"Whatever it is, I’m sure your uncle can—"
He didn’t get to finish.
With effortless grace, Lan Zhan sidestepped him, slipping past the threshold and into the house before the man could react.
The interior was sparse, devoid of warmth or anything that hinted at life. Everything was meticulously clean, ordered with precision, yet utterly impersonal—just as Lan Zhan’s chambers had once been, before Wei Ying.
Near the back door, a sat a trey with a half-finished breakfast , a tea set sat on the low table in the centre of the room.
Lan Zhan took it all in with a single glance before moving forward, unhurried, deliberate. Without a word, he lowered himself onto the floor, his movements practiced and fluid.
With quiet efficiency, he began making tea.
They had a long conversation ahead of them.
Once the tea was ready, Lan Zhan poured two cups with steady hands. Then, he looked up, meeting the gaze of the man still standing in the open doorway, his expression a mix of confusion and hesitation.
A few more seconds passed in silence before the man finally exhaled, closing the door behind him. Slowly, he made his way to the table, lowering himself onto the cushion opposite Lan Zhan.
He picked up the cup, taking a slow sip, but his eyes never left Lan Zhan, watching him carefully, curious about whatever had brought him here.
"I came to ask Fuqin to leave his seclusion and return to his duties." Lan Zhan's voice was calm. "Xiongzhang and Shufu need you. The sect needs its leader."
His father stared at him as if he had grown a second head.
Lan Zhan held his gaze, unshaken. He could hardly believe he was once again forced to convince a member of his family to abandon their self-imposed isolation. First Xichen, and now his father.
He had hoped—perhaps foolishly—that this would be as straightforward as it had been with his brother. But as he studied the guarded look in his father’s eyes, he knew better.
This would not be easy.
"Whatever brought you here and pushed you to make these demands must seem serious in the eyes of a child," his father said, his tone carefully measured, as if speaking to someone too young to understand the weight of his own words. "But I am afraid I am not the person to help you. If not your uncle, then perhaps your brother. I hear he is quite capable. Or one of the teachers you are closer to."
He was trying to sound conciliatory, but the failure was glaring.
Lan Zhan’s expression did not waver.
"Fuqin is mistaken." His voice was quiet, but there was steel beneath it. "This is not the concern of a child, nor is it something that can be passed to others. Fuqin is the leader of this sect. It is his responsibility."
He watched as his father’s jaw tightened, as if he wanted to argue but could not find the words.
Lan Zhan did not look away.
He would not back down.
"Very well," his father said after a long pause. "I am listening."
Lan Zhan had prepared an entire speech beforehand—carefully formulated, structured, logical. But sitting here, facing his father, he realized it would not do. His father was not Xichen. He would not be swayed by reasoning alone.
He needed a different approach.
"Fuqin, did you care for Mother?"
The reaction was immediate. His father startled so violently that he nearly dropped his teacup.
"What is the meaning of that question?" The sharpness in his voice was a thinly veiled defense, a warning.
Lan Zhan remained calm, his tone steady and firm. "Answer the question."
"Of course I have," his father replied defensively. "I married her to protect her, and I don’t think it is the place of a child to judge his father on the matter."
Lan Zhan let out a quiet breath, something dangerously close to a scoff. His golden eyes, usually so impassive, held a glint of something sharper—something his father failed to recognize in time.
"Do you think you are speaking to a seven-year-old?" Lan Zhan asked, his tone laced with quiet mockery.
His father narrowed his eyes, frustration clear on his face. He did not understand where this conversation was leading, and the uncertainty only deepened the crease in his brow.
"Then to whom am I speaking?" he asked, his tone edged with impatience.
Lan Zhan met his gaze without hesitation.
"To Lan Zhan courtesy Wangji. Title Hanguang Jun. A husband. A father. A man who has seen the world for what it is and will not let history repeat itself."
He let the words settle, watching as his father’s expression shifted—uncertainty creeping into his usually unreadable face.
He waited, allowing his father to draw his own conclusions. Some information took longer to asses, it was more difficult for some people to come to grips with. That was fine. Lan Zhan had patience.
With practiced ease, he lifted his cup, taking a slow sip of tea, his every movement deliberate, controlled—elegant in the way only years of discipline could shape. He did not press, did not rush. Instead, he gave the man before him the space to study him, to see him as he was now, not as the child he had left behind.
"I do not understand," his father whispered, lost and uncertain. "You do not act like a child, yet you look like one. Your eyes… there are shadows dancing in their depths, shadows that should not be there. And yet, you do not seem to be lying."
"I do not lie."
Lan Zhan’s voice was sharp as a whip.
His father flinched.
"Mother died alone, allowed to hold her children only once a month. Tell me, Fuqin, how exactly did you protect her?" Lan Zhan’s voice was merciless, each word as precise and unforgiving as the edge of Bichen.
His father stiffened, but he did not stop.
"You had the power to change the rules, and yet you bent to them." His golden eyes burned, unwavering. "How fair was her trial? Was there even a trial?"
Each question struck like a blade, cutting deep, and Lan Zhan watched with quiet satisfaction as his father seemed to shrink, hunching in on himself, as though the weight of his own past had finally begun to suffocate him.
"How did your seclusion help Mother?" Lan Zhan’s voice was steady, but there was no mistaking the quiet fury beneath it.
His father remained silent, his grip tightening around the teacup as if bracing for impact.
"I'll tell you who it really helped—the elders." Lan Zhan did not give him a chance to look away, to retreat into the safety of his silence. "It strengthened their position in the sect, consolidating their power while you did nothing. Then you left your younger brother to deal with them alone, while you cowardly hid here, wallowing in self-pity."
His father flinched again, his face paling as the words struck true.
"I have made mistakes too" Lan Zhan continued. "And I have paid dearly for them."
His father swallowed hard, his fingers trembling slightly where they rested on the table.
"But I have been offered a second chance," Lan Zhan said, setting down his cup with deliberate care. "And now, I am offering one to you." He met his father’s eyes, holding him in place with the sheer weight of his gaze. "Will you take it? Or will you remain hidden here, leaving others to deal with the consequences of your actions?"
Silence stretched between them, heavy and unrelenting.
"What happened to you? " asked his father after a long silence.
"I lost the only person I have ever loved" he stated plainly. "I submitted to thirty-three lashes from the discipline whip as punishment for protecting that person —the only one who dared stand for justice against the entire cultivation world."
His father paled but said nothing.
"I raised a son alone" Lan Zhan continued, his gaze steady, "watching helplessly as hypocrisy slowly took over the sect, as righteousness became an inconvenience—something to be discarded when it no longer served those in power."
A long silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken truths and the weight of years lost.
He had no sense of how long they sat in silence, the tea long forgotten. But when his father finally spoke, his voice was firm —he had made his decision.
"I will live seclusion and resume my duty as the sect's leader, but I will need your help. I will not speak of what was said here today, and I give you my word—I will heed your warning."
Lan Zhan breathed a quiet sigh of relief—he had done it. Bowing deeply to his father, he murmured, "Thank you, Fuqin."
His father gave a solemn nod before adding, "I will join the family for dinner tonight."
