The door to the main house stood ajar. He pushed it open. The furnishings in the sitting room were unchanged. The high-backed chair Hogg often sat in stood beside the fireplace, an open account book resting casually on its arm, as though its owner had only stepped away for a moment. The kitchen stove was cold, with no sign of a fire. On the long dining table, however, two sets of bowls and chopsticks had been laid out neatly, a fine layer of dust already settled on them-a habit Hiri had stubbornly kept even while living alone.
Wharton looked around in silence, then went upstairs and straight to the door of Hogg's study. He gripped the handle, paused for a moment, then pushed the door open.
The study smelled of old paper and ink. The desk by the window was somewhat untidy, with several yellowed maps spread across it, covered in charcoal marks and connecting lines. A few notebooks and several letters, some opened and some still sealed, lay scattered beside them.
Wharton walked over, his gaze falling on the topmost letter, written in a familiar hand. The envelope bore the words "To be opened by Linley and Wharton." It was Hogg's handwriting, the strokes pressed firmly into the paper, yet touched by a barely perceptible tremor.
He picked up the letter, its coldness seeping through his fingertips. He did not open it right away. Instead, he held it tightly, turned, and went downstairs.
Hiri stood in the middle of the sitting room, wiping his tears with his sleeve, at a loss.
"Grandpa Hiri," Wharton asked, "did my brother... ever come back?"
"He did." Hiri sniffled and tried to steady his voice. "Young Master Linley came back for a few days and shut himself up in the ancestral hall and the master's study... then, then he left. Before he went, he left a letter for you. He said it was in the ancestral hall."
Wharton nodded and headed toward the older, more solemn building at the side and rear of the mansion-the Baruch Clan's ancestral hall.
He pushed open the heavy wooden door, and a stronger mingled scent of incense, candles, and old wood washed over him. The light was dim, with only the faint flicker of the ever-burning lamps. Directly ahead, on the tiered racks of memorial tablets, a brand-new tablet stood at the very front.
Its base was ebony, its characters gilded and somewhat glaring in the murky yellow light: Hogg Baruch.
Two things lay quietly before the tablet.
On the left was an unsealed letter made of ordinary paper. On the right...
Wharton's pupils contracted sharply.
It was a saber. Its blade was longer and narrower than an ordinary war saber's, with a graceful, dangerous curve. Its edge was not brilliantly bright, but shone a deep, dark red, like dried blood. Even in the dim light, a heart-stopping sharpness seemed to flow faintly along it. The hilt was pure black, and the leather wrapped around it had worn away to reveal the dark wood beneath. The grip bore clear marks where years of use had shaped it to fit a palm.
The Baruch Clan's heirloom, missing for hundreds of years, the war saber that symbolized the glory and humiliation of the Dragonblood Warriors-Slaughter.
In Wharton's memory, Linley should have recovered the saber only after enduring great hardship later on, then brought it back to lay before their father's spirit. Yet now it already rested here. Had Linley... managed it ahead of time?
Wharton first reached for the letter. It was in Linley's handwriting, steadier than he remembered, and more... pointed.
"Wharton, I hope this letter finds you well."
The opening was simple and direct.
"Father is gone. Three months ago, he went to Fenlai City to investigate the truth behind Mother's disappearance. He uncovered certain people's secrets and was discovered. He escaped with severe injuries and died... three days later. Before he died, he told us some of what he had learned: Mother did not die giving birth all those years ago. She was taken away by a group of people, led by Duke Paterson, the younger brother of King Clayde of the Fenlai Kingdom. Father suspected that an even greater hand was at work behind Paterson."
"While I was training away from home, I unexpectedly activated the Dragonblood Warrior Bloodline within me at a moment of life and death. My magic and warrior cultivation have both reached the seventh level. Also, one of my stone sculptures, Dream Awakening, sold for a high price in Fenlai City. I used the money to buy back our clan's Slaughter. I had thought I would bring it home and surprise Father, tell him that his son had grown up and could reclaim what belonged to the clan..."
A small patch of the handwriting was blurred, as though drops of water had fallen on it.
"But when I came home, all that awaited me was Father's memorial tablet."
"I'm leaving Slaughter to you. The clan's heirloom should be inherited by a descendant of Baruch. I have entrusted most of the clan's remaining funds to Uncle Hillman to deliver to the O'Brien Empire. By my reckoning, they should arrive soon. Use the money for your cultivation and living expenses from now on. Don't be reluctant to spend it."
