My Ares Son-in-Law

The roar of the plane's engines still lingered in my ears, like the afterglow of an unfinished symphony.

The silver-clad passenger plane, shaped like a giant bird, had gracefully landed beside the jet bridge and come to a steady stop.

Inside the terminal, indicator lights, like stars in the night sky, change colors in an orderly fashion, guiding passengers in their direction.

Ground crew drove various vehicles around the massive fuselage.

Their busy figures resembled industrious worker ants surrounding the queen's nest, carrying out various tasks in an orderly manner.

The conveyor belt slowly connected to the cabin door, and baggage carts shuttled back and forth among the crowd.

A faint smell of fuel permeated the air, mingling with the cool breeze.

It seems to be silently telling the story of the perfect end of another journey, or the beginning of a new story.

At the exit of the international arrivals hall, a large crowd of people had already gathered to greet their loved ones.

Their eyes were filled with anticipation and anxiety, like wanderers waiting for their loved ones to return, eagerly watching each figure emerge from the gate.

Flight information scrolls across the electronic screen, like a river of time, constantly updating the return dates for each traveler.

Over the loudspeaker, a gentle female voice broadcast announcements in multiple languages, like a caring guide pointing travelers in the right direction.

This modern transportation hub, with its efficiency and order, showcases the wisdom and power of human civilization.

However, this modern picture, constructed from glass, steel, and digital technology, was soon shattered by an abrupt intrusion.

It was a group of dozens of people, and as soon as they appeared in people's sight, they attracted everyone's attention like a magnet.

They did not win by making a big show of it; in fact, one could say their silence was excessive.

But it is precisely this quality, so out of place with its surroundings, that creates an invisible field, causing even the noisy air to unconsciously retreat.

The eyes of passersby held a mixture of curiosity, inquiry, and even a hint of barely perceptible fear.

They instinctively raised their phones, and the cameras were all pointed at this group that seemed to have stepped out of the depths of history, trying to capture their unique charm and stories.

They were all dressed in the same gray Taoist robes.

That gray was not the sophisticated gray depicted in fashion magazines, but rather one that exuded refinement and style.

Instead, it has undergone countless washings and the erosion of time, losing all its vibrant colors and becoming almost gray and white, blending into the dust.

This gray-white color seems to have had its vitality drained by time, leaving only the most authentic simplicity.

The Taoist robe was made of extremely thick fabric.

Upon closer inspection, the texture is as rough as an old man's wrinkled palm.

A gentle sniff is like traveling through time, carrying the scent of something left after prolonged exposure to sunlight.

The aroma was a blend of the fresh scent of soapberry and the rustic fragrance of herbs and trees.

It instantly evokes images of rustic villages and the scene of laundry workers repeatedly rubbing soap pods in wooden basins.

The robe's design is extremely archaic, with wide sleeves that exude a free and unrestrained air, yet it is devoid of any superfluous decorations, achieving the ultimate in simplicity.

Only at the collar and cuffs can you see the fine and even hand stitches.

Each stitch seems to be infused with the maker's painstaking effort.

Each line seems to carry some unspoken creed.

The simple philosophy is sewn into every inch of fiber, giving this simple Taoist robe a soul.

As they walked, the hem of their robes swayed slightly with their steps. The sway was not a frivolous swing, but rather seemed to carry not a gentle breeze, but the heavy weight of time.

This time contains the vicissitudes of history, the accumulation of culture, and the spirit and faith passed down from our ancestors.

On their feet were black cloth shoes with multiple layers of soles.

The soles were stitched extremely tightly, with each layer of fabric fitting together as if they were an inseparable whole.

When they stepped on the smooth, mirror-like floor tiles, the sound they made was not a crisp, pleasant one, but a dull, heavy "plop, plop" sound.

The sound was steady and rhythmic, neither too fast nor too slow, with each step firm and powerful.

The sound was strange and unique, piercing through the background noise and clamor.

It was as if the drumbeats were coming from an ancient tribe, carrying a primitive and simple power, striking the seemingly strong but actually somewhat restless heart of the modern palace.

The voice carried an undeniable firmness, as if declaring to the world the beliefs and traditions they upheld.

No matter how times change, no matter how noisy the surrounding environment, they will steadfastly follow their own path.

Their hairstyles seemed to deliberately distance themselves from this fast-paced era, carrying a sense of alienation and detachment from the world.

In the crowd, most people chose to tie their hair up on top of their heads with dark-colored wooden hairpins.

That wooden hairpin was made from nature, its shape was natural and unadorned, without any unnecessary embellishment or polishing.

Upon closer inspection, one can clearly see the wood grain that has not been completely smoothed, like marks etched by time.

And those scars, large or small, are like unique marks on a wooden hairpin, exuding a rugged and unrestrained spirit from the mountains.

It seemed to be telling its story from deep in the mountains and forests.

A few people, on the other hand, let their long hair hang loosely.

Their hair wasn't as shiny and flowing as the hair of models in fashion magazines, as if every single strand had been meticulously styled.

On the contrary, these strands of hair, rough and dry from the wind and frost, seemed to have endured countless days and nights of toil and hard work, eroded by time and the elements.

As the air conditioner gently blows, strands of hair flutter in the breeze, adding a touch of nonchalance and untamed spirit.

It's as if they're showing the world their unpretentious and carefree attitude towards life.

In stark contrast to them were the well-dressed, hurried travelers around them.

The men were dressed in sharp suits, the crisp fabric reflecting the cold light of the overhead lamp, as if to demonstrate their status and position.

The ladies wore stylish dresses, some elegant, some sexy, which accentuated the unique curves of the city and showcased their fashion and charm.

They pulled their suitcases, the omnidirectional wheels gliding swiftly across the ground, making rhythmic sounds, as if urging time to move forward.

This stark contrast is not merely a simple difference in style, but more like an unexpected overlap of two completely different parallel universes at this moment.

On one side is rustic, natural, and unpretentious; on the other side is modern, fashionable, and fast-paced.

This visual dislocation is so strong that it makes one feel slightly dizzy, as if they are in a fantastical dream.

Among these dozens of people, the elderly man at the head of the group took this sense of displacement and presence to the extreme.

He wasn't particularly tall and didn't stand out in a crowd.

However, when he stood there, he possessed an undeniable, towering presence. (End of Chapter)