The job change is a bizarre and calamity; the nation begs me to tone it down.

At that time, Wang Cang only felt that his father's voice was very calm, but he could see the fire dancing in his father's eyes.

Through his father's narration, the names of those heroes became a deep imprint on his childhood.

The White Tiger Legion Commander, Fist King Zhao Ji, can smash mountains with a single punch; the Black Tortoise Legion Commander, Thunder God Qin Dong, can summon divine thunder in the clear sky; and the Vermilion Bird Legion Commander, Zhu Rong Su Lian Yue, can burn the heavens and boil the seas with a single skill.

He rested his chin on his hands, listening intently.

These are not just stories, but also the reality of the world his father lived in, a world full of unimaginable dangers and unwavering courage.

After he finished speaking, he would use his little fingers to touch the scars on his father's arm. Each scar was like a medal, a passage that he couldn't fully understand at the time.

One evening, after listening to a story about resisting a beast tide, the father stopped, looked down into his own eyes, and patted his own shoulder heavily with his large, fan-like hand.

"Kid..."

At that moment, he spoke in a rare serious tone: "When you successfully change jobs one day, you should also join the army to protect your country."

"Defend the country?"

This word is too grand and too abstract.

For Wang Cang at that time, it meant becoming like his father, like Li Baiyun, and like Zhao Ji.

They have cool scars and can tell even cooler stories.

He nodded vigorously, his face serious: "Yes!"

Father laughed, his laughter like a stone rolling down a hillside, with a rough texture.

He didn't know if the child understood or not, but that didn't matter.

……

When I was ten, the world turned gray, not because of a sudden downpour.

Instead, it was a suffocating sunset.

The mother who always warmed the family like the sun grew paler and quieter day by day.

Her laughter, which once filled the entire courtyard, turned into dry, labored coughs.

And his father, that mountain-like man, seemed to shrink along with him.

He stayed by his mother's bedside all day, holding her hands that were so thin they were just bones. His usual silence was filled with a heavy, suffocating fear.

The day my mother passed away, the sky was leaden gray.

There was not a breath of wind, and all was silent.

The whole world seemed to have stopped breathing.

When Wang Cang returned from school and opened the door, he was immediately met with a deathly silence.

My father sat on the edge of the bed, his broad back hunched over.

He didn't need anyone to tell him what had happened.

He found out.

He stood there at the door, his backpack slipping off his shoulder and falling to the ground with a "thud".

The slight sound broke the stillness.

The father turned around, and in the dim light, Wang Cang saw that the soldier's face was covered in tears.

His father opened his arms to him.

Wang Cang ran over, buried her face in his clothes, and let out all the sobs she had been holding back.

That hug was so tight.

"Xiao Cang,"

After a long while, his father's broken voice rang out atop his head: "From now on... it's just the two of us. You must take good care of yourself and grow into a real man."

For the next six years, he studied hard.

The man who once fought monsters and told heroic tales is now learning to be a mother.

He learned to cook, and the dishes he made were often either burnt or undercooked, but there was always a clumsy yet ardent love in them.

He tried to mend torn clothes, his stitches crooked and uneven, like an ugly centipede.

He would sit at the small dining table, his brows furrowed, trying to help his son solve the difficult problems in his homework. His huge hands, holding a small pen, looked so comical.

Life was tough, but it was a life that belonged to the father and son.

The father and son depended on each other for survival.

As Wang Cang grew taller, his voice became deeper and hoarse. The boy who was once afraid of the scars on his father's body now regarded those scars as a hero's roadmap.

His father was his anchor, his compass, and the entire sky above him.

……

On my sixteenth birthday.

The television in the corner was displaying static.

A serious-looking news anchor is broadcasting the news in a solemn tone.

"...The Kunlun Ruins defense line has suffered a large-scale invasion by alien races. The battle is fierce, and the defense line is on the verge of collapse..."

Wang Cang only heard the gist of it; his entire attention was drawn to the aroma wafting from the kitchen.

That's the aroma of soy sauce, star anise, and pork simmering slowly in the pot.

Braised pork belly was his favorite.

It's also his unwavering birthday dish.

My father, wearing an apron that looked somewhat ridiculous on him, came out of the kitchen and placed a large bowl of glistening, red-ruby-colored braised pork on the table.

"Eat up...you're growing."

Wang Cang immediately buried himself in hard work.

The meat was stewed to perfection, melting in your mouth, rich but not greasy.

He was eating his second bowl of rice when his father's voice rang out again, his tone casual, almost deliberately casual.

"Xiao Cang, I may be gone for a while."

Wang Cang's chopsticks, which were holding meat, stopped in mid-air.

He looked up, his mouth still full: "Where to?"

His father didn't look at him; he just stared at the war-torn scenes on the television screen.

"The military is conscripting you. To the front lines."

The front line, Kunlun Ruins.

At that moment, the vocabulary on television finally connected with his world, piercing through the warmth of his birthday.

"Then... can I not go?"

I blurted out this question without even thinking about it.

This was a young boy's plea tinged with selfishness.

He didn't want to be left alone.

However, the father suddenly turned his head, a long-lost sharpness flashing in his eyes.

"The father and son of Sherlock are here to protect their home and country."

These words pinned Wang Cang firmly to his chair.

At this moment, he was more than just his father.

He was an elite warrior of the Azure Dragon Legion.

A soldier answering the call of his country.

The rest of the meal was eaten in silence.

After dinner, Father changed into his familiar military uniform, and once again slung his old canvas duffel bag over his shoulder.

He stood at the doorway, his figure the same as eleven years ago, outlined by the light as a silent silhouette.

He turned around and rubbed Wang Cang's head one last time with his rough, large hand.

"Stay home and take care. Once you successfully change jobs and join the army, you'll be able to see me again."

Then, he turned around and walked away without looking back.

The sound of footsteps faded into the distance on the dusty path.

The door clicked shut.

Wang Cang stood there for a very long time, the sweet and savory aroma of braised pork still lingering on his tongue.

That was the last time he saw his father.