The stone steps before the medical hall still held the afternoon heat.
The clamor surged like a tide, and laughter pricked like needles.
Meng Zhiyuan did not look back again. He merely spread his sleeve outward, steadily shielding the boy at his side, as though he meant to bar every gaze and every word beyond his robe.
Yet Meng Zhiyuan suddenly was no longer angry.
He lowered his head to look at Meng Sheng. There was no fury or indignation in his gaze, only a profound calmness, like the look he wore when gazing at mountains.
He spoke slowly, his voice soft yet clear as a drop of water falling in an empty room:
"Sheng'er, this is precisely why they can rest easy."
The boy did not react.
But Meng Zhiyuan continued, as if speaking the truths of this world plainly for him.
"When your brilliance was at its peak, they raised their heads and called you Tian Xing."
"When you sank down, they breathed a sigh of relief and said you were nothing special."
"Those two statements sound opposite, but they are actually the same thing."
His gaze swept over the people in the street, calm in a way that was frightening.
"They do not care what you are. They only care whether they can accept it."
The wind passed, stirring a faint veil of dust.
"When people look at others, they never use their hearts. They only look at position."
"If you stand above them, they praise you. If you fall, they trample you."
"It is not cruelty. It is fear."
He lowered his head and straightened the boy's collar, his movements as unhurried as ever.
"To them, seeing you like this is a good thing."
"Because they no longer have to look up."
"And they no longer