It took a week before Old Fu found himself standing before Patriarch Weh once more.
The elderly physician adjusted the sleeves of his robe, his wrinkled hands trembling ever so slightly—not from age, but from the unease gnawing at his gut. The sudden summons, the urgency in the messenger's voice, and the tightened security around the Rising Stone Sect all pointed to one thing: something had gone terribly wrong.
As he entered the chamber, the atmosphere was heavy, suffocating. The air, though still, carried a weight that pressed against his chest. The flickering lanterns cast elongated shadows against the walls, making the towering figure of Patriarch Weh appear even more foreboding.
Weh sat at the head of the room, his fingers tapping against the armrest of his chair. His usual composed demeanor was fractured. A storm brewed beneath his sharp eyes, barely contained by the forced calm of his posture.
Old Fu bowed deeply, forcing a thin smile. "Patriarch Weh, I came as soon as I received your message. I trust everything is well?"
Weh's gaze pierced through him.
"Tell me, Old Fu," he said, his voice slow but laden with accusation. "Are you confident that the boy should have died?"
Old Fu's breath hitched. (So, it's about that.)
He swallowed, his throat dry. "Patriarch, I ensured the dosage was sufficient. The Soul Rot should have deteriorated his energy pool beyond recovery—his death was only a matter of time. If he survived…"
Weh leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low growl.
"He didn't just survive, Old Fu. He's walking, talking, and breathing fine."
Silence stretched between them.
Old Fu's mind raced. ( Impossible! Even if the boy had some miraculous resistance, his condition should have left him crippled, unable to cultivate ever again. Unless… )
"Something isn't right," Weh continued, his eyes narrowing. "And I don't like unknown variables."
"You said that you gave him a second dose?"
"I did," Old Fu answered, though his voice lacked its usual confidence.
Weh's hands gripped the armrests of his chair, his fingers digging into the lacquered wood. His breathing grew heavy, seething with barely contained rage.
"Then tell me," he hissed, his eyes burning with fury, "how is he still living?! Twice?! Surviving twice?"
Old Fu stiffened, unable to find an answer.
Weh's gaze flicked toward the hampers sitting at the side of the room—a neatly wrapped insult, a mockery disguised as a gift. His expression twisted further in disgust.
"Noel came to visit," he muttered, his voice low and venomous.
Old Fu's lips parted slightly, but he remained silent. He had heard about Noel's sudden appearance, but the true weight of it only settled in now.
"He wanted to see me… to give me a token of goodwill." Weh scoffed, his hands trembling with restrained fury. "Tell me, Old Fu, if that is not a slap to my face, then what is?!"
Old Fu took an instinctive step back.
Weh's voice grew sharper. "And the worst part?" His teeth clenched. "He didn't even know he was slapping me!"
A loud crash echoed through the chamber as Weh smashed the hampers off the table, sending them scattering across the floor. The delicate packaging tore apart, revealing the gifts within—shattered pieces of dried herbs, crushed pastries, and broken glass jars filled with what had once been fine wine.
Weh stood there, chest rising and falling, his expression dark.
"Visit the them," Weh ordered, his voice like a blade, sharp and final. He didn't even bother looking at Old Fu, his gaze fixed on the shattered remains of the hampers at his feet. "They want to give you your own token of goodwill."
A sneer curled his lips.
Old Fu's body tensed. His hands trembled ever so slightly as he clenched his robes. He had spent years as a physician, dealing with poisons, illnesses, and slow deaths—but none of those made his chest tighten quite like the unspoken warning in Weh's words.
"Y-Yes, Patriarch Weh," Old Fu stammered, bowing deeply. His voice wavered, but he forced himself to steady it.
Without another word, Weh waved his hand in dismissal.
Old Fu turned swiftly, making his way to the exit with hurried, uneven steps. The weight of Weh's expectations—and his wrath—pressed down on his shoulders like an iron yoke.
As the heavy doors of the Rising Stone Sect creaked shut behind him, he exhaled shakily.
---
As father and son sparred in the backyard, their movements were steady, precise—each strike met with equal resistance. The rhythmic sound of clashing blades filled the air, only broken by the occasional shuffle of feet against the dirt. It was a familiar dance, one honed through years of practice and instinct.
Then—Lana's voice rang out from the entrance.
"Ah, Old Fu, welcome!"
The moment the words reached their ears, both Noel and Kazel froze.
It was subtle—an imperceptible shift in their stances, a pause in their breath. But in that instant, the backyard air grew heavier.
Their gazes sharpened, the tension between them no longer that of training, but of something far more lethal.
The time had come.
Without a word, they exchanged a glance—a silent understanding.
Kazel let out a slow exhale, rolling his shoulders as if loosening up. He took his time sheathing his blade, his fingers tightening slightly around the hilt before letting go. His usual smirk flickered at the edges of his lips, but there was no humor in it—only the cold satisfaction of a hunter who had finally lured his prey.
Noel, on the other hand, remained still for a moment longer. His grip on his sword lingered before he, too, slid it back into its scabbard with a deliberate slowness. His expression was unreadable, but beneath that composed exterior, his thoughts churned. His son had been fed poison by this man. His own and his wife's hands had unknowingly delivered the fatal dose. The weight of that guilt had simmered for days. Now, the one responsible had walked into their domain.
They had waited a week for this moment.
And now, the old goat had finally arrived.