Chapter Fifty-three: Gazing from Afar at Old Friends, Each Finding Their Own Peace

After helping Lin Qinghan resolve her troubles, we graciously declined her warm invitation to stay and set off on our journey once more.

“Father, where are we going?” Yi Yi asked.

“To the capital,” I replied. “To visit another old friend.”

We didn’t take a plane or high-speed rail, but instead drove ourselves, neither hurried nor slow, heading north.

The capital, this ancient city that has weathered centuries of storms, is now the nation’s heart, brimming with grandeur. We did not linger in its bustling quarters but drove straight to a tranquil villa district in the western suburbs.

We stopped before a residence surrounded by verdant trees. A discreet sign hung by the gate, bearing no name, only a number. But we all knew who lived here.

Qin Muyao, granddaughter of Qin Zhenbang, founding hero of the nation.

We did not approach to knock, simply stood quietly beneath the shade of trees across the street. Soon, the gate opened. A woman with hair turned silver yet still lively and dignified, stepped out, accompanied by a housekeeper. She was dressed in a plain, elegant Tang jacket, her face bearing the gentleness and authority forged by the passage of years.

She was Qin Muyao, the once spirited, valiant girl now gracefully entering her twilight years.

By her side stood an elderly gentleman, also white-haired but with a straight and resolute bearing. Carefully, he draped a coat over her shoulders, his eyes brimming with tenderness and care. He was her husband, a respected academician of great renown.

Several lively children ran out from the house, gathering around them, chattering gleefully, calling, “Grandma, Grandma!”

A look of deep happiness and contentment lit Qin Muyao’s face. She crouched, lovingly stroked a child’s head, and took a piece of candy from her pocket.

Sunlight filtered through the leaves, dappling them in scattered gold, rendering a warm tableau of four generations gathered in harmony.

She was well. That was enough.

Autumn in the capital: the sky vast and clear, golden sunlight spilling over ancient alleys and newly built towers, weaving together the threads of time.

Hand in hand with Yi Yi, I walked down the wide sidewalk of Chang’an Avenue.

“Father, are we really not going to see them? Uncle Long Zhan, and Uncle Shi Lei—they must miss you dearly,” Yi Yi asked softly.

I shook my head, gazing toward the solemn cluster of buildings in the distance. “Meeting or not meeting—what difference does it make? I only wished to see what kind of tree has grown from the seed I planted all those years ago.”

Our first stop was the Heroes’ Cemetery on the outskirts of the capital.

Here, the pines and cypresses stood evergreen, the air serene and solemn. We wandered between rows of cold headstones, finally stopping in a special section. Each stone here belonged to an unnamed hero or special forces soldier who had given their life for the country.

I quickly found several familiar names.

“Shi Lei…” My fingertips brushed gently over the name engraved on the tombstone. He was the fiery man who had first stepped forward to challenge me back then, and in the end, he gave his blood and life to the land he swore to protect. In his photograph, the scars were still visible on his face, yet his gaze had transformed from youthful defiance to unyielding steel.

His epitaph was simple: “Fell heroically during the ‘Falcon’ operation abroad, sacrificing himself to protect his comrades.”

Beside him were other names: Li Mo, Zhao Hu…all faces from the founding days of “Dragon Fang,” vivid in my memory, now forever separated by life and death.

Taking a bouquet of white chrysanthemums from Yi Yi’s hands, I placed one carefully before each grave. There were no words, only a deep bow.

Yi Yi stood quietly at my side. She understood that beneath these cold stones lay her father’s old comrades, the country’s most faithful sons.

“Father, they are all heroes.”

“Yes,” I replied softly, “they showed the true power of living with their lives.”

Leaving the cemetery, we drove to a more secluded place—the headquarters of China’s most elite special operations unit, now home to the new generation of “Dragon Fang.”

We didn’t go inside, but stopped on a hillside overlooking the entire base. With my abilities now, a distance of several kilometers was as close as if it were before my very eyes.

On the training grounds below, a group of new “Dragon Fang” members were practicing combat. I could still see traces of the old “Eight Desolations Tremor” technique in their moves, now blended with modern, efficient fighting skills. Most importantly, I could clearly sense the familiar inner strength flowing within each of them—still young, yet undeniably present.

At the edge of the field, an elderly man with a star on his shoulder stood watching, hands clasped behind his back. Time had left its mark on his face, but his eyes were as sharp as an eagle’s.

It was Long Zhan. Now, he was a general commanding a region.

He seemed to sense something, abruptly turning to look in our direction, his gaze piercing as lightning, as if it could cut through a thousand meters.

I withdrew my gaze, took Yi Yi’s hand, and turned away calmly.

“Father, I think he noticed us.”

“He sensed something, but he won’t be sure,” I smiled. “Come, let’s visit our last old friend.”

Our final stop was the police headquarters of the capital.

Like ordinary visitors, we sat in the lounge of the main hall. Before long, a figure in a police commissioner’s uniform, hair silver yet spirit undiminished, stepped out of the elevator, surrounded by his subordinates. His stride was steady, his eyes commanding, issuing orders with vigor and precision.

I recognized him—the once slightly bumbling, first-to-complain young recruit, Zhang Yuan. Now, he was the chief in charge of the capital’s public security, a position of great power and responsibility.

He appeared to be discussing a particularly thorny case with his team, brows knitted in concentration, yet the resolve in his gaze was just as it had been thirty years ago on the training ground.

Watching him, I seemed to see all those countless nights when the lamp at his desk burned for the safety of the city.

Yi Yi followed my gaze and whispered, “He must be a good policeman.”

I nodded, deeply gratified.

They have not disappointed me, nor themselves. Whether falling in battle, rising to high office, or shining on new paths, each has wielded their strength in the noblest way.

They have all become true swords of the nation.

That is enough.

I stood, took Yi Yi’s hand, and walked toward the exit.

“Father, are we leaving already?”

“Yes, we’re leaving.”

“Are we really not going to see them? They must want to see you.”

I turned back for one last look at the city. The sunlight was gentle, the days peaceful.

Old friends are well, and the land is whole.

That is sufficient.

We are but travelers passing through history; all we can do is refrain from disturbing those whose ships have already sailed into safe and happy harbors.

Leaving the capital, we journeyed south, back to the Jiangnan town of Andu, where we had lived for six years.

Over more than twenty years, Andu had changed. The old town had been developed into a tourist destination, its flagstone streets newly paved, sprouting shops and guesthouses, though the tranquility of days past was gone.

Guided by memory, we found the old Lin family residence. The house was well preserved, clearly cared for with dedication.

We did not approach, but instead found a seat by the window in a nearby teahouse.

At dusk, a car pulled up at the old residence. A gentle, refined middle-aged man stepped out, gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He was the once white-robed youth, Lin Mo, now one of the nation’s leading architects, his works spread across the land, fulfilling the dreams of his youth.

Soon after, a woman of equal grace alighted from the passenger seat. She took Lin Mo’s arm naturally, saying something with a smile. Lin Mo lowered his head, his eyes soft as he gazed at her, his affection unmistakable and profound.

Together, they opened the gate, and a college-aged son ran out to greet them. The three of them, laughter and joy in the air, entered the courtyard filled with memories.

Yi Yi watched in silence, her face calm, wearing only a faint, serene smile.

The tenderness of a young girl’s first love had long since settled into a gentle memory over the snowy decades in the northeast. Now, seeing him so happy with her own eyes, that memory found its perfect conclusion.

He was well. She, too, was well.

Only, they now walked their own separate paths, each at peace in their own time.