My mother was a kind person.
To me.
To my little brother, Yŭxuān.
To the servants, to the elders, even to the passing strangers who sought shelter at our gates.
In a clan where strength dictated worth, she was an anomaly—a woman who wielded no power, no cultivation, yet commanded respect through something far rarer: compassion.
She had the patience of the moon and the gentleness of falling snow. When she spoke, her voice was soft but steady, the kind that made even warriors pause to listen. She was the kind of person who never raised her voice, yet when she did, even my father listened.
But as much as I admired her kindness, I never once saw her weakness.
Because kindness was not weakness.
Not for her.
She was a woman who had chosen to love and protect her children despite knowing that the world would one day demand they be thrown into battle.
And for that, I respected her.
A Marriage of Indifference
As for her relationship with my father…
I never gave it much thought.
There was no warmth between them, no shared glances or private smiles. No gestures of affection, no spoken words of love. But neither was there resentment, nor anger.
If I had to put it into words—
It was neutral.
Or perhaps, it was simply a bond forged out of duty rather than affection. A marriage arranged for the sake of the clan, for lineage, for tradition.
Did my father love my mother?
Unlikely.
But did he hate her?
No.
I had seen him fight people of all kinds—men, women, the elderly, the young. His strikes did not discriminate, nor did his judgment. Strength was the only thing he acknowledged. Weakness, the only thing he despised.
To him, my mother was neither strong nor weak.
She was simply there.
And in this household, where power meant survival, perhaps that was the safest place to be.
The Nature of My Father
Was my father misogynistic?
Probably not.
I had watched him train warriors of all kinds. I had seen him spar with women just as he did with men, correcting their form, testing their limits, pushing them as hard as any of his male disciples.
Strength was what mattered to him, not gender.
To my knowledge, he had never raised his hand against my mother.
He was not a kind man. Nor was he cruel.
He was simply a warrior.
And warriors did not waste time on things they considered beneath them.
If he had no love for my mother, then he also had no hate. He had no reason to harm her, just as he had no reason to protect her.
Perhaps, in his own way, that was its own kind of respect.
A Mother's Love, A Son's Guilt
Despite this, my mother continued to love us.
She was the one who bandaged my wounds when I returned from training.
She was the one who scolded me when I pushed myself too hard.
She was the one who reminded me, time and time again, that even in a world where strength ruled, there was still value in kindness.
But I—
I had no time to be kind.
I had no room for softness.
The world would not allow it. My father would not allow it.
And one day, even she would not be able to protect me from the path that lay ahead.
I wondered if she knew that.
If she knew that the son she loved so dearly would one day have to stain his hands with blood.
And if she did—
I wondered if she wept for me when no one was watching.
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And So the Crows Wept
Crows and doves.
Two sides of the same coin, yet the world had always seen them differently.
The dove, with its pale wings and gentle coos, was a symbol of purity. A bringer of peace. A creature that embodied hope and light, embraced by all, cherished as an omen of fortune.
The crow, with its dark feathers and sharp gaze, was a harbinger of misfortune. A scavenger that fed on the dead, circling above battlefields, its cries an omen of doom. A beast of ill luck, despised and feared.
But did the crow not have wings, just like the dove? Did it not soar through the same sky, drink from the same waters, build its nest with the same care?
The world had chosen to love one and hate the other.
To find beauty in light and ugliness in darkness.
To welcome the dove and shun the crow.
Yet in the end, when blood was spilled and bodies fell, it was never the doves that remained.
It was the crows.
They did not turn away from death. They did not weep for the fallen. They bore witness, perching atop the ruins of what once was, gazing upon the carnage left behind by those who sought strength above all else.
And perhaps, in their own way, they did weep—
For they were the only ones left to see the world for what it truly was.
A World Where Strength Reigned
In this world, strength was the only truth.
To be strong was to be righteous. To be weak was to be discarded. There was no fairness, no justice—only power.
Those who soared like doves, dreaming of peace, were crushed under the weight of reality.
Those who survived, like crows, were cursed for their endurance.
And so the crows wept.
Not because they were weak, but because they understood—
In a world ruled by power, even the righteous must stain their hands with blood.
Even the doves must become crows.
Even I.