The sky was pale gold, streaked with faint traces of red, as if the heavens themselves were reluctant to watch the Han Family part ways. The courtyard was filled with murmurs, soft sobs, and the rustling of robes in the mountain wind. The Sword Shandian Sect elders stood in formation, their faces calm yet proud, while the Han Family knelt in respect before them.
Han Zhanjian stood silently beside his older brother, Han Zukong. The younger's hands trembled slightly as he tightened his grip on the sword hanging by his waist. His eyes were red, but he tried to hide it behind a forced smile. Han Zukong turned his head and looked at him, his usually sharp tone soft for once.
"Don't cry, little brother. You'll embarrass yourself in front of the sect elders."
Zhanjian's voice quivered, but he forced out a chuckle. "You're crying too."
Zukong froze for a moment before snorting. "Nonsense. I'm sweating from the eyes."
