As Cheng Muyun's black sedan rolled over the last stretch of bluestone path in front of the ancestral hall, the setting sun in the west was casting its last rays of golden-red light onto the upturned eaves, only to have them shattered by the white banners suddenly unfurled beneath the eaves.
The vermilion gate of the ancestral hall was wide open, and layers of white banners hung from the beams, rustling in the wind like countless pale shadows swirling in the air.
The air was filled with the smell of incense and paper ash, mixed with the chill of early autumn, making one's chest feel heavy.
But this solemnity was abruptly torn apart by the scene at the entrance—dozens of men in work clothes sat silently at the bottom of the steps, some holding signs with words printed on them, the ink blurred by the wind.
They didn't make a sound, but when they looked up at the approaching car, their eyes were filled with an unyielding coldness, like a silent wall that completely blocked the entrance to the ancestral hall.
Further away, under the shade of trees, the sound of camera shutters was deliberately kept very low.
Several reporters sat cross-legged on the ground, whispering something.
Someone said something, and a worker twitched the corner of his mouth. That smile, seen by Cheng Muyun, seemed particularly glaring through the fluttering paper money and swaying white banners.
He pushed open the car door, his leather shoes making a soft thud on the ground covered with fallen leaves. The sound was like a pebble thrown into a frozen lake, instantly drawing everyone's attention at the doorway, even the white banner fluttering in the wind seemed to pause for a moment.
The moment the car door opened, Cheng Muyun's hand, which was gripping the door frame, trembled slightly.
The arm, wrapped in thick gauze, peeked out from the hospital gown, the seeping blood staining the pale fabric with dark marks. With every movement, it felt as if countless needles were pricking the bones.
He gritted his teeth and straightened up, moving slowly towards the entrance of the ancestral hall, each step carrying an undeniable sense of oppression.
The group, who had been whispering just moments before, seemed to be paused, all sound abruptly ceasing. The workers' relaxed expressions vanished instantly, their gazes fixed on him, from his bandaged forehead to his bleeding wrists, finally settling on his unfathomable eyes.
When Xu Zhuohua was still alive, Cheng Muyun always loved to smile at people, his eyes and brows exuding gentleness.
But now, all that gentleness has been burned to ashes by a great fire.
The protest signs held by these people in front of her, the demands they whispered—aren't they all the forces that pushed Xu Zhuohua into the abyss?
Cheng Muyun clenched his hands tightly at his sides, his nails almost digging into his palms.
The murderous intent surging in his chest almost burst out of his body—he even clearly thought that if he had a gun in his hand at this moment, none of these people would survive.
His face was expressionless, his jawline was taut like a string about to snap, and the surging ferocity in his eyes was almost tangible.
That wasn't the usual scheming, nor was it feigned gentleness; it was ice laced with poison, a blade burning with raging flames, the very air scorching from its murderous aura.
The workers who were sitting in silence should have immediately raised their signs and shouted slogans, but those rehearsed slogans were stuck in their throats.
But when Cheng Muyun's gaze swept over, everyone seemed to be frozen in place, their legs felt like lead, their throats tightened, and they dared not breathe.
This man, dressed in a hospital gown and covered in injuries, bears no resemblance to his former self.
He stood there, his body swaying slightly from the pain, yet he resembled a grim reaper crawling out of hell, each step treading on the very tip of one's heart.
Cheng Muyun stopped in front of them, his gaze slowly sweeping over them.
Despite the sweltering heat of summer, those he saw felt their blood freeze instantly. Cold sweat trickled down their necks, carrying a bone-chilling coldness, as if they would be slowly tortured by the icy gaze in his eyes at any moment.
Cheng Muyun exuded a chilling aura, like a soul-reaper taking out the Book of Life and Death and scrutinizing the person he was about to kill.
Even the reporters who were about to stop Cheng Muyun didn't make a move.
Because they could all sense that Cheng Muyun was now like a mad dog without its chains.
He really would kill anyone who tries to stand up for him.
Zhang Qi followed closely behind, the sweat on his palms making the gun slightly slippery.
His gaze swept across the seated crowd like a hawk's, his finger gripping the trigger tightly, his nerves taut like a fully drawn bowstring.
Cheng Muyun's figure moved slowly among the white banners, his shoulders, wrapped in gauze, slumped slightly, each step as if he were dragging a heavy burden.
The ancestral hall was so quiet that you could hear the crackling of the burning incense and candles. The reporters and workers who had been whispering and confronting each other just moments before had become silent background figures, even their breathing was deliberately quiet, letting the scarred man pass through their sight and walk into that solemn white space.
Zhang Qi stared at Cheng Muyun's retreating figure, his heart feeling as if it were being gripped by an icy hand.
He knew all too well that Xu Zhuohua was the only source of warmth for Cheng Muyun.
After Cheng Muchuan left, Cheng Muyun became a cold, emotionless blade. It was Xu Zhuohua who gradually pulled him out of his icy abyss, and he learned to smile again and to be gentle with people.
Cheng Muyun, with Xu Zhuohua in his eyes, has a light in his eyes, like an ice lake melted by the warm sun, clear and gentle.
But now, that light has been completely extinguished.
Xu Zhuohua perished in that man-made fire, and Cheng Muyun's last shred of humanity was also burned away.
Zhang Qi looked at Cheng Muyun's hands hanging by her sides, her knuckles white from the force she was using. Those hands had once gently stroked her hair, but now they held a ferocity that could overturn everything.
This was clearly a caged beast that had broken free of all its shackles, a demon king who had crawled back from hell to claim lives. Zhang Qi's Adam's apple bobbed, and a chill inexplicably rose within him—from now on, it seemed no one could stop him.
The Cheng Clan Ancestral Hall was adorned with white banners four times in just two years.
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