A family of loyal martyrs, starting with nine wives to continue the family line.

After returning to the capital, Fang Zhaoru stayed at the residence of the White-Robed Imperial Preceptor.

The grandfather and grandson barely spoke on their first night together after a long separation; they simply sat facing each other and drank tea.

Fang Fuyao was looking at Fang Zhaoru when she placed the last pot of hot tea on the table.

He had been watching for a long time.

From the moment she entered the room, to the moment she took off her cloak, and then to the moment she personally washed the cups, rinsed the teacups, and poured the tea, she didn't say a single unnecessary word.

The only sound in the room was the faint sound of tea soup falling into a cup.

After finishing a cup of tea, there wasn't a sound of footsteps outside.

It was late at night, and the lights of the capital city were already quite far away.

Fang Zhaoru stared at the bottom of the cup, as if he