"I will avenge Father. I will keep searching for Mother. The glory the Baruch Clan has lost, I will reclaim with my own hands, bit by bit."
"You're still young, and you're my little brother. You shouldn't have to bear these things. Don't come back, and don't get dragged into the muddy waters of Fenlai City. Stay in O'Brien, at the Imperial Military Academy. Cultivate well, live well, and grow stronger. That would be the greatest comfort to Father, and to me."
"Your brother, Linley."
The letter was short, but every sentence was like a red-hot branding iron, searing Wharton's eyes and marking his heart. Behind those seemingly calm words, he could feel Linley's immense grief, his boundless self-reproach, and the determination and anger suppressed to their limit, ready to burst forth.
He carefully folded the letter and tucked it inside his clothes, close to his body. Then he reached out and gripped Slaughter's hilt.
It was immensely heavy in his hand, far heavier than it looked. Coldness spread from his palm straight to his heart, but immediately afterward came an indescribable sense of resonance. Wharton instinctively stirred the Dragonblood Warrior Bloodline hidden within him. A wisp of dark-red, scorching energy rose from his dantian and traveled slowly through the meridians in his arm, entering the right hand that held the saber.
Hum-
Slaughter's blade suddenly gave a low, distinct vibrating hum. Its dark-red sheen seemed infused with life, beginning to flow slowly over the blade like ripples of water, growing brighter. The worn leather on the hilt also seemed to warm slightly, fitting the lines of his palm more closely. After a few seconds, the hum gradually faded and the blade grew still again, but its cold touch seemed to carry a new docility and acceptance born of their shared bloodline.
Wharton picked up the equally ancient-looking black leather scabbard beside it and slowly sheathed Slaughter. With a soft clang, it slid into a perfect fit.
Holding the sheathed saber, he turned and walked out of the ancestral hall.
Hiri was still waiting outside, his eyes swollen like peaches as he watched him with concern.
"Young Master, in Young Master Linley's letter..."
"My brother," Wharton interrupted, his voice clear and certain, "went to Fenlai City. He's going to avenge Father and find out the truth about Mother."
Hiri shuddered violently, his face turning deathly pale. "Then... then, Young Master, you..."
"I'm going too." Wharton looked past Hiri, beyond the mansion, toward Fenlai City, where the sky hung low beneath heavy clouds. "But not now, and not the way my brother wants me to, hiding behind him."
Hiri's lips trembled. He wanted to say something, but did not know where to begin persuading him.
Wharton offered no further explanation. Saber in hand, he strode toward the training ground outside the mansion. After six years away, he found it much tidier than he remembered. The posts used for chopping practice had been replaced with thicker new timber, the sand had been leveled, and a low ring of stones had been built around the edge.
Hillman was in the middle of the field, teaching a dozen or so older children the most basic weapon grips and footwork. With his back to the entrance, he called out in a loud, stern voice, "Straighten your backs! Keep your footing steady! Grip those wooden sticks tightly. They're your weapons, not firewood!"
A sharp-eyed child spotted Wharton approaching and involuntarily faltered. Hillman followed the child's gaze and turned. When he saw who it was, he froze, the stern expression on his face giving way to incredulous astonishment.
"Wharton... Young Master?" He strode over and looked Wharton up and down, as though searching him for a trace of the small, silent boy from six years ago. But the youth before him stood tall, with a composed, steady presence. His eyes in particular were too calm for a twelve-year-old. "You... why did you suddenly come back? Weren't you at the empire's..."
"I graduated, so I came back." Wharton kept it brief. His gaze swept over the children watching curiously from the training ground, then returned to Hillman's face. "Uncle Hillman, did you deliver what my brother entrusted you to take to O'Brien?"
Hillman recovered himself and waved to the children. "Keep practicing. No slacking!" Then he motioned for Wharton to follow him to a tree a little way from the edge of the field before lowering his voice. "I delivered it. I only got back three days ago. I took it straight to the Imperial Military Academy. An instructor who looked familiar took charge of it and said your mentor had already left instructions. Young Master Linley said in his letter that the money was set aside for your cultivation, and that you absolutely mustn't hold back on spending it."
Wharton nodded. "Thank you for the trouble, Uncle Hillman."
