One person said: The essence of Wuhou Qimen lies not in Qimen, but in Wuhou.

The air in the main room was still filled with the spiciness of Erguotou and the aroma of roasted peanuts. Zhuge Gong was holding a back scratcher and gesturing wildly at the void, his expression a mixture of fatherly love, drunkenness, and some indescribable fighting spirit.

Just then, the courtyard gate rang.

The footsteps were neither hurried nor slow, treading on the bluestone slabs with a leisurely pace, as if strolling in one's own backyard.

The visitor knew every brick and threshold of this old house intimately—he grew up here.

A young man with blue hair and blue eyes stepped across the threshold, a few strands of hair hanging down his forehead, the ends of which were tied into a small braid that swayed gently with his steps.

He was wearing a light blue Chinese-style long gown, the hem of which swayed slightly, making him look as if he had stepped out of a traditional Chinese ink painting.

His handsome face had been talked about by the village aunties for over twenty years. He had a calm, gentle smile on his lips and eyes that were gentle yet seemed to see through everything.

The collar of his white shirt peeked out from under his long gown, clean and crisp, which made him look elegant and confident.

Zhuge Qing, the eldest son of the Zhuge family, is the most talented among the younger generation of the Zhuge family, second only to that rebellious son Zhuge Ming.

He stood at the doorway of the main room, his gaze sweeping over the empty peanut dish and the half-empty bottle of Erguotou (a type of Chinese liquor) on the table. He then looked at his father's half-drunk, half-angry face, his smile deepening. His tone was casual, as if he were chatting about everyday things: "Father, I'm back. What's up? Having a couple of drinks all by yourself?"

He took two steps inside, then suddenly seemed to remember something, tilted his head, and asked with a hint of probing and amusement in his voice, "Could it be—Mingdi is coming back this weekend?"

Zhuge Gong turned around instantly.

The speed and force of that turn were nothing like someone who had drunk half a bottle of Erguotou (a type of Chinese liquor).

His body spun around like a tightly wound spring suddenly unwinding, turning him to face his eldest son.

His left hand gripped the neck of the Erguotou (a type of Chinese liquor), while his right hand held a bamboo back scratcher—the thing gleamed with an oily sheen under the dim light, clearly an old object that had been handled for many years.

The moment Zhuge Qing saw his expression, his heart skipped a beat.

His face displayed a complex mix of emotions: lingering anger at his second son, the intoxication from the strong liquor, the seriousness honed by years of experience as a village party secretary, and a dangerous signal that he was determined to "take it out on someone today."

The combination of these three expressions created a chemical reaction that sent chills down Zhuge Qing's spine.

Zhuge Qing's smile froze for half a second, then quickly switched to a concerned mode. He strode forward and reached out to help her: "Father, what's wrong? Have you had too much to drink? Come, let me help you to bed—"

"Stop right there!"

Zhuge Gong roared and pointed the back scratcher forward, almost poking Zhuge Qing's nose.

The bamboo object didn't even tremble in his hand, as steady as an imperial sword.

"Zhuge Qing! You bastard! Who gave you the right to mention that rebellious son!"

Zhuge Gong's voice was so loud that the paper windows of the main room seemed to vibrate. "Just mentioning him makes me angry!"

He took a deep breath, his chest heaving, and then gave the order in an unquestionable tone, each word seemingly forced out from between his teeth: "Kneel down!"

Zhuge Qing was stunned.

He stretched out his hand, pointed to himself, his fingertip pointing to his nose, his expression one of pure, unprocessed, and utter bewilderment from the depths of his soul.

His mouth opened and closed, then opened again, finally managing to squeeze out a sentence: "Huh???"

His voice barely sounded like his own: "Father, are you joking?"

He tried to reason with them.

He is a reasonable person.

In fact, he is currently the only person in the Zhuge family who can still reason.

"Zhuge Ming angered you, why are you making me kneel? I am Zhuge Qing."

He emphasized his name, as if he were helping a drunk person identify themselves. "I'm your eldest son, Zhuge Qing. The one who angered you is Zhuge Ming, your second son, who's in the provincial capital. You see, it's written all over my face—Zhuge Qing. Do you need me to show you my ID?"

"You bastard!"

The back scratcher in Zhuge Gong's hand drew a sharp arc in the air. Although it didn't actually land, the sound of the wind was enough to make Zhuge Qing's hair stand on end. "Do I look like I'm joking with you? I'm your father! It's only right that I make you kneel down!"

He took a step forward, looking down at his eldest son with a fierce blaze of alcohol and patriarchal power in his eyes: "Will you kneel or not?!"

Zhuge Qing narrowed his eyes.

His brain began to work at lightning speed.

He is twenty-five years old this year, not five, not fifteen, but twenty-five.

He is an adult, an adult with an independent personality and full self-respect.

He was a genius of the Wuhou School, one of the best among his peers. Everyone outside called him "Master Qing," and many tough guys in the martial arts world had to treat him with respect.

He fears neither heaven nor earth.

but.

There is a "creature" on Earth, and that is his father.

Moreover, his father had drunk half a bottle of Erguotou (a type of Chinese liquor), was acting drunk, was holding a weapon, and was clearly in "unreasonable mode."

Zhuge Qing quickly did a math problem in his mind: If he didn't kneel, what would happen next? The answer was that he would just get beaten up, and the kind of beating that was completely unreasonable.

Moreover, based on his understanding of his father, this kind of beating was reckless, did not listen to appeals, did not accept mediation, and was not eligible for probation.

There was nowhere to reason with them afterwards—the whole village would side with the village secretary, because he was the son.

He thought of Zhuge Ming.

That rebellious younger brother is currently drinking tea in the government building in Jiangxi, sitting in a ministerial-level office chair, holding the imperial sword of dual leadership in his hand.

And he himself, also a son of the Zhuge family, also twenty-five years old, was now facing the risk of being slapped by his father with a back scratcher.

The difference between people can sometimes be greater than the difference between people and dogs.

Zhuge Qing knelt down.

From the moment she started thinking to the moment she knelt down, the entire process took no more than two seconds.

His movements were swift and decisive, his expression calm and composed, his kneeling posture upright and standard, and he even took the time to straighten the hem of his long robe so that it wouldn't be wrinkled by his knees.

"Losing the appearance is not as good as losing your spirit"—this was Zhuge Qing's life motto.

Zhuge Gong nodded in satisfaction when he saw his eldest son kneel down.

That nod carried a sense of relief, a feeling that "my authority still stands."

He took two steps forward, stood in front of Zhuge Qing, looked down at his eldest son, and weighed the back scratcher in his hand.

Then, the scolding began.

"Zhuge Qing! You unfilial son!"

Zhuge Gong spoke up, his voice booming like a village loudspeaker broadcasting an announcement, "Idle all day long, dressed like a big shot!"

He pointed with a back scratcher at the hem of Zhuge Qing's long robe, then at his braided hair, his expression one of utter dismay: "Look at you! A grown man, with a braid, wearing a long robe, walking around with your clothes fluttering—do you think you're from ancient times? Do you think you're Zhuge Liang? Even Zhuge Liang didn't dress like this! Your second brother works in the provincial government building; he wears a white shirt and black trousers every day, that's what you call a proper person!"

Zhuge Qing squinted, maintaining a polite smile, and remained silent.