Zhang Chengling scrubbed hard at his eyes, but very quickly, his vision blurred again. He knew that Zhou Zishu was most annoyed by his crying, and he choked, “Shi, shifu, I don’t mean to cry, I just...I just...I’ll be fine in a while…”

Zhou Zishu exhaled. Unlike usual, he did not say anything, but reached out to pull Zhang Chengling into his embrace. Zhou Zishu had only casually draped an outer robe over his inner robe; dressed extremely thinly, his warmth easily seeped out through his clothes. Zhang Chengling buried his face into Zhou Zishu’s chest, and in that instant, felt as though he was sheltering against a mountain that would never crumble.

Sworn ties between the great houses were no more than lies and treachery, and yet, strangers who met by chance could survive by leaning on each other.

Cao Weining tugged at Gu Xiang, and they left quietly. Gao Xiaolian took a deep breath, and returned to her room too, deeply troubled. Only the master and disciple were left in the courtyard; through the window, the Great Shaman gazed at them, and couldn’t help but ask softly, “Is that...Manor Lord  Zhou? Since when was he this…”

Lord Seventh chuckled gently. In a murmur, as a reply or to himself, he said, “Was he not always like this? Back then, he was the same to Jiuxiao. Although he always behaved like a strict father or older brother on the surface, he planned everything and made arrangements for Jiuxiao in secret. A pity, how that person did not appreciate his effort.”

The Great Shaman looked back at him. The room was not lit; mostly hidden in the shadows, with only the moonlight illuminating a small quarter of his face, Lord Seventh was ethereally beautiful. He said, “If you say that he is a great humanitarian of good virtue and etiquette[7], he may not dare to acknowledge it. If you say that he isn’t a good person, however...he has done those deeds that the heavens would strike him down for, but not one of them was committed out of selfish desires for his own ends.”

Abruptly, he turned around, snatched something up, and walked out, sighing almost imperceptibly.

Lord Seventh strode into the courtyard, and tossed the object in his hand into Zhang Chengling’s arms. It was a sword of black iron; Zhang Chengling scrambled to catch it. He froze, dumbfounded, then slowly unsheathed it when Zhou Zishu nodded.

That sword was extraordinarily wide, even twice the width of Cao Weining’s. There was no glint to be seen, but it had an ancient, primitive air to it. Shining with a dull light, the blade was mantled with the dense miasma of carnage. When held in the hand, it had a solid, abundant heft, and was about two to three times heavier than an ordinary sword.

There were two words carved along the fuller: Great Famine.