"Young Master..." Hillman looked at Wharton's calm, unruffled face, then at the long saber in his hand, whose extraordinary presence was hard to conceal even in its scabbard. He hesitated, and in the end gave a heavy sigh. "About the master... Young Master Linley, he... he hardly spoke during the days he was back. He just stayed in the ancestral hall and the master's study. I could tell he blamed himself for everything. He thought that if he'd been a little stronger, if he'd come back a little sooner, perhaps the master would have..."
"It wasn't his fault." Wharton's voice was firm and decisive as he cut Hillman off. "Father made his choice for Mother, and for this family. The ones at fault are the people who hurt them and hid the truth."
Hillman stared at Wharton. The youth before him was only twelve, even younger than Linley had been when he left home, yet his composure, decisiveness, and the cold edge suppressed deep in his eyes made even a veteran of the battlefield like Hillman feel his heart tremble. It suddenly became clear to him that the young master whose birth and growth he had witnessed, whom he had once thought needed more care, had grown at an astonishing pace in a distant place unknown to them, becoming a true warrior, a man of the Baruch Clan.
"Young Master," Hillman said, his voice dry, "what... are you going to do?"
"First, find my brother," Wharton said. "I can't be at ease with him on his own. But before that, I need to know everything, every detail. How did Father find the clues? How did he get into the duke's mansion? Who discovered him? Who attacked him? Where was he wounded? What did he say after he came back? I want to know everything you know."
Hillman took a deep breath and slowly let it out, as though trying to expel all the anguish and grief in his chest. He glanced at the sky, then at the distracted children on the training ground, who kept looking over.
"This isn't a good place to talk," he said gravely. "Come to my room. I'll tell you everything I know."
By evening, the setting sun had dyed the horizon a mournfully vivid blood-red. Wharton went alone to a hillside not far outside Wushan Town. The view was open, and he could look toward the heart of the Fenlai Kingdom in the distance, but the evening haze hung heavy and he could see nothing clearly.
From Hillman, he had heard details that were both fuller and more brutal.
Over the past six years, Hogg had never given up secretly investigating Lina's disappearance. He had taken every opportunity to travel to Fenlai City, using purchases, visits to friends, and other pretexts to gather information carefully, piecing together scattered clues bit by bit. His investigation had been cautious and long, until recently, when all the suspicious signs had finally begun to point toward a suffocating target-Duke Paterson, the younger brother of King Clayde.
Three months earlier, Hogg had believed the time was near. He disguised himself and entered Fenlai City under a new identity. After careful planning, he managed to slip into Duke Paterson's mansion, hoping to find more direct evidence or reach someone central to the operation back then. However, security at the duke's mansion was far tighter than he had anticipated, and a hidden guard discovered him as he tried to steal a crucial list.
"The master fought his way out with his life on the line," Hillman had said, his voice hoarse and his eyes red. "Three seventh-level warriors attacked him together. The master was at the peak of the sixth level himself, and only escaped with severe injuries by relying on his knowledge of the terrain and a ruthless disregard for his own life. He didn't dare come straight back to Wushan Town for fear of being followed. He took a long detour and changed his disguise twice, struggling for nearly two days before he made it back... By then, he'd almost bled dry."
Hogg had not died immediately. He held on for three days. During that time, he endured the agony to leave letters for Linley and Wharton, gave Hillman and Hiri all his final instructions, arranged his funeral, and told them to keep it from Wharton for the time being and wait until Linley returned to decide what to do.
"The last thing the master said..." Hillman's tears had finally rolled down his face, and the tough man had been unable to speak for sobbing. "He said he was sorry to Young Master Linley, sorry to you. He hadn't protected your mother, and he couldn't... couldn't live to see the day you brothers truly stood tall on your own... He said the future of the Baruch Clan was in your hands."
After hearing it, Wharton had simply sat in silence, his fingers unconsciously rubbing Slaughter's cold scabbard. He had not spoken for a long time. Hillman's sobs sounded especially stifled in the simple room.
Now, standing on the hillside, he felt the late-autumn chill in the evening wind as it stirred the short hair over his forehead. The eighth level. With Dragonblood Transformation, he could reach the threshold of a mid-stage ninth-level warrior. Such strength was terrifying among the younger generation and enough to earn him an important position in the empire. But what about facing Duke Paterson? A duke with real power in a kingdom would certainly have formidable guards and might also have hidden experts. Moreover, behind Paterson were even more fearsome forces: King Klein, the killer, the Radiant Church, and perhaps even...
