The starlight had faded, and the moon's shadow was gone—it was the moment just before dawn.
At this hour, the back gate of the Chu residence was bustling.
When Chu Qing arrived carrying his shoulder pole alongside the others, workers from several inns and restaurants had already gathered there.
The crowd pressed together in the narrow space. Even though the gate had been opened early and people were being let in one by one, it still took time.
The Chu family's chief steward, Zhou Miao, stood at the entrance with a few servants and martial guards, checking what everyone carried before allowing them through.
After a while, it was finally Chu Qing's turn.
Casting a brief glance at Zhou Miao, he lowered his head slightly.
As the Chu family's third young master, he had practically been raised by this steward since childhood—they were far too familiar.
Although Chu Qing had altered his appearance the night before, there was still the chance that Zhou Miao might notice something.
Zhou Miao, for his part, did feel a faint sense of familiarity when he looked at this young porter.
But the day was far too busy for him to dwell on it. After two cursory glances and seeing nothing unusual, he waved him on.
Once the servants finished their inspection and confirmed there was nothing suspicious, Chu Qing was allowed to enter.
Only when he was completely out of Zhou Miao's sight did he finally exhale in relief—this was the first barrier crossed.
Once past this point, the rest would be easier.
Everything around him was achingly familiar.
The Chu estate was vast, yet every corner existed vividly in Chu Qing's memory. After all, this had once been his home.
If he wished, he could have entered openly under his own name, and no one would have dared stop him.
But that would invite unnecessary complications.
It wasn't about accepting a father and two brothers—though the thought was a little awkward, he had long come to terms with it.
The real problem was that he was still being hunted by the Mirror of Retribution.
As long as no one knew who he truly was, it was fine. But once his identity was revealed, his family could easily be dragged into danger.
Given the situation, remaining in the shadows was far safer.
Following the servant's directions, Chu Qing carried the wine to a storeroom in the rear courtyard.
The servant told him to leave the jars there, and after a brief inspection, he could go.
Chu Qing nodded. The servant didn't linger—too many tasks awaited at the back gate and throughout the manor.
After all, there was no time to waste on porters with guards already stationed to watch.
But how could ordinary guards possibly keep an eye on Chu Qing?
When the opportunity arose, he shifted his steps and slipped into a blind spot behind an ornamental rockery.
There he hid the shoulder pole and followed the winding path through the rock garden. Before long, a wall blocked his way.
Without hesitation, he vaulted over it.
At this time of day, no one should have been in this courtyard—and if someone was, it wouldn't be a member of the Chu family.
Because this was Chu Qing's own courtyard.
He landed silently. The place was indeed empty, yet clearly well maintained; someone had been cleaning it regularly.
The windows and doors were shut tight. Chu Qing approached the door, gently pushing it open with a creak.
The furnishings inside slowly came into view.
On the left was the living area, and the bed was neatly made with a new quilt.
Hanging at the head of the bed was a wooden sword—hand-carved by Chu Yunfei himself when Chu Qing turned three, given as a birthday gift.
To the right stood the study, filled with many books, though he had never read much.
As a youth, he had been lazy and fond of martial arts, though his limited talent kept him from excelling, and he loathed studying.
Picking up one of the books, he saw it had been well preserved—someone had been airing and maintaining it regularly to prevent decay and insects.
Everything was exactly as it had been when he left home.
Pulling out the chair, Chu Qing sat down and let out a quiet breath, a faint sense of relief washing over him.
"All because of a fit of pride… throwing away a good life to leave home—what was the point?
"These seven years haven't been kind. In anger, he tried to make something of himself, only to be deceived into becoming an assassin…"
Chu Qing shook his head slightly.
At the moment of death… what had gone through his mind?
For nearly a month, he had avoided recalling that instant.
But sitting here now, he suddenly felt… perhaps it had been homesickness.
The first light of dawn crept into the room, breaking the night's silence.
As morning light spilled across the floor, Chu Qing came back to himself, realizing how sentimental he had grown revisiting this place.
He gave a small laugh, shook his head, and was about to stand.
Then footsteps approached outside. His expression remained calm, though his gaze sharpened slightly. "So… they've come."
He rose unhurriedly and, before the intruder appeared, leapt silently onto the ceiling beam.
A moment later, a figure entered the room—dressed in black, wearing a painted mask.
The Mirror of Retribution.
A cold glint flickered at the corner of Chu Qing's mouth.
He hadn't returned merely for nostalgia.
He knew that man too well.
Since the man had come to Tianwu City, he must have gathered every piece of intelligence available.
Naturally, he would know that Chu Yunfei had a son who had left home seven years ago—one he still missed deeply and often visited this room to reminisce.
No matter how powerful a man might be, there were always moments of weakness. For all his strength, Chu Yunfei was still just a father.
Thus, the killer had slipped in early that morning while the household was busy, hiding here in Chu Qing's room.
He intended to strike when Chu Yunfei arrived—lost in memory and unguarded.
Unfortunately for him, Chu Qing had arrived first.
The assassin scanned the room and, thinking it empty, sprang upward to hide among the beams.
But in that instant, a flash of cold steel gleamed in the corner of his eye.
His pupils contracted; he reached for his sword—but it was already too late.
The blade barely left the scabbard before his arm was severed, dangling from the hilt.
Blood burst through the air, scattering like crimson rain upon the floor.
(End of Chapter)
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