Chapter 50
Katsuro let out a low laugh, the sound deep and unrestrained, as his gaze lingered on the board. "Well, well… isn't Wuming good at strategy, hmm?"
Xie Zheng leaned forward instantly, his earlier ease replaced with sharp excitement. "If he doesn't enter the military as Wu Zun after you," he said without hesitation, "it would be an utter waste."
Wuming did not look at him.
He did not react.
His eyes remained on the board, unmoving, as if the voices around him were distant, irrelevant compared to the quiet war unfolding before him. The pieces, the patterns, the spaces—they held his full attention.
Then he spoke.
Calm.
Certain.
"You lose."
A brief pause.
"Barely win… you have four moves left."
Katsuro's brow lifted ever so slightly, amusement flickering across his face. "Is that so?" he said, leaning back just a fraction before placing another stone. "Then I shall see it until the end."
Wuming moved.
Katsuro answered.
The board tightened.
One move.
Two.
Three.
Four.
And just as Wuming had said—
The structure collapsed into its conclusion.
The game… ended.
Katsuro's fingers hovered for a moment before he clicked his tongue softly. "Not yet, Wuming."
And then—
He moved again.
A deviation.
A hidden path.
A trick that bent the expected outcome, turning what should have been an end into a continuation—and in that continuation, he overturned the result, reclaiming the game in a way that defied the clean conclusion Wuming had predicted.
For the first time, Wuming looked at him.
Properly.
"Is that so…" he murmured.
There was no irritation.
Only acknowledgment.
Then, without hesitation, he placed another stone.
"If you are going to pull such a trick…" his voice remained even, almost indifferent, "then allow me to show you mine."
The move was subtle.
Not aggressive.
But it shifted everything.
Instead of forcing a direct counter, Wuming compromised the structure—loosening his own advantage, opening new paths, creating more moves where there should have been none. What had been a finished game was now stretched, extended, deepened into something far more intricate.
More dangerous.
Katsuro stared at the board for a second—
Then laughed.
A real laugh this time.
"What a move…" he said, shaking his head slightly, eyes gleaming with something close to pride. "A Great Emperor's move, Wuming."
He placed his next stone slowly.
"Well done."
Katsuro was still speaking, his voice carrying a quiet pride as he looked at Wuming—not as a child, not merely as his son, but as something that stood across from him on equal ground, at least in that moment. The board between them had already settled, the war concluded, yet the air still held its echo.
Wuming met his gaze.
And there was nothing in his eyes.
No pride.
No warmth.
No acknowledgment.
Just stillness.
Then he looked away.
As if it did not matter.
As if none of it did.
And in that same breath—
A voice shattered the calm outside.
"I must meet Clan Master Xuan Katsuro! I am an imperial messenger—!"
The shout came again, louder this time, desperate, unfiltered, echoing through the halls with urgency that did not belong in that space.
Inside—
No one moved.
Not immediately.
The warmth remained.
The fire still burned.
The silence did not break.
Then—
Footsteps.
Fast.
Uncontrolled.
The doors burst open.
A man rushed in, dressed in black soldier attire, his breath uneven, his posture lacking the composure demanded of someone entering such a room.
And in that exact moment—
Katsuro moved.
He did not turn his head.
His gaze remained on Wuming.
His hand lifted the teacup from beside him—calm, effortless—and in the next instant, he slammed it against the table. The sound cracked through the room, sharp and clean, the glass shattering into jagged fragments beneath the force.
And before the sound had even finished echoing—
His hand flicked.
A single shard left his fingers.
Fast.
Precise.
Unavoidable.
It cut through the air and pierced the man's neck in one clean motion.
No hesitation.
No second attempt.
The man's voice died before it could fully form again.
His body stilled—
Then collapsed.
A dull thud against the ground.
Blood followed.
Quiet.
Unceremonious.
Katsuro had not even looked at him.
His gaze was still on Wuming.
As if nothing had happened.
As if it had not even been worth looking at.
For a brief moment—
Silence.
Then—
"Wow," Xie Zheng said, eyes lighting up, his tone filled with genuine admiration. "What a shot."
He leaned slightly forward, glancing at the fallen man before adding casually, "It's just like what father does when someone interrupts family time. Right on the neck… pig's neck."
There was no fear in his voice.
Only observation.
Only acceptance.
Katsuro finally shifted slightly, his expression calm, almost amused. "My little sister Xiao Mao and my dear wife have just returned from the palace," he said, his tone smooth, controlled. "What business does the emperor have with me… at a time like this?"
He smiled faintly.
"Family time," he continued. "Everyone should respect it. And value it."
Wuming looked at them.
At all of them.
At the man lying dead on the floor.
At the ease in their expressions.
At the absence of disturbance.
And a thought crossed his mind, quiet and almost… entertained.
A family of crazy people.
A pause.
Then—
Well.
I am the biggest crazy man here.
Yin Fu's voice cut in gently, though there was a faint edge beneath it. "Katsuro?"
Only then did Katsuro exhale lightly, as if remembering something.
"My apologies," he said, his tone shifting—not in guilt, but in presentation. "I will rephrase."
He turned slightly, his gaze now moving toward Wuming and Xie Zheng, his expression composed once more.
"Kids," he said calmly, "this is how you make a shot."
Both boys nodded.
As if they had just been taught something important.
And not witnessed a man die.
