The sky was turning white, and the early winds of morning began to blow and skirt through the yard. The light was still dim. The person standing near the fake mountain was garbed in thick, rugged clothing. A steel pike was affixed to his waist, and a black cloth masked his face. The sight of him seemed as if he was a part of some motionless artpiece of a serene yard. Not a single sound could be heard, and his being there was almost ethereal. If a servant were to walk by, it'd be surprising if they took notice of the figure.
Fan Xian, now seeing this family member before him, someone he had known for 16 years, thought about how long it had been since they last saw each other. His heart was clutched by an unfamiliar feeling. He wanted to strike this person down, but he knew doing such a thing would be impossible, and he wouldn't have the talent to beat him. He also wondered if he wanted to run into his arms and cry. But this Wu Zhu was not a person of sentiments.
