The sun had long since climbed past its zenith, its light spilling lazily through the dusty windows of the small inn.
Outside a locked room, the middle-aged shopkeeper's knuckles rapped against the wooden door, the dull sound echoing faintly through the corridor.
"Young Master," he called, voice tinged with helplessness. "It's already afternoon."
From within came a languid, muffled voice — cold and weary, yet carrying a hint of suppressed fury.
"Get out."
"I don't want to see anyone."
The shopkeeper's face tightened. He hesitated, then spoke in a gentler tone.
"Young Master, you've kept yourself shut in here for three weeks. Please... step outside for a while."
"Go home. Your family must be worried."
"Home?"
A short, derisive laugh came from within — low, bitter, and filled with scorn.
"What home?" Fang Zheng's voice grew sharper, rising like a blade cutting through air.
"She— my own mother — slapped me."
His tone was heavy with humiliation, the echo of that single moment replaying endlessly in his mind.
"I won't go back."
"I will never go back!"
The shopkeeper lowered his head, sighing.
"Then… I'll leave your food here. Eat it before it turns cold."
For nearly three weeks, Fang Zheng had buried himself within that narrow room.
He no longer tended to the tavern. No longer spoke to anyone.
Every day, the same routine played out. The shopkeeper would leave meals at the door; when no footsteps followed, he would depart.
Only after the sound of retreating steps faded would the door creak open, and the food slowly vanish into the dim interior.
It was a miserable cycle — pitiful, yet repetitive.
"Bring the young master's food," the shopkeeper called softly.
But no one answered.
He frowned. The silence in the corridor felt heavier than usual.
After a pause, he decided to go downstairs to investigate.
He had barely set foot forward when his body froze.
His eyes widened, pupils trembling as a cold shiver coursed down his spine.
From the end of the corridor, a young man walked toward him — calm, unhurried even.
The young man was tall, broad-shouldered, his long black hair flowed like ink under the pale afternoon light.
His gaze — deep, fathomless, and utterly indifferent — swept forward.
It was like staring into the abyss.
For a moment, the shopkeeper forgot to breathe. His knees went weak, and he instinctively bowed, voice shaking with disbelief.
"L-Lord…"
The young man didn't answer. His eyes, cold and distant, brushed past the trembling shopkeeper — landing on the closed door ahead.
There was only a faint resemblance between him and Fang Zheng.
Yet, the difference was vast — like the sky above and the earth below.
Fang Yuan's gaze was like a blade drawn from its sheath — cold, silent, and without a trace of emotion.
He looked at the shopkeeper briefly, then shifted his eyes toward the door beside him.
"Is he inside?"
The shopkeeper's throat tightened. He could only nod.
Fang Yuan said nothing more. He stepped closer, his boots sounding lightly against the wooden floor.
With one knuckle, he tapped the door.
Knock.
"Go away!" came the muffled voice from within — petulant, impatient, dripping with despair.
The color drained from the shopkeeper's face. He saw it — the faint narrowing of Fang Yuan's eyes.
The corridor's air turned brittle, as if winter had slipped in unnoticed.
Without a word, Fang Yuan stepped back once. His body turned slightly, weight shifting with calm precision.
Then —
Boom.
The door exploded inward with a single, effortless kick. Shards of wood splintered through the air, the echo reverberating through the entire building.
Inside, the room was dim, filled with stale air and the scent of neglect.
Fang Zheng sat huddled on the bed, wrapped in his sheets like a frightened child. The sudden crash sent him tumbling to the floor, eyes wide in shock.
"What the hell are you doing?!" he shouted, voice cracking.
But as his gaze focused, the anger drained from his face. Recognition struck him like lightning.
Standing at the doorway — tall, calm, and utterly still — was Fang Yuan.
"Brother… You're back!" Fang Zheng cried, half in joy, half in disbelief.
Fang Zheng sprang from the bed, the bedsheets falling away like a discarded cocoon. His face lit up with wild relief.
"Brother! I missed you!" he shouted, stumbling forward.
"You don't know what happened this past month!"
He rushed toward Fang Yuan — his gait hurried, unsteady, almost pathetic.
In the light streaming through the broken doorway, their contrast was stark.
Fang Zheng — thin, delicate, eyes swollen from sleepless nights, his youthful face still clinging to immaturity.
Fang Yuan — tall and broad, his calm presence carrying the weight of a mountain, his eyes dark as an abyss that devoured all warmth.
When Fang Zheng drew close, his voice trembled with grievance. "Brother… Mother—she slapped me…"
He stopped before Fang Yuan, lowering his head in shame. "You have to—"
Crack.
A sharp sound split the air.
Fang Zheng's head snapped to the side. Red bloomed across his cheek like a brand, and he froze — eyes wide, mouth trembling in disbelief.
The shopkeeper at the door felt his blood run cold.
Fang Yuan's hand, still raised from the strike, hung in the air with terrifying calm. His expression hadn't changed — not even a flicker of anger.
His face was carved from ice.
"Brother— you…" Fang Zheng stammered, tears welling.