Eldest Son

On the night his father, Sun Jian, died, the rest of Sun Ce’s life seemed already marked by a sense of finality.

The past and the present: an eternal theme. He gave up too much for his family and his father’s unfinished ambitions, yet at twenty, he was only just coming of age.

A child’s shoulders were made to bear the burden of defense, but a child’s heart still needed someone to understand it.

But he could not cry in front of others. The effort of holding back that pain was enough to suffocate him.

That is why we see him sometimes make strange, endearing decisions that disregard his own safety. In the Three Kingdoms, where every move was calculated, it was as if a fierce ray of sunlight had suddenly burst through.

If the light was bound to go out, why not burn brightly for a while?

In the end, in my writing, he became a child trapped by psychological shadows, only just realizing he had to grow up.

But he never managed to.

When I thought of the final line of the piece, I truly wanted to cry for a long time. But by the time I wrote it, my words had lost their power to move, becoming a stiff, hurried account of events.

The first blow may fail, the second may falter, and the third may exhaust you. Once a piece is published, it stays as it is.

I dedicate this piece to Sun Ce, in mourning.

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