Wandering Swordsman |

Shen Tianxing felt as if he had been struck by a heavy hammer, staggering backward as the gift list in his hand fluttered to the ground. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He felt as if the magnificent hall had instantly turned into a paper cage, trapping him in the center of shame.

Madam Shen, née Lin, stood before the vermilion gate. Her dark-colored brocade robe with gold thread and cloud and crane motifs was still dazzlingly luxurious under the autumn sun, but her face was ashen white.

The sandalwood prayer beads in her hand, which she had been handling for years and which were smooth and lustrous, suddenly snapped with a "crack" between her fingers—the beads fell like tears, scattering onto the bluestone steps. Some rolled into the dust, while others hit the red carpet, making hollow and crisp echoes, as if it were the cruel mockery of fate.

Her lips trembled as she forced a smile, her voice dry and hoarse like the rustling of withered leaves: "Three elders...it must be a misunderstanding! We do have a connection with Shen Mo...blood ties, how can they be severed so easily?"

Before she could finish speaking, Elder Murong, the leader, coldly raised his eyes, his gaze like an icy blade slicing through her last shred of illusion: "Young Master Shen has personally denied it. If you continue to be so stubborn, you will be making an enemy of the Murong family."

Lin's pupils contracted sharply, as if she had been slapped hard across the face by those words. She staggered backward, her foot crushing a Buddhist rosary with a crisp "crack," as if the last pillar in her heart had broken.

"It's over...it's all over..." she murmured to herself, her voice so soft it was almost carried away by the wind, yet so heavy it crushed the very backbone of the Shen Family Manor. The ecstasy that had once ignited at the arrival of "people from the Murong family" had long since shattered into dust, blown away without a trace by the cold winds of reality, leaving only a heart full of panic and shame—she had not lost to the martial world, but to the bloodline she herself had pushed aside.

Shen Tianxing, however, maintained his composure, forcing a smile and bowing, saying, "The three elders have come from afar and must be tired from their journey. Why don't you come in and sit for a while, have a cup of tea, and allow us... to explain a few things?"

His tone was humble, his posture extremely low, and he even bowed slightly, as if he still wanted to salvage some dignity for Shenjiazhuang.

However, the three elders didn't even lift their eyelids.

They were like three walking jade statues, their black robes fluttering without wind. Their gazes passed over Shen Tianxing, over the red silk in the hall, and over the golden banner that read "Shen Clan Reunion," as if everything before them was nothing but dust and foam, not worth a glance.

There was no response, no nod, not even a pause.

They turned around, their steps steady, and walked straight to the carriage, as if what they had just read was not an edict that would ruin someone's future, but merely a casual brushing a speck of dust off their clothes.

This is the source of the Murong family's confidence.

It wasn't a roar, nor a threat, but an indifference that didn't even bother to hide its "disdain."

Even though your Shen family village is a place of great wealth and powerful families in Hangzhou, in their eyes, it is nothing more than a grain of sand compared to the Murong family.

The sound of hooves rose, and the ebony wheels rolled over the red carpet, speeding away, leaving only a straight rut, like an unhealable wound, across the glory of Shenjiazhuang.

The vermilion gates still stand tall, the red silk still flutters in the wind, and the lanterns are still blindingly red, but everyone knows—the sky over Shenjiazhuang has fallen.

The once bustling clan gathering has now receded like a receding tide, with guests scrambling to avoid it. The chief镖头 of the Jiangnan Escort Agency quietly packed up his congratulatory gifts and slipped away through a side door; the leader of the Canal Gang whispered to his men to "get out of there," fearing he might get involved in the slightest; even the sect leaders from the Zhejiang area only left behind a "farewell" before mounting their horses and galloping away.

In the blink of an eye, the once magnificent garden has turned into a desolate wasteland. Scattered on the ground are overturned wine jugs, trampled pastries, torn invitations, and Buddhist prayer beads that have rolled all over the ground, untouched by anyone.