He could not rush in hotheaded and storm the duke's mansion alone. That would be throwing his life away and betraying the sacrifices and protection of his father and brother.
But he could not wait, either. Linley had already gone to Fenlai City, facing those enemies hidden in the shadows alone, his heart full of grief and anger.
Wharton turned and walked down the hillside.
By the time he returned to the Baruch Mansion, darkness had fully fallen. Hiri had lit the lamps and made a simple dinner: a dish of pickled vegetables, a bowl of clear soup with a few droplets of oil floating on it, and several coarse wheat buns. The old man sat at the table without touching his chopsticks. The dim yellow lamplight stretched his hunched figure across the wall, making him look especially lonely.
"Grandpa Hiri." Wharton sat down opposite him.
"Young Master, dinner's ready. Eat while it's hot." Hiri hurriedly pushed the buns toward him.
Wharton picked up a bun and broke it open, but did not eat. "I'm leaving for Fenlai City first thing tomorrow morning."
Hiri's hand shook, and his chopsticks fell onto the table with a sharp clatter. He raised his head, his aged face filled with fear and pleading. "Young Master! You can't go! It's too dangerous there! Young Master Linley warned us again and again..."
"My brother is my brother, and I am me." Wharton's tone remained calm, but it carried an unquestionable resolve. "He told me not to get involved because he was afraid I'd be in danger. He meant well. But I can't watch him risk his life alone. I'm his brother, not a fledgling that needs him to shelter it forever. I'll decide my own path."
Hiri opened his mouth and looked into Wharton's eyes, deep as an old well in the lamplight. Every word of persuasion caught in his throat. He knew this young master too well. He was quiet and spoke little, but once he made up his mind, his stubbornness was exactly like that of his father Hogg and his brother Linley.
"But... but if the master knew that both you brothers..." Tears welled up in Hiri's eyes again, cloudy drops running down his deep wrinkles. "How his heart would ache..."
"Father's heart would ache even more to see my brother bearing everything alone." Wharton picked up his chopsticks and took a strip of pickled vegetable, chewing slowly as its salty, bitter flavor spread through his mouth. "Grandpa Hiri, I'm entrusting this home to you from now on. Keep watch over it and wait for my brother and me to come back."
Hiri scrubbed his face hard with his sleeve, but could not wipe away his tears. All he could do was nod emphatically, choking back sobs, unable to utter a word.
After dinner, Wharton returned to the room he had not lived in for six years. Hiri had kept it very clean, and the bedding smelled of sunshine. He began packing. There was little to take: Slaughter on his back, a short blade in his boot, two sturdy sets of dark coarse-cloth clothes, several portions of dry rations wrapped in oilpaper, and a waterskin filled with fresh water. Finally, he took two letters from inside his clothes-the one Linley had left him and Hogg's still-unopened final letter. He carefully wrapped both in waterproof oilcloth and tucked them into an inner pocket close to his body. He would keep Hogg's letter until he found Linley, so the two brothers could open and read it together.
The next day, the first pale light was just appearing on the horizon, and morning mist still shrouded Wushan Town's quiet streets and rooftops.
Wharton was already packed and ready, standing at the mansion's entrance. Hiri saw him out. The old man's eyes were red and swollen, but this time he did not cry aloud. He only pressed his lips tightly together, his aged hand gripping the doorframe so hard that his knuckles turned white.
"Young Master," he said, his voice terribly hoarse, "you must... you must be careful. Find Young Master Linley... and both of you... stay safe."
"I will." Wharton nodded and patted the back of Hiri's thin, veined hand. "Take care of yourself, Grandpa Hiri."
He turned around, put the rising morning light behind him, and strode along the southbound road outside town that led to Fenlai City. His boots made soft sounds on the dew-covered paving stones and dirt. The grass and trees on both sides of the road had withered yellow, sparkling with frost and dew.
After walking a dozen or so steps, Wharton stopped and looked back.
Hiri was still standing in the doorway, his figure so small and lonely in the thin morning light and milky white mist, like a motionless statue watching him leave.
Wharton raised his hand and waved hard.
Then he did not look back again. Slaughter swayed slightly on his back with each step, and the short blade at his waist rested lightly against his leg. The youth's figure soon disappeared into the thinning morning mist and the far end of the road as it began to awaken.