"Father, how did Ancestor Changfeng look today?"
Luo Chuan's voice was steady, but a faint trace of tension lingered beneath his calm tone.
Luo Ping fell into a moment of silence. His brows furrowed slightly as he recalled the earlier meeting. "The Ancestor's complexion..." he said slowly, as though weighing his words. "It looked even worse than it did a week ago."
He paused, then leaned forward, lowering his voice as though fearing the walls might listen. "When I stood near him, I could faintly smell… a scent of decay. A quiet rot, like something dead beneath fresh earth."
Luo Ping let out a heavy sigh. "Perhaps, within a month's time, Elder Changfeng might…"
Luo Chuan's brows knitted tightly. His fingers curled slightly against the armrest of his chair as the weight of his father's words settled into his chest.
"So soon?" he murmured, voice heavy with restrained alarm. "It seems the Luo Family's situation is far worse than I feared."
He stood and paced slowly, each step measured and thoughtful.
"Outsiders still call us one of Qingshi Town's four great families," he continued, "wealthy, respected, influential... but inside the clan, the truth is far more fragile. Father, you must see it too. The factions in our family have long harbored different ambitions. The future they imagine for the Luo Family isn't unified—it's fragmented."
Luo Ping's face darkened, but he said nothing, only listening as his son continued.
"Second Uncle, Han Chuang, spent ten years chasing scholarly merit and failed. Now he turns to commerce and hoards wealth like a dragon in a cave. I'd wager he controls seventy percent, maybe more, of our clan's total assets."
"Third Uncle is our strongest warrior. The fiercest under our roof. He commands the most loyal and battle-hardened house guards. But..." Luo Chuan hesitated, then chuckled bitterly, "his strength comes with a certain... simplicity."
"Brawn without caution. It wouldn't surprise me if he one day sold his own men to a foreign lord and still counted the coins with a smile."
Luo Ping's lips twitched, but he remained silent.
"The truth is," Luo Chuan said, turning back to face his father, "the only reason this sprawling clan has managed to hold together until now is because of the shadow of our Ancestor."
His voice dropped low, ominous.
"But if Patriarch Changfeng passes at such a time..."
He trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Luo Ping reached for his teacup, only to find his hand trembling slightly. He clenched his fist and then forced it to steady before finally speaking.
"My son... is there truly no way to preserve the clan through this chaos?"
"There are paths," Luo Chuan admitted. "But none are easy. And none will satisfy everyone."
"Speak clearly," Luo Ping demanded, voice hoarse. "I can take it."
Luo Chuan did not answer right away. Instead, he picked up the cup beside him, the tea now cold. He drank it all in a single draught, as though bracing himself.
After a moment, he looked his father in the eyes.
"Da Feng has suffered years of drought. Famine gnaws at the countryside. Bandits have risen like weeds, and rebel banners are already flying."
"Even if the dynasty hasn't collapsed yet, the signs of chaos are everywhere."
"In such times, a family that cannot stay united... will be torn apart."
"If we wish only to preserve the bloodline, then we could withdraw. Abandon Qingshi Town. Find a remote mountain or forest, and live quietly in seclusion. As long as we avoid the flames of war, our lineage might endure."
Luo Ping's fingers tightened around the teacup, knuckles whitening.
"But to do so," Luo Chuan continued, "we'd have to give up everything the Luo Family has built here over the past two, perhaps three centuries."
"And once we leave... whether the dynasty survives or a new regime rises... the Luo Family will never regain its footing in Qingshi Town."
His words were spoken plainly, but each one hit Luo Ping like a hammer striking stone.
"And even then," Luo Chuan added softly, "we might only save a branch, not the whole tree."
"What do you mean?"
Luo Ping's eyes suddenly sharpened.
Luo Chuan looked at his father with an expression that held both patience and pain.
"Even if you—Father—choose to lead a retreat, do you truly believe Second Uncle and Third Uncle would follow?"
"Second Uncle clings to wealth like a lifeline. He will not abandon it."
"Third Uncle... he longs for glory. He dreams of taking his men and carving a name for himself beyond this town. If not for Ancestor Changfeng's presence, he'd have marched out of Qingshi Town years ago."
"Which means... even if we choose the path of retreat, it will only preserve a small branch of our clan, not the entirety."
Luo Ping's breath hitched.
His face showed the weight of a man standing at the edge of a crumbling bridge, uncertain which side to leap toward.
"Is there truly no path that allows us to protect both the family and our foundation?"
Luo Chuan's eyes softened with pity, though his voice remained firm.
"Father... you cannot have both. Not in times like these."
"You are the Patriarch. In this moment, your indecision is more dangerous than any outside enemy."
Without waiting for a reply, Luo Chuan stood.
He bowed deeply to his father, then turned and walked slowly from the room.
As his figure faded through the doorway, Luo Ping sank back into the wooden recliner, limbs heavy as stone.
He stared out through the open window, at the clouds drifting overhead.
"To live in hiding... or to grit my teeth and stay…"
His voice was barely a whisper.
"Which path should I choose?"
…
While Luo Ping wrestled with indecision in the quiet of his courtyard, elsewhere, in the Zhao Family Ancestral Hall—one of the other great families of Qingshi Town—a very different kind of conversation was unfolding.
Inside the Zhao family's bright, echoing main hall, Zhao Wu, the current family head, sat on an elevated seat surrounded by several elders.
The air was thick with the scent of incense and quiet anticipation.
Zhao Wu's voice broke the silence.
"Doctor Wang," he said casually, fingers drumming lightly against the wooden armrest. "In your opinion, how long can that old ghost in the Luo Family Ancestral Land last?"
The man he addressed was dressed in violet robes with gold-thread embroidery. Despite his advanced age—his beard long and white, his face lined like aged parchment—Doctor Wang Kun exuded an aura of sharp clarity.
He tapped his cane once and responded with a light smile.
"Judging from his current state, that old immortal of the Luo Family won't last more than half a month."
He stroked his beard with quiet satisfaction. "His vitality has clearly reached its end. Unless the heavens themselves send a miracle, he will die of exhaustion soon."
Murmurs spread through the gathered elders.
Zhao Wu leaned back, his expression thoughtful.
…
Doctor Wang Kun was a renowned physician within Qingshi Town, famed for his skill and neutrality. He had never aligned himself with any particular faction, which made him the first choice for diagnosing the ailments of powerful families without fear of betrayal or favoritism.
The Luo Family, upon seeing the decline of Ancestor Changfeng, had secretly summoned Wang Kun to assess his condition.
And the verdict had been clear.
The Ancestor's end was near—and no elixir or medicine the Luo Family could afford would be able to change that.
Even if some rare and ancient technique existed that might prolong life, it would be far beyond the means of a declining clan like theirs.
Doctor Wang had offered no comfort—only the cold certainty of a withering flame.
And now, in the Zhao Family Hall, that certainty was being quietly celebrated.
Because for Qingshi Town's other great families, the death of Luo Changfeng didn't just mean the loss of a revered elder.
It meant an opportunity.
A door about to swing open.
A power vacuum just waiting to be filled.