Chapter Twenty-Four: First Encounter with the Shadow Feather

“For the future of the Han family, I absolutely cannot allow such a situation to occur. The prophecy gave some indications about that person, and the only one who fits is Bingyan. The turning point of fate will begin when he obtains both the Creation Jade Disc and the Weeping Plume Divine Sword; only by possessing both sacred objects will he gain true power.”

It was precisely because both items had to be acquired together that Han Liang did not intervene when Bingyan first came into contact with the Creation Jade Disc. First, she wanted to determine if Bingyan was the Feathered Prophet; if he was, then the previous generation’s prophecy would not stand. Though prophets have the power of foresight, who can guarantee they are always accurate? Second, the Weeping Plume Divine Sword was in their own hands—they had no fear of him gaining strength. Of course, the first suspicion was later dismissed, but the whole truth could not be discerned with mere observation.

“So, we only need to guard either the Creation Jade Disc or the Weeping Plume Divine Sword—just one of the two. Both are within the Han family’s territory, which is why I drove Bingyan out, to ensure he never had the chance to obtain them both at once.” Originally, there was no need to go to such lengths, to expel Bingyan, but she was afraid. When she saw Bingyan, who had already been sent away, miraculously return, fear took hold of her.

Yet, she did not know that Bingyan had long since acquired the Creation Jade Disc.

The so-called Weeping Plume Divine Sword was the greatest treasure of the martial world, rumored to have always been the heirloom of a secluded noble clan—naturally the Han family itself, and a symbol of the family head.

The second greatest treasure of the martial world was the “Luoshui Divine Needle,” renowned for its defiance of fate. As its name implies, it possesses the miraculous ability to bring the dead back to life. The Luoshui Divine Needle could, in theory, be crafted: using the exceedingly rare Thousand-thread Purple Bamboo as the base—among ten thousand stalks, perhaps one or two are infused with spiritual energy. From such bamboo, one must extract the single most vital thread, then temper it with supreme internal energy of the sky-rank or higher to forge a single needle. The process was extraordinarily arduous; the scarcity of the bamboo aside, the number of heroes ruined by the need for sky-rank energy was countless. Furthermore, the Luoshui had a fatal flaw—it could be used only once. Afterward, it was rendered useless.

The Weeping Plume Divine Sword, however, was a primordial spiritual treasure, born of nature like the Creation Jade Disc, not forged by mortal hands.

“Mother, you knew all along?” Han Bingran asked Han Xianyu as she listened.

Han Xianyu nodded. Two years ago, the family head Han Liang had already told her. That was why she allowed her daughter to train outside, refused Bingyan entry into the family estate, and persuaded her younger sister Han Xianyun not to seek out Bingyan, for fear her sister would soften and bring him back.

When Han Liang decided to expel Bingyan from the Han family, Han Xianyu did not know what to feel. She only knew she owed her son even more.

If she had been an ordinary woman, she would have chosen without hesitation to leave with her son. But she was the Han family’s next matriarch; she could not let go of her responsibility to the entire clan. It was not the authority that bound her, but the duty that came with it.

“But—” Bingran wanted to say more, but Aunt Yun shot her a glare that forced her words back down.

“Don’t worry, Ran. I’ll arrange for someone to protect Bingyan in secret,” Han Xianyu reassured her daughter.

※※※Feather※※※Emperor※※※

Staggering through the streets, the night suddenly grew colder, and snow began to fall from the sky, heavier and heavier...

Han Bingyan’s small hands and face had turned slightly purple from the cold. He felt chilled to the bone, not from the wind, but from within. Anyone who saw him would surely be moved by his sorrow, feeling the urge to weep along with him.

Anger, despair, and dejection appeared on his face.

With a thud, Bingyan collapsed onto the ground. Snowflakes whirled around him as he sank into the thick snow, leaving the imprint of a small figure. For a long while, he couldn’t bring himself to rise.

At that moment, a shadow swiftly approached his side, a dark robe slicing invisibly through the night.

“Little brother, are you alright?”

A crisp, delicate voice sounded by his ear. Bingyan looked up coldly to see a figure dressed entirely in black—form-fitting clothes beneath a black trench coat with golden embroidery at the hem, and a signature golden mask that gave her a playful, adorable air. Her shapely figure marked her as a young woman in her prime.

Bingyan did not answer, only stared at her. The girl quickly averted her eyes and said, “It’s so late, little brother. Why are you wandering outside? Aren’t you going home?”

