"Tomorrow is the last special training session," Han Feng suddenly announced. "I will personally take action. If you can last for an hour, you will pass."
The entire training room erupted in commotion. Wang Hao, eager to try, said, "Brother Feng, I've already broken through to the Great Dao Realm. If all of us gang up on you, you might not be a match for us."
The others chuckled and chimed in, "Yeah, Captain, are you really going to challenge our entire team?"
Han Feng gave a wicked smile: "Sorry everyone, I was fortunate enough to break through to the Origin Realm a couple of days ago."
The training ground fell silent. The members of the Reverse Scale Squad exchanged glances, and even Wang Hao, who was the most eager to try, swallowed hard.
"Boss...you just mentioned the Origin Realm?" Wang Hao's voice trembled slightly. "Is it the power you used that day to control the laws governing the life and death of those flowers and plants?"
Han Feng grinned, and a strange aura suddenly swirled around him—not energy fluctuations, but something more fundamental. The fallen leaves beside the training field moved without wind, forming a perfect Tai Chi pattern beneath his feet.
"Pervert..." someone muttered under their breath, which immediately drew a chorus of agreement.
"Tomorrow I will suppress my cultivation level to the Great Perfection of the Innate Realm," Han Feng said, withdrawing his oppressive aura. "But I will utilize some of the power of the laws. After all..." He glanced at each team member, "After I leave, you may face enemies of this level."
This sentence made the atmosphere heavy. Everyone understood what "leaving" meant.
---This is the dividing line---
The lights in Villa No. 3 were warmer than usual. When Han Feng pushed open the door, his mother was coming out of the kitchen with a fruit platter. Seeing him alone, her eyes dimmed slightly, but she quickly smiled: "You're back? Your father is pruning the roses in the yard."
Sure enough, his father was in the backyard, squatting in front of the flower bed with his back to the door. But Han Feng noticed that the rose bush had been pruned almost bald—clearly, his father had been distracted for a long time.
"Dad," Han Feng called softly.
Mr. Han's body stiffened slightly, and with a "snip," the scissors severed the last flower branch. He put down his tools, dusted himself off, and stood up: "You're here? Sit down."
The wicker chair in the corner of the courtyard still held the warmth of the afternoon. The father and son sat down side by side, with two cups of tea that had long since gone cold on the small table between them.
"Your mother just brewed some Taiping Houkui tea." Mr. Han pushed a cup towards him. "Old Lin told me everything."
Han Feng held his teacup, his fingertips tracing the warm, smooth porcelain surface: "Hmm, I'll be leaving in half a month to complete my assignments."
Silence was expected. Only the rustling of the evening breeze through the bamboo grove could be heard.
"How long?" The father's voice was calm.
"Uncertain." Han Feng looked down at his reflection in the tea. "It could be a few months, or it could be..."
The rest of the words were left unsaid, but both understood. Suddenly, Han's father got up and went into the tool shed, emerging with half a bottle of baijiu and two small cups.
"Have a drink with your old man." He filled the glass, the amber liquid rippling in the moonlight. Han Feng noticed that his father's hair had turned mostly white.
"Dad," Han Feng suddenly asked, "When you went on missions in unfamiliar places back then...were you ever afraid?"
Han's father tilted his head back and downed his drink, his Adam's apple bobbing a few times. "Yes, I was scared. The night before my first mission, I hid in the bathroom and threw up for half an hour." He poured his son another drink. "But your grandfather said that the men of the Han family aren't incapable of fear; they're afraid, but they still have to charge forward."
The sound of a mother chopping vegetables drifted from afar, the rhythmic clapping sound like a beat to keep the conversation going.
"When you were little..." Han's father suddenly laughed, "When you were three, you secretly wore my military uniform, and you tripped over it and knocked out half of your front tooth. Your mother almost twisted my ear off."
Han Feng smiled too. He remembered that photo—a little kid in an oversized military uniform, grinning foolishly with a missing tooth.
The moon rose higher, its silvery light bathing the courtyard. Suddenly, Han's father lowered his voice: "When did you start using that... Star Power?"
A glimmer of starlight gathered at Han Feng's fingertip: "Awakened by chance after university."
"You've gone over there..." His father's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Take care of yourself; this may be your destiny."
The simplest words of advice brought tears to Han Feng's eyes. He nodded emphatically: "Mm."
A warm yellow light suddenly shone through the kitchen window, and his mother's figure busied herself behind the curtain. She was preparing his favorite braised pork—using the traditional method that requires stewing for two hours.
"Go ahead," his father patted him on the shoulder, "help your mother peel garlic. I...I'll trim the flowers a bit more."
As Han Feng stood up, he saw his father quickly wipe his eyes. He pretended not to notice, and simply bent down to hug the man who had once shouldered the burden of the entire family.
"Don't worry," he whispered in his father's ear, "I'll come back."
When I entered the house, my mother was putting rock sugar into a pot. The caramelized sugar melted in the oil, creating fragrant bubbles that resembled the clouds at sunset.
"Mom, I'll peel the garlic."
The mother didn't turn around, but simply moved aside. This woman, who was always smiling, had her shoulders tense at that moment.
Han Feng sat quietly on a small stool, peeling garlic. One clove, two cloves... the garlic skins made a soft, crunching sound on his fingertips, blending with the sounds of stir-frying and stewing meat to create the warmest melody.
Outside the window, Father had indeed begun pruning the roses, his movements much more focused than before. The moonlight cast his shadow on the windowpane, like a silent silhouette.
The braised pork belly simmered and steamed in the clay pot, the dark brown sauce thickening and glistening. Mother Han sprinkled in the last handful of chopped scallions, instantly filling the entire kitchen with an irresistible aroma.
"Serve the food." Her voice was a little hoarse, and she deliberately avoided Han Feng's gaze.
As the three sat down at the dining table, the half-empty bottle of baijiu (Chinese liquor) was returned to the table. Surprisingly, Han's mother didn't object; instead, she took out two small wine cups: "Drink less."
Han's father's hand trembled slightly as he poured wine for his son, the liquid swirling in the glass. Han Feng reached out to steady the bottle: "Dad, let me do it."
The braised pork was stewed until tender and juicy, rich but not greasy—the most authentic taste Han Feng remembered. He ate three pieces in a row, his cheeks bulging, and mumbled, "Mom's is still the best."
Han's mother finally smiled for the first time that evening, fine wrinkles forming at the corners of her eyes: "Eat more if you like it." She then placed the largest piece of food into his bowl, adding, "Don't starve yourself while you're out here."
"Mmm." Han Feng buried his head in his rice, afraid that if he looked up, his reddened eyes would be seen.
The meal was eaten quietly, with only the soft clinking of bowls and chopsticks. When the plate of braised pork was finished, Han Feng put down his chopsticks and said casually, "By the way, I've already arranged with Mengran, Wanwan, and Wantang to visit their parents in the next couple of days."
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