( Tradition)
It was an old tradition—one that none in the Zhang clan dared to neglect.
When a son or daughter was to leave the clan, whether for marriage or fate, they would be served a final meal by their siblings. Not as cultivators, not as heirs of status—but as family.
So Zhang Ning sat quietly in his chamber, the air heavier than usual, as dish after dish was brought before him.
Each one carried a piece of home.
Zhang Lin's came first.
Golden Lock Noodles—perfectly bound strands glistening in a rich, savory glaze. The aroma alone was enough to stir something familiar in Ning's chest. He didn't hesitate, lifting his chopsticks and taking a generous bite.
A small smile formed instantly.
"Still the best…"
Sang's dish followed.
Butter Ink—dark, glossy, slightly sweet, melting softly with every bite. A childhood favorite. Something only someone attentive would remember.
Ning chuckled under his breath. "You remembered."
Then came Fei Fei's.
Simple.
A bowl of warm soup paired with grain bread—their mother's recipe.
The moment he tasted it, everything slowed.
It wasn't extravagant. It wasn't rare.
But it was home.
His hand paused just slightly before he took another bite, saying nothing—but feeling everything.
And then—
Zhang Wei.
The cloth was lifted—
And Ning burst into laughter.
An entire table filled with carrots and potatoes in every possible form—steamed, roasted, mashed, fried.
"You didn't even try to hide it," Ning said between laughs, still eating from it anyway.
It was ridiculous.
It was sincere.
So he ate from each dish, a little at a time, honoring them all, before letting the maids carefully pack the rest for his journey.
Then they dressed him.
Red robes settled over his form, layered and refined, marking him as a groom. His hair was tied neatly, secured with care. He looked every part of what was expected—
Yet his expression was softer than it had ever been.
Unarmored.
They gathered around him.
Not as members of the Zhang clan—
But as siblings.
Zhang Lin stepped forward first, fastening a jade clasp shaped in an endless knot into Ning's robe.
"For restraint," Lin said calmly. "You lack it."
Ning scoffed lightly. "You always say that."
"And you never listen."
But his gaze softened, if only slightly.
Sang came next, placing a small box in Ning's hands. Inside were delicate black rings.
"They store spiritual energy," she said gently, her eyes hidden behind a soft white veil tied across her gaze. "When you exhaust yourself… use them."
Ning smirked faintly. "So you're preparing for my failure?"
"I'm preparing for your nature."
He laughed quietly.
Fei Fei stepped forward, offering a hand-stitched handkerchief, embroidered with their family mark.
"I made it…" she said softly.
Ning accepted it carefully.
"It's perfect."
Then Zhang Wei—
First, the wooden rabbit charm, crude but heartfelt.
Ning tied it to his waist without hesitation.
"I'll treasure it."
Wei flushed. "You better."
But then—
"…Wait."
Wei brought out one last item.
Wrapped carefully.
Protected.
Ning raised a brow before unwrapping it slowly—
And stilled.
A portrait.
Not rushed.
Not careless.
But filled with time.
With love.
At the center sat their mother, draped in ivory and gold, her presence warm and steady, her jade hairpin and pearl ornament painted with delicate care.
Behind her stood their father, tall in deep blue robes lined with silver, one hand resting lightly on her shoulder—firm, protective.
Zhang Lin stood composed in green, posture flawless, hands behind his back, his presence sharp yet quietly guarding.
Sang stood nearby, calm as still water, her ash-gray robes flowing softly, her eyes covered with that gentle white veil—yet her smile knowing, as if she could see everything that mattered.
Fei Fei sat close to their mother, dressed in pale pink, her posture gentle, her expression bright and warm.
And then—
Zhang Wei.
Standing beside Ning.
Not apart.
Not hidden.
Beside him.
Dressed simply, uneven—but real.
And in his arms—
His child.
Little White.
Small. Peaceful. Held securely against his chest, tiny fingers gripping faintly at his clothes.
Protected.
Loved.
And Ning—
He stood there too.
Among them.
Not distant.
Not alone.
His painted self smiled freely, eyes bright, posture relaxed, leaning ever so slightly toward Wei.
Like he belonged there.
Like he had never left.
Ning's grip on the frame tightened.
"…You really made it a family portrait."
Wei scratched his cheek. "…Yeah."
A pause.
"So you don't forget us… and won't feel alone."
That was all it took.
Ning stepped forward and pulled Wei into a tight embrace.
Firm.
Real.
Wei returned it just as strongly, one arm holding his child securely, the other gripping Ning.
"…Don't take too long," Wei muttered.
"You'll miss me," Ning replied.
"I will."
The words slipped out—and stayed.
Fei Fei joined, clinging to them, tears already falling.
"You have to come back…"
Sang stepped in next, finding them without sight, her hand resting gently against Ning.
"You already know the way… so don't get lost."
Zhang Lin followed last.
A hand on Ning's shoulder—
Then he pulled him in too.
"…Don't disgrace the name," he said quietly. "And don't disappear."
And just like that—
They were all together.
Arms wrapped around one another.
Clothes wrinkled.
Breaths uneven.
Tears falling freely.
Fei Fei cried without restraint.
Sang's lashes dampened beneath her veil.
Even Zhang Lin—
Though he turned slightly—
Couldn't completely hide the faint sheen in his eyes.
And Ning—
For once—
Didn't care.
Didn't pull away.
Didn't hide.
His eyes burned, vision blurring slightly as he held them tighter.
"…This is enough," he whispered.
No embarrassment.
No pride.
Just warmth.
Because they were family.
And for once—
Zhang Ning allowed himself to feel it all.