In the Tan Family Residence, shadows of late afternoon light spilled through the carved wooden windows, painting long streaks of gold across the polished floors. At the head of the hall sat Tan Yulong, the master of the household.
He was a man in his late forties, his hair dark but peppered with silver along the temples, his face neither stern nor soft, but a perfect blend of cunning and weariness.
His eyes were sharp, glinting with mischief that made him look like a fox who always had a scheme in hand, but there was wisdom too, the kind that came only from years of maneuvering through both business and family politics.
His lips, often curled in a smirk, gave him the air of someone who was never fully serious, even when speaking of matters that carried weight.
As he leaned against the armrest of his wide chair, tapping his fingers lazily against the lacquered surface, a knock came from the door.
Tan Yulong's eyes flicked toward it.
"Enter," he said in a tone that was calm but laced with expectation.
The door opened, and in stepped the masked man who had escorted Jilong earlier. Though his face was hidden, Yulong instantly caught the flicker of amusement radiating off him, even from his posture. The corner of Yulong's mouth curled into a smirk.
"You've returned," Yulong said. "So, tell me. What was my son's face like when he discovered his new… duties?"
The masked man bowed deeply, cupping his hands respectfully before him. His tone carried restrained laughter as he answered, "Master, it was truly a sight to behold. At first, Young Master Tan entered with the utmost confidence, his back straight, his expression calm—as though he expected to be given some lofty role, perhaps a task fit only for those with authority. I could see it in his eyes, the way he imagined himself managing others, giving orders, lounging in comfort while others toiled."
Yulong chuckled quietly, nodding knowingly. The masked man continued, his words growing more animated as if reliving the scene gave him joy.
"But then," he said, "the moment I placed the mop and bucket before him, oh! His face twisted. It was as if lightning had struck his very soul. First came disbelief—his eyes wide, his lips parted. Then came confusion, followed by a twitch of his brow, as though he still clung to hope that I was jesting. And finally… despair. His shoulders slumped, his very spirit crumbled before me, Master. I tell you, I could feel his heart breaking with every passing second."
The masked man's voice carried laughter, though he suppressed it beneath formal respect. Yulong threw his head back and laughed, a deep, hearty sound that echoed through the chamber.
"Hah! That boy," Yulong said, wiping the corner of his eye with a finger. "He has been sheltered far too long. Do you know, since he was young, I never let him lift even a finger? His every meal prepared, his every request fulfilled before he could even finish voicing it. The servants doted on him. His mother shielded him. Even his brothers never forced him into sparring. He was the youngest, the most fragile in their eyes, and so everyone indulged him."
Yulong's voice slowed, growing thoughtful, though his smirk remained. "I knew from the beginning that I spoiled him too much. But… I wanted him to inherit the Tan Family business one day. I thought by keeping him away from hardship, he would have the clear mind and leisure to learn management, to study books, to grow into a refined leader. But the boy—" Yulong sighed. "The boy became whimsical instead. He chased immortals, daydreamed about cultivation, and ignored the reality before him."
The masked man shifted but remained silent.
Yulong continued, his tone dipping lower. "When he begged me to allow him to pursue the path of cultivation, I couldn't bring myself to break his heart. I let him harbor that dream, though I knew well enough… no sect in this region would accept him. A wood spiritual root? Worthless. And even then, it wasn't pure wood—it was diluted, weak, a fake. Nothing but the remnants of some ancestral bloodline too thin to matter. Still, I allowed him to dream. Perhaps I am guilty of that. But now…"
His eyes hardened, the mischievous fox replaced with a weary father. "Now, it's time to strip away the illusion. Better he learns the cruelty of the world early than later. Better he understands that he is no immortal, no destined cultivator. He is flesh and blood, mortal, and one day, he must shoulder the family name. If not cultivation, then labor, management, and discipline will forge him. It is cruel, yes. But necessary."
A silence stretched between them. Then, the masked man tilted his head. "Then… Master, should I still address him as Young Master Ji?"
Yulong's laughter returned, though it was sharper now, laced with irony. "That boy," he said, shaking his head. "He paraded around calling himself 'Daoist Ji' as though already one step into immortality. He forced even the servants to call him Young Master Ji instead of Jilong. And now, after rejection, do you think I will indulge that name again? No. Not Daoist Ji. Not Young Master Ji. He is simply Jilong until he earns otherwise."
Suddenly, a shrill voice broke through the air. "You evil man, Tan Yulong! Evil!"
Both men froze, their attention snapping toward the open doorway. Standing there was a woman of refined grace despite her age. Bing Shuhua, Yulong's wife, strode in, her silk robes flowing behind her, her beauty still evident though touched with the maturity of years. Her eyes, however, burned with anger, and her voice was sharp as she shouted again.
"You evil man! How could you!?"
Yulong's brows knit. "What are you saying now, Shuhua?"
"You know exactly what I mean!" she snapped, tears already brimming. "Jilong was rejected only yesterday, his heart shattered, and now you force him into hard labor? You're cruel beyond measure!"
Yulong stood, slamming his hand on the armrest. "So what if he was rejected? Should I coddle him for the rest of his life? He must learn now! He is a man, Shuhua, not a child to be forever sheltered. If he cannot walk the path of immortality, then he must face the reality of this world. He must learn responsibility, not hide behind dreams!"
Shuhua's voice rose, trembling with fury. "Responsibility!? Is this how you teach responsibility—by stripping him of dignity the moment he falls? He's still our son! Your son! He has just lost his dream, and you grind his face into the dirt!"
"Dreams," Yulong spat, pacing as anger tinged his words. "What use are dreams when they blind him to reality? He cannot eat dreams. He cannot shelter the family with dreams. He needs to stand on his own two feet!"
"You're heartless!" Shuhua cried. "Heartless! Our Jilong… do you even know why he wanted to cultivate so badly? It wasn't for power or vanity. It was for you!"
Yulong stopped mid-step, his chest tightening. "For… me?"
"Yes!" Shuhua's tears flowed freely now, streaking down her cheeks. "He saw you, Yulong! He saw the pride in your eyes when you looked at his older brothers—when they were chosen, when they advanced. He saw your joy and wanted that same look turned toward him. He wanted you to be proud of him too. So he trained, Yulong. He trained in secret, practicing martial arts until his hands bled. He pushed himself harder than any servant ever dared. And yet you never saw it. You never noticed."
Yulong's lips parted, but no words came. His smirk was gone. His sharp eyes dulled, replaced by the weight of guilt.
Shuhua's voice quivered, each word piercing him deeper. "Every bruise he hid. Every night he stayed awake, meditating, hoping his spiritual root might strengthen. He bore it all because he wanted your approval. Do you hear me, Yulong? It was you. All of it was for you. And now, after he failed to be recognized, when his heart is at its weakest, you crush him further? You send him to scrub floors? Where is your conscience? Where, Tan Yulong? You don't care about your son at all!"
Her sobs filled the hall. Yulong stood rooted, his face shifting through conflict—anger, denial, sorrow, guilt. He clenched his fists until his knuckles whitened, trying to keep his composure, but the weight of her words pressed against him until his vision blurred. His eyes, despite all effort, began to swell with tears.
Finally, after a long, heavy silence, Yulong lowered his head, and in a voice barely more than a whisper, he muttered, "My son…"