'I'm not sure if it really was like this or.. he's just stunned by my out of topic teethed question.'
Chóng Féng blinked in silent disbelief, processing the matter. Perhaps trying to link it to the thing he was already not fine with:
Lìngxiāo. Again.
"So.. he started to put those nonsense into your head too?" He asked dryly, his tone judgmental.
But he was impossibly calm compared to his earlier behavior. He didn't step closer, didn't even seem to intend to. His gaze was just poking him like needles.
Chóng Fēi gripped the handle of the door a little tighter before releasing it completely, bringing his arms to his chest and crossing them as always.
"Nobody put anything in my head, zhù fù." Chóng Fēi said. "I asked from my own curiosity. I read in the books you gave me.. that clans need contracts with others to stay alive.. and need challenges to grow."
Chóng Féng tilted his head. "Stop spinning and just spill it out."
Chóng Fēi cleared his throat. "I mean those are necessary. But you.. said we don't communicate with the Yínglòu cultivators.. so I thought if it was somebody else then..? I just asked you to answer yes or no. You said you would share those politics with me."
"Yes, I indeed said." Chóng Féng admitted without flinching. "And I do not make deals with anyone. To even do it—I need my core."
His voice felt hollow as he turned to his favorite shelf of books, fingers dancing over the spines as he searched for one.
Chóng Fēi listened.
He knew his father was bitter about his core. Even Chóng Fēi had received his from generation, but his father hadn't—and it seemed to have left a visible mark over his whole soul.
"Without it, no cultivator would see me as a cultivator or dàoist." He continued, taking one book wrapped in a deep green cover. "Xuè Gusu is out of this list entirely. You know much about it."
Chóng Fēi just lowered his head, gazing over his boots instead. He didn't press more this time. His earlier raw sadness—which had been mixing with anger—had now only gained another layer of numbness. He wasn't even sure if it was because he was hating his father for every reason, but now they sounded like the only ways to fix things.
The matter of the core was understandable.
But what about the affairs? Distancing himself from his own son?
Even if things were still like this, his father could have just stayed loyal to one person—even if it wasn't Chóng Fēi's real mother—instead of trying to fix a gap in generations that would never be filled.
If not even that—he could have been someone like a father should. He could have given him his time and love as a parent. But all over his life, he had only spent on people who made him feel powerful—but also, if one thing went wrong, they wouldn't stand by anyone's side either. They would just turn against them without another thought.
The difference in mindset was huge between them. While Chóng Fēi didn't care how or where any generation went, he just wanted to live peacefully like anyone else. A life of an ideal heir with his small family. Working together with his father.
But on the other hand, his father was always distant. He wouldn't even have time for his birthday ceremony—which he used to celebrate small with Xiǎo Lìng's father, because his father wouldn't even order a big ceremony even if he couldn't be there. He wouldn't accept what he liked or disliked.
Those things were enough to make him not sympathize with his father. But a part of him still did. He couldn't tell what was right or wrong. But he did feel bad for thinking too worse things based on how his father sometimes used methods to put him back in line—or whatever that ghost mocked into someone else's face.
Chóng Fēi felt his chest hollow and heavy. But he still didn't comment on any reason among the thousand—though he didn't want to. Not fully.
He just nodded with a faint smile.
'I damn hate me for always making things.. confusing enough to even throw another curse..'
Chóng Féng looked up from his book—which he hadn't really opened. Or perhaps holding it like this was his own way of grounding himself.
He also didn't say anything. Just watched his son. His gaze looked a little softer. Not too much—but like a faint flicker of fatherly emotion, fogged and buried.
The silence felt endless.
But like a breath of relief, a disciple walked in.
Both son and father stood in their confident postures. They never looked at each other this time.
The disciple bowed. "Lunch is ready, Féng Xiānsheng and Fēi Gōngzǐ.."
Both of them nodded silently.
Then one more disciple came in with different news. One man went on one knee as he handed a scroll to Chóng Féng respectfully. "A message for you, Féng Xiānsheng. This is related to the event you have in the afternoon."
Chóng Féng looked at Chóng Fēi through his lashes. Chóng Fēi was already looking at him. But he didn't explain anything. He just quietly kept the scroll into his sleeves—a way of saying: this is none of a child's business.
Chóng Fēi sighed, knowing this scroll matter was totally out of his reach—for not being at the golden age of twenty-three yet.
But after today's so many chaos and mixed emotions, he didn't feel the curiosity he would usually have when his father received any scroll—while it was obviously not from any clan outside this town. So he absorbed this moment more than pinching into it.
Once they were done, Chóng Fēi moved to return to his chamber.
"Come down at lunch." Chóng Féng said, making him pause for a moment. "Hopefully you will not make things harder based on anything related to our conversation."
'Like he cares if I even die without eating.'
But he just nodded and walked away quickly.
Chóng Féng watched him go. The door slowly started to shut as he turned back into the hall, not coming yet.
On the other hand, Chóng Fēi couldn't admit how tight his insides actually felt from this two-sided situation at the same hall: familiar cruelty and a twisted helplessness—like he had to feel guilty instead of his father. Even his words to come down for eating? It was always an order. Because to make him do more things he wished to do, he needed him to be alive and fit as well.
And he knew how dangerous his mind was—it wouldn't even let him eat anything.
For now, he went to his chamber. His fingers ran through his hair from the front.
**
The first thing he did after going to his room was—open a closet full of old glasses thrown away, forgotten from the kitchen or dinner table.
He kept them for a reason.
He took one. His trembling fingers felt like they could dig into it too. His chest rose and fell in a controlled yet fast way.
His other hand found a calligraphy brush and paper. He wrote something fast and messy into it, then tore it off, putting it into that glass. Then he threw an old glass at the floor.
It broke into pieces with a loud thud.
The glass pieces rolled in so many directions—just as his mind, his body, and his heart were moving in so many directions.
His back pressed heavily against the closet, his weight making it close. His mind and eyes were both elsewhere. He slid down, sitting on the cool floor.
His eyes were still shut, his hand spread over his forehead. His expression was a mix of both relief and pain. Breaking those glasses—with the words he could never express openly—made him feel like he had broken that very cage he was locked in.
This was the only violence that kept him composed after a hard day.