“Home?” Bingyan muttered in a low voice. The word “home” was a source of endless confusion for him. What was a home? Did the Han family count as his home? “I have no home!” Memories of the Han family surged forth—the lies and mockery of his sister, the scornful eyes of onlookers, one cold, indifferent face after another. A nameless fire of hatred ignited in his chest.

“How can you not have a home? Everyone has a home—no exceptions!” The girl seemed not to understand, continuing to speak gently at his side.

“No! I don’t. You’ll never understand!”

“I do understand, and I know you have a home,” the girl replied with certainty, her tone softening. “Will you tell me what ‘home’ means to you?”

Her voice was gentle and kind, stirring a longing for comfort in Bingyan’s heart—perhaps the feeling of being cared for. “‘Home?’ Is it family, affection?” he murmured. It seemed that only with kin and love could one call a place home; otherwise, it was merely cold, unfeeling walls. But as memories of being expelled resurfaced, he choked out, “But I have none. Nothing! Family? Affection? They don’t want me! Mother, sister, grandmother—they all cast me out! They don’t want me anymore!” Tears of grief and anger welled up in his eyes.

“Do you hate them?” the girl asked quietly after a pause.

“Hate!” Of course he did. He clenched his teeth, spitting out the word.

“You don’t have to hate them.”

“Why?” Why shouldn’t he hate them? Or couldn’t he? Bingyan asked, a little angrily, “They threw me out on New Year’s Eve, when families should be together—how can I not hate them?”

“Are they even worthy of your hatred?” Her question stunned him. She continued, “As you said, ‘home’ is family, is love. Did they treat you as family should? To put it bluntly, they are unworthy of being called your kin. Family is supposed to care for you.”

Bingyan was moved. He wanted to speak, but the girl gave him no chance and pressed on, “I don’t know everything you’ve been through, but I can guess the essentials. There’s no deep enmity between you, and yet they could harden their hearts to drive you out before the new year. Are such people truly your family?”

“They’re unworthy?” Bingyan was confused. What kind of logic was this? It seemed odd.

“That’s right—they’re unworthy!” the girl declared without hesitation, with not the slightest concern whether she was right. “Are you living for them? Remember, you live for yourself. They are merely passersby in your life, not the compass that guides your fate. You needn’t care about their opinions. Your task is to live well, to live happily, and prove to them that you can shine just as brightly without them!”

“Shine without them?” Bingyan realized that this was what he needed most. The confusion in his eyes faded, replaced by a hint of resilience.

“Yes!” The girl’s eyes sparkled playfully—the only part of her face not concealed by the mask. “Are you still sad now?”

“Of course. No one recovers so quickly,” Bingyan retorted, a little sullen, but then caught himself, suddenly wondering, “Why do I act so much like a child in front of her—and so naturally?” Still, he thought, her words weren’t wrong. Oh well, he’d humor her. “No! I won’t be sad anymore! I am myself—I live for myself! I’ll no longer be troubled by how they treat me. ‘Home!’ Even without them, I can find my own home!” His face now radiated determination and defiance.

The girl, however, sighed, perhaps wondering if her advice was right or wrong. “If it were anyone else, I’d say you were misleading, not guiding them. But… luckily, I’m the one you’re talking to,” Bingyan thought unconsciously.

“Thank you, sister!” Bingyan bowed to her with sincere gratitude. She had awakened him, at the very least. Just then, he noticed she seemed to be in a daze. “Ah… honestly.” Now it was Bingyan’s turn to be speechless before this adorably absent-minded girl.

“Here!” Snapping back to herself, the girl rummaged through her pockets and handed Bingyan a card. Only after taking it did he realize it was a bank credit card. “You’ll need it. Remember to live well!” As he tried to return it, she had already hurried away.

Was she a martial artist too? Bingyan wondered, then shouted after her, “Sister, can you tell me your name?” He wanted to repay her kindness someday.

“Shadowfeather!” she called back without turning, clearly an alias, but Bingyan didn’t mind.

“Sister, remember—from today on, my name is Leng Bingyan! I live for myself! And, I’ve always wanted to say, your outfit isn’t cool at all—it’s really silly!” From now on, Bingyan—no, Leng Bingyan—would let his heart freeze, just like the drifting snow and the chill that surrounded him. He didn’t know why he blurted out that last part; perhaps, feeling close to the girl, he simply wanted to joke with her.

He clearly saw the girl stumble as she hurried away, nearly falling. “Ha! How amusing,” Bingyan laughed, his earlier gloom already forgotten.

Clutching the credit card in his hand, he resolved, I will live well—no matter what.