When I found Chen Feng, he had lost his memory and was covered in wounds, like a shattered piece of jade.
For five years, I carefully raised him, teaching him poetry, history, etiquette, music, martial arts, and strategy.
On the night of his eighteenth birthday, tipsy and bleary-eyed, he cornered me by the bed. “Master, this disciple doesn’t want to learn how to be a gentleman anymore.”
I thought he was just being reckless in his youth and made him kneel in the ancestral hall all night.
Then enemy forces closed in, and the flames of war reached our mountain gate.
On the city wall, clad in dark armor, he fixed me with an icy stare. “Hand over the killer who poisoned the late empress, and I’ll spare the city.”
I looked up. The blade pointed at
me, standing there with a smile.
So he had never forgotten that bowl of lotus seed soup in the imperial garden ten years ago.
