He never believed in love without cause. Just as when he had been in the Imperial Capital City palace, every time Beitang Sheng bestowed something upon him, he would ponder it again and again, considering whether there was some problem hidden within.
Was this father, Beitang Sheng, truly acting out of a father's love for his son, or did he have some other purpose? Or had someone else deliberately guided him?
Only after thinking thrice would he decide how to respond. Accepting it was inevitable, but whether to regift it, use it himself, or handle it otherwise—there were tricks to all of it.
It was not that he was seeking trouble, but sometimes, thinking too little was the same as handing others a handle to use against him.
In the palace, schemes and intrigues had always been as ordinary as eating and drinking.
Such a life was naturally tragic, naturally pale and colorless, like a traveler forever living in darkness, constantly guarding against assassinations emerging from that darkness.
There was no destination, no trustworthy friend. For his entire life, he fought against darkness and against the open and hidden attacks that came from nowhere.
Only by constantly moving forward, constantly climbing higher, constantly defeating his opponents could he gain the slightest comfort.
Even if he reached the highest summit, he still could not escape that dark environment. For the heights were cold, and there would be even less chance of finding a true confidant.
Perhaps only at the moment of death could he truly bid farewell to that pale, cold, brutal life.
Yet it was precisely because of such an environment and background that Beitang Xing had indeed avoided countless hidden arrows.
He could not imagine how high this middle-aged monk's martial arts were, nor could he discern his intentions.