Chapter Twenty-Four: The Father-in-Law and the Wastrel

“Return from defeat… is not impossible…”

These seven words seemed to possess a magic that pierced through time and space, like an invisible hammer striking fiercely upon the frozen, lifeless lake of Xiao Chen’s heart. The ice cracked in response, revealing the unfathomable depths below, where black waters churned with pain and unwillingness.

He held the cup of tea, his hand trembling uncontrollably. The scalding liquid spilled onto the back of his hand, the burning pain so vivid it yanked him abruptly from his numb, zombie-like state. How long had it been since he last felt pain? Ever since awakening to find all his powers lost, he had sealed off all his senses, allowing the cold current named “despair” to freeze him completely from within.

He raised his head, truly and earnestly examining the white-haired old man who claimed to be his “father-in-law” for the first time.

The old man wore rough linen clothes, his face carved with the grooves time had left behind, yet his gaze was astonishingly clear, as if it could see through the deepest secrets of the human heart. Beside him stood two young girls: one lively as a mountain spring, gazing at him with pure, untainted concern; the other, cold and aloof like a plum blossom on a cliff, her eyes sharp as swords, filled with scrutiny and inquiry, as if he were not a man but a blade awaiting judgment.

This was a strange company, and their presence on the deadly Sword Burial Cliff was itself an anomaly.

Xiao Chen ignored them and did not look again at the abyss. He lowered his head, staring into the clear tea in his bowl, where his pale, haggard, lifeless face was reflected. He wanted to smash the cup, to shout angrily for them to leave, to not disturb his “release.” Yet those seven words echoed ceaselessly in his mind like a spell.

Jiang Xiuyuan said nothing more. Words are like medicine, their effect needs time to manifest. He leisurely added a dry branch to the campfire; the flames crackled and leapt higher, sending more warmth in Xiao Chen’s direction. He picked up the rough pottery teapot and poured himself another cup, sipping slowly, as if admiring the cliffside scenery rather than awaiting a suicidal man’s change of heart.

Time flowed silently. The wind howled on, clouds rolled endlessly.

Long, long after.

Xiao Chen finally moved. He did not stand or approach the cliff but slowly sat down on the opposite side of the fire, facing Jiang Xiuyuan across the dancing flames. The effort drained all his strength.

His hoarse voice sounded like two rusty iron sheets scraping against each other, harsh and unpleasant: “Father-in-law, aren’t you afraid of me?”

His gaze swept over Jiang Yiyi and Jiang Xiaobai’s faces, then continued, “I was once a disciple of the Heavenly Sword Sect, have killed, have seen blood. Now that I’ve lost all my cultivation and my heart has changed, I am an ill omen. To associate with me will bring you disaster.”

These words were both a warning and a self-mocking confession. He wanted to see the horror these mortals would show upon hearing “Heavenly Sword Sect” and “murder.”

But Jiang Xiuyuan only smiled gently, his expression peaceful and warm, as if listening to a child’s nonsensical rambling.

“Afraid?” He sipped his tea leisurely. “At my age, half buried in the earth already, what is there to fear? I’ve seen too many pitiful souls who want to live but cannot—tormented by illness, driven by famine, lost to war… Each of them, in their final breath, their eyes filled with a desperate yearning for life.”

He set down his cup, his murky eyes filled with pity as they rested on Xiao Chen’s face. “It’s the first time I’ve seen a young man like you, healthy and able to live, deliberately rushing toward death.”

He gestured toward the howling cliff wind and shifted his words back to the beginning: “Besides, the wind up here is fierce. Even if you’ve truly decided to depart this world, wouldn’t a cup of hot tea warm your body first, so you won’t freeze to death? Doesn’t that make sense?”

There was no grand philosophy, no impassioned exhortation in his words—just a simple warmth that stubbornly washed over the fortified walls around Xiao Chen’s heart. Indeed, he sought death to end all pain and humiliation but had never considered how his “death” might appear to those who truly longed to live—how extravagant and absurd it seemed.

“A little warmth before the journey…” he murmured, the resolute edge within him quietly eroding under such plain words.

Compelled by some unseen force, he lifted the now slightly cooled tea and drank it all in one gulp. The warmth slid down his throat, spreading from his stomach and dispelling some of the chill that had taken root in his limbs and bones.

Seeing him drink, Jiang Xiuyuan knew the first step was won. The door tightly shut in the young man’s heart had cracked open.

He fixed his gaze on Xiao Chen and began slowly, his voice becoming distant and profound, as if recounting an ancient tale unrelated to this world: “Since you’re not in a hurry to depart, let this old man tell you a story.”

Xiao Chen said nothing, but neither did he refuse. He sat silently, becoming a willing listener.

“In my far, far homeland, there is a place called ‘Earth,’” Jiang Xiuyuan’s voice carried a hint of nostalgia. “There, no spiritual energy flows, no cultivators exist, and mortals live only a short hundred years. Yet from that land have emerged countless brilliant heroes.”

“One among them was called the ‘Overlord’ by later generations. Born with divine strength, a peerless hero, he led eight thousand followers to battle at a young age, undefeated in every fight. Victorious and invincible, he carved out a vast kingdom. At that time, he was as spirited and proud as you once were—center of the world, darling of the age.”

Jiang Xiuyuan’s story immediately caught Xiao Chen’s attention. He seemed to see in that arrogant Overlord a reflection of his own past.

“But fate is unpredictable. This Overlord was ultimately defeated in a decisive battle for the realm. Surrounded and besieged, he broke through with only twenty-eight riders left at his side. By a great river awaited a boatman, urging him to return east and regroup.”

“But,” Jiang Xiuyuan sighed, “the overlord looked at the river and remembered the eight thousand who had crossed with him—now only he remained. He felt ashamed to return to his people after defeat. So he gave his warhorse to the boatman and plunged his sword into his own chest by the riverbank, ending his glorious yet brief life.”

At this point in the tale, Xiao Chen’s heart tightened sharply. Ashamed to face the people of Jiangdong… how deeply that mirrored his own feelings! Unable to face his sect elders, his peers, even the land he once proudly called home. Death seemed the only choice left to preserve his last shred of dignity.

“Later generations praised this Overlord, calling him honorable, with backbone—a true hero,” Jiang Xiuyuan said, locking eyes with Xiao Chen, and then suddenly his tone sharpened.

“But you know, a little-known girl wrote a poem for him. It said—”

Jiang Xiuyuan spoke each word deliberately, clearly reaching Xiao Chen’s ears:

“‘The talented sons of Jiangdong, return from defeat—who can say?’”

“Return from defeat… is not impossible!”

The seven words rang out a second time, louder and more deafening than before! No longer a stone sinking into a frozen lake, they became a lightning bolt tearing through darkness, instantly illuminating the chaotic shadow of “death” that clouded Xiao Chen’s mind.

Indeed… if he died, there would be nothing left. The Overlord died; his heroic spirit, his sense of shame, all washed away by the endless river, leaving only the sighs of later generations. But if he had crossed the river then, with the talents of Jiangdong’s sons and his unmatched prowess, who could say he had no chance to return from defeat and forge new glory?

To die is to end, to escape. But to live is to face the unknown, to embrace possibility!

Xiao Chen’s body trembled violently. In his ashen eyes, a faint yet genuine light kindled for the first time. Within that light were shock and confusion, but above all, a contemplation forcibly drawn back from death’s edge toward “possibility.”

For the first time, he began to seriously consider the option beyond death.