Linghe's laughter broke through the lingering stillness, rich and unbothered, as if what had just occurred was nothing more than an interruption properly handled. Katsuro did not respond to it verbally; instead, he lifted his hand slightly, a subtle signal. The guards stepped in at once, silent and efficient, lifting the lifeless body and clearing the shattered glass without a word, as though erasing a mistake from the room rather than removing a man who had just died.
Within moments—
There was no trace left.
Only warmth.
Only quiet.
Only family.
Katsuro's faint smile returned, his gaze drifting back toward the children as if nothing had disrupted the evening at all.
Wuming watched this.
For a brief second longer than necessary.
Then he spoke, his tone flat, almost dismissive. "So abnormal."
Yin Fu's eyes shifted toward him immediately, a soft call following. "Wuming… come here."
She did not raise her voice.
She did not need to.
Her hand lifted slightly, beckoning.
Wuming looked at her.
There was no hesitation.
He walked toward her without question, his steps steady, his expression unchanged. And as he approached, Yin Fu reached out, pulling him gently yet firmly onto her lap, settling him there as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
For a moment, she simply looked at him.
Then she spoke.
"This may seem a bit weird… which it is," she admitted softly, her fingers brushing lightly against his shoulder, "but please don't mind it, my child."
Her voice shifted—quieter, deeper.
"The clans that are noble… that stand at the top… see the cruel side of the world very early."
Wuming did not interrupt.
He did not move.
"What your father did," she continued, "was nothing more than protecting us."
Her gaze flickered briefly toward the now-empty space where the man had fallen. "The man who came… was a spy. Imperial messengers do not arrive like that—not without notice, not without protocol. Only the Minister of Strategic Affairs is permitted such approach to the Xuan family. No one else."
Her fingers tightened slightly against his sleeve, not in fear, but in emphasis.
"And even if they do come… they are disciplined. They do not shout. They do not disrupt."
A faint exhale left her lips.
"These people… are nothing more than pawns of politicians."
Wuming's eyes shifted slightly, thoughtful, then he asked simply, "Why bother letting them in at all?"
Yin Fu laughed softly at that—not mocking, not dismissive, but knowing. "I wish the court worked that way, my child."
Across from them, Xie Zheng was already back in his mother's lap, completely surrendered to her affection, his cheeks slightly flushed with the evidence of too many kisses as he chewed on candy without care, entirely at ease.
Wuming watched him.
Quietly.
Yin Fu noticed.
Without a word, she reached toward the tray, picking up a small tangerine candy. Her fingers moved with delicate precision as she peeled away the thin brown wrapper, the soft crinkle of paper breaking the silence. Then she held it out toward him.
"Here."
Wuming looked at the candy.
Then at her.
His pupils shifted—just slightly.
"I don't like sweet things," he said.
Yin Fu leaned closer.
Closer than before.
"My precious Wuming," she murmured, her tone laced with a quiet warmth that bordered on teasing, "I thought you loved tangerine."
For a moment—
He said nothing.
He simply looked at her.
And a thought surfaced, sharp, immediate.
Does she know…?
Or is she just playing with my mind?
The question lingered, unanswered, hanging between them like something fragile yet dangerous, as the small piece of candy remained offered in her hand—simple, harmless… and yet, somehow, not.
Wuming's gaze did not waver.
It was not anger that stood in his eyes, nor accusation—it was something far colder, far more unsettling. A stillness that did not demand answers, but made silence feel like guilt.
He stood there, composed, unshaken, as if the weight of what he had just said meant nothing to him.
Yet the room had changed.
The air itself had grown heavier.
Katsuro did not respond immediately. His fingers, which had once rested with practiced ease upon the table, now stilled—just for a fraction of a second. A moment so brief that any ordinary eye would have missed it.
But Wuming did not miss anything.
"Meihua…" Katsuro repeated, his voice low, measured, each syllable placed carefully as though stepping across thin ice. "She is my lawfully wedded wife."
Wuming's lips parted slightly—not in surprise, not in protest—but in correction.
"Second wife."
The words fell softly.
Yet they carried the sharpness of truth.
For a fleeting second, Katsuro saw it—not Wuming—but Yin Fu. The same quiet assertion. The same refusal to bend words into comfort when truth demanded precision.
And that… made it worse.
Silence stretched between them again, but this time it was not neutral.
It was a battlefield.
Katsuro exhaled slowly, his eyes locking onto Wuming's. "What do you want, Wuming?"
A simple question.
Yet beneath it lay countless others—
How much do you know?
How far will you go?
And why now?
Wuming tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question—not because he did not know the answer, but because he was deciding how much of it should be spoken.
"Want?" he echoed quietly.
Then he took a step closer.
Not aggressive.
Not hesitant.
Deliberate.
"You speak as if this is a negotiation."
His voice remained calm, almost indifferent, yet every word landed with precision.
"I am not asking for anything."
Another step.
"Because I already know."
Katsuro's gaze sharpened.
Wuming continued, his tone unchanging, as though discussing strategy over a board rather than exposing something buried beneath layers of power and silence.
"You knew from the beginning."
Not a question.
A statement.
"You knew what she did. You knew what was happening in your own house, under your own authority, through your own servants."
A pause.
"Yet you said nothing."
The words did not rise.
They did not accuse.
They simply existed—and that made them heavier than any anger could.
From the entrance, Xie Zheng's voice echoed faintly, counting with dramatic enthusiasm, completely unaware of the storm unfolding behind him.
"…seven! eight!"
Wuming did not look back.
Neither did Katsuro.
"Politics…" Wuming murmured, almost to himself now, though every word was meant to be heard. "Such an interesting thing."
End of 50