hui was defeated.
Su Pu lowered his sword, claiming victory, and closing a chapter of his life.
From now on, he was free of Su Hui, free of any blood ties.
Those moments he once had to yield as a brother, he no longer needed to compromise.
Those indignities suffered as an outsider, he could cast off.
Free from the shackles of blood, loyal only to himself.
He was no one’s Su Pu—he was simply Su Pu.
A dandelion, racing freely through the world.
Though Su Hui was trapped in the corner, though defeated, Su Pu followed fencing etiquette, raising his sword to the chest, completing the duel.
A duel against the man who had bound him, the past itself.
Su Hui lost, utterly and willingly.
Still, he couldn’t comprehend how Su Pu had learned fencing so effortlessly, and defeated him without strain.
But there wasn’t much time for questions. After Su Pu had defeated him, a group of police flooded the room, hauling Su Hui into a squad car.
It was still snowing as he climbed in.
The snow fell through the night and into the next day.
During interrogation the following day, Su Hui couldn’t stop thinking about the snow and that final duel.
It was a pity—he hadn’t won, and he hadn’t even gotten to see his father one last time.
But even if he had, what could he have said?
What could he say about a life that had been fleeting, with a single-minded purpose and a singular outcome?
He had sought love—but was incapable of it.
He had craved attention—but could never see others.
He only saw himself. Naturally, in the end, he had only himself for company.
Life had been too short, too hurried, too absurd, too lonely.
He had thought he loved himself most, yet in truth, he had loved himself least.
He hated himself…
After defeating Su Hui, Su Pu was sent to a private hospital room.
Upon waking, he only received news that Su Hui had confessed to everything.
Su Pu said little, choosing instead to see a psychologist and devote himself to rehabilitation, determined to untangle his mental blocks and recover his speech.
Within a week, all the perpetrators involved in Su Pu’s kidnapping were caught.
Su Pu had checked the list—Zhang Da’s name was there.
He felt a twinge of regret but had no argument to make. Zhang Da, indeed, had never been a good person.
Wiping the dryness from his eyes, Su Pu resumed rehabilitation exercises.
By the time the first day of winter arrived, Su Pu could begin producing sounds on his own.
Li Jichuan valued this deeply, often pushing Su Pu to the limits during training just to hear his breathing, the occasional strained notes spilling from his lips like a symphony of attack and reclaiming.
Most of all, Li Jichuan loved hearing Su Pu stumble as he called his name:
“Li… Ji… Chuan.”
Every syllable precise, every tone firm.
And fully conscious.
Li Jichuan cherished every change in Su Pu, even having someone record each stage of his speech recovery—from the earliest clumsy, confused attempts to the clear, strong articulation that followed.
Whenever he grew tired at work, Li Jichuan would play those recordings.
The second snowfall announced winter in Yun City.
Su Pu could now intermittently produce sounds, for instance, crying and calling Li Jichuan’s name, his eyes welling with tears as he did.