'He does look fucked up by something... but I just know I'm more fucked up than him.'
Chóng Fēi exhaled with a tilt of his head, as if reflecting his father's internal distress like a bare mirror.
"Alright." He sat down, one hand at his chin, eyes shut softly. The other drew his nail over the table, summoning his snake web to pull his tea cup from his father's side. "Go on. I'm listening."
His father just stared at him through his lashes. His nails followed a faint rhythm over the rim of his own cup before he took a sip.
"You can already guess what my first question could be." Chóng Féng spoke calmly, but his words carried a blade. "Do I need to spoon-feed you? You should have known everything before things even happened."
His side eye burned on him as he muttered, "Where is he?"
Chóng Fēi rolled his eyes silently, downed the whole cup in one go, and put it down.
Of course, it was about Lìngxiāo.
But those questions seemed to squeeze out something deeper and more bitter than the actual question.
'Doesn't have qì, yet talks about that damn generation which has only given this problem of extreme sexual need and inability to root for one person.'
'Like I need to give him books about how to be a zhù fù now too?'
'Even Wàng Fèng is a better zhù fù than my damn zhù fù—even if their names are annoyingly similar.'
"He is probably in his chamber now. Investigating silently." Chóng Fēi answered dryly, clipping away the whole incident from his words like it had never happened.
"Probably?" Chóng Féng echoed in a strangely soft tone, his eyes a little sharper, wider on him. Disbelief was clear on his face. "Do you not.. think you should have known whatever he does.. in our clan? How the hell would you take my throne then?"
A light yet firm fist hit the table.
The tea cups jumped once. He caught one before it fell, grabbing it and taking another sip—like he was trying to cool himself down.
Chóng Fēi watched his tea cup jump and land. No reaction. Then he spoke, "Have I gone into his chamber to know what he is doing inside?"
He casually pushed that stubborn lock of hair from his face—uselessly, because it would never stay behind his ear. It was just a habit. His way of saying: I don't know anything.
"If you have found me checking on him every hour, you would think I have that.. disease. And now you say why I didn't do it either? Come on, zhù fù. You confuse me a lot." He added, relaxing over his arm as he held his chin over the table. Both hands joined in front of him.
His father at least knew those arrogant body language patterns—perhaps because Chóng Fēi was again actively pointing out how two-headed his father sounded. So Chóng Féng didn't speak too much. He never did.
But he threw his empty cup at Chóng Fēi's way. "When would you learn to answer my damn questions instead of treating me like I'm your same age?"
Chóng Fēi dodged it with a tilt of his head to the left—like he knew it would come from that side anyway.
'And when would he learn that I am not his same age either?'
"Alright, alright." He spoke next, as if apologizing—but dry. He finally met his father's gaze. "If you answer my old question.. I will just.. hand you those boring routines I had with him when you left for rest."
Chóng Féng's throat tightened. His breath was controlled yet shallow. He looked like he was fighting with his own younger self. There were thousands of thoughts roaming behind his eyes—something Chóng Fēi could only say was there, but what it was, remained a mystery.
His father was mostly a parent by title, rarely in truth. Most of the intimate things he did while sleeping with young women whose ages ranged from Chóng Fēi's to Lìngxiāo's or above.
Chóng Fēi did what he was told, repeatedly since sixteen. It was only three things: the temple challenge, never stepping outside this town, and the external tasks as preparation to be the heir before he got married.
Without those, Chóng Fēi had been given much freedom. His father never showed his dangerous side if those things stayed in order.
Or—his father would not torture by beating, but psychologically. It made him sick if he even mistakenly thought about it.
So he was fine. Because this level of violence was regular here. He took it as routine. As training.
"You brat.. who are you to give me my important information after answering your old question which I have already answered before?" Chóng Féng muttered. His voice was low, sharp—but still not the darkest shade of himself.
Before his father could say more, Chóng Fēi quickly asked that question—like the hundredth time—"Are we really angelic cultivators, or demonic? Are we cultivators who have won the throne, or just grabbed the old one and closed the door into the safe zone?"
"SILENCE." Chóng Féng groaned, standing up sharply.
Chóng Fēi fell silent. His heart was in his throat.
'He looks more fucked up than usual. What is he really up to?'
But he didn't move, didn't speak. He let his father talk.
Chóng Féng's arms were behind his back, back straight, and those icy dragon eyes burned on him with a different heat—no wonder all women were hypnotized by that striking gaze.
Another strange thing: he still looked too youthful, like thirty-five, while he was at least fifty-five.
"You already know what we are." Chóng Féng continued, deliberately walking toward him. "The difference is.. our legacy is dying without an heir. And I.. just try to make some—which you see as a bug laying eggs. You think only one—only fucking one woman can work to fix this impossibly big gap?"
Chóng Fēi stared silently, his hands long since fallen to his sides. The left one—where his father couldn't see directly—was clenched into a fist over his robe.
Those words did have their own logic, in a way he hated to admit. This generation did have a drop of black ink from some kind of curse. First, all of his father's brothers died on the same day with their wives and children. Then Chóng Fēi's own brothers died. He could only pray that the next one wouldn't be him.
He wished he could remove this Chóng blood from every inch of his body.
There was only silence. Only the soft thuds of Chóng Féng's boots.
'He only thinks about everybody.. but also nobody of this fucking generation. What does he want?'
"Why... do we even have to fill up the well that will never be full? You know how disgusting it looks..?" Chóng Fēi's voice was tight, trembling with rage and unspoken disappointment, untold pain. His sharp gray eyes were almost pleading—trying hard not to show it.
Chóng Féng stood still, five steps away from him. His jaw tight.
"What is even the benefit of keeping me locked here?" Chóng Fēi didn't stop. He stood up sharply as well. His chest rose and fell, shallow.