The people of Shenjiazhuang stood frozen in place, like puppets whose souls had been ripped out. Lin, the head guard, stared at the empty gate, his throat bobbing, but he couldn't utter a single word; the steward's account book slipped from his hand, pages fluttering like snowflakes; even the usually arrogant stewards now hung their heads and shrank their shoulders, not daring to meet his gaze.

Only the wind, lifting a piece of red silk, swept across the high-hanging "Shen" plaque like the afterglow of sunset—the gold paint on the plaque had not faded, and the strokes of the brush were still vigorous, as if it had just yesterday carried the glory of a century-old family.

But the red silk, with just a gentle wrap, seemed to be torn off by an invisible hand, falling silently to the ground, covered in dust, its edges wrinkled, no longer bearing any trace of joy.

It lay quietly on the bluestone steps, like the remains of a grand dream, finally shattering into nothingness at its most vulnerable moment.

Shen Tianxing stood before the steps, his gaze as deep as an ancient well, slowly sweeping over the mess on the ground before finally settling on his wife, Lin.

She remained frozen in place, her brocade robes magnificent yet her figure withered, her hands hanging limply at her sides, as if the aftershocks of the broken prayer beads had not yet dissipated from her fingertips. Her eyes were vacant, reflecting neither the red silk, nor the guests, nor even herself—only a blankness left after being crushed by reality.

Shen Tianxing's throat moved slightly, and he sighed softly, a sigh as silent yet profound as an autumn leaf falling into water. He recalled that not long ago, when the Lin family insisted on using "Shen Mo's name" to revive the Shen family's reputation, he had hesitated, but ultimately did not stop them.

At that time, he thought: if he could seize this opportunity, the Shen family might be able to prosper for another hundred years. But now, he understands that some bloodlines are not meant to be used; some names, once disrespected, can never be brought back.

"If only I had held on a little longer and stopped her..." he murmured to himself, his fingers unconsciously clenching and unclenching.

Now, not only is the Shen family's reputation ruined, but even more frightening is that Shen Mo's already cold and unyielding attitude will likely never change. The back view of Shen Mo when he left that day was as stubborn as a father and as resolute as a blade—now, even this last thread of connection has been severed.

He said nothing more, turned and strode away, his robes brushing against the broken porcelain and fallen flowers on the ground, his figure slowly disappearing into the shadows of the inner hall, as if even the sunlight no longer wanted to shine on him, the miscalculated master of the manor.

Not far away, Shen Tao watched his mother's distraught appearance and caught a glimpse of his father's lonely departing figure, his heart filled with mixed emotions.

As the young master of Shen Family Manor, he was usually composed, but at this moment he could not hide the bitterness in his eyes.

He knew that his mother was a strong-willed woman who valued the Shen family's reputation above all else, yet she had made the worst possible bet in the worst possible place.

"Mother..." he called softly, his voice so faint it was almost carried away by the wind. Madam Lin did not react, only staring blankly in the direction where the Murong family's carriage had disappeared, as if still waiting for an impossible turning point.

Shen Tao closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and suppressed the helplessness and sorrow surging in his heart.

It's too late for regrets or complaints now. He straightened his back, turned to the trembling servants behind him, and said in a deep voice:

"What are you all standing there for? Pack your things. Take down the red ribbons, remove the lanterns, burn the invitations—no one is to say a word about what happened today."

His voice wasn't loud, but it carried an undeniable authority.

The servants, as if waking from a dream, bowed their heads in agreement and began silently cleaning up the wrecked "wedding feast." Some carefully picked up the Buddhist beads from the ground, some righted the overturned octagonal table, and others tiptoed to untie the high-hanging red lantern—once the lantern fell, the entire Shenjiazhuang village completely lost its last trace of false joy.

The wind rose again, swirling a few fallen leaves in the empty courtyard.

Shen Tao stood on the steps, gazing at the setting sun gradually sinking into the distance. He gave a bitter smile, turned around, and walked into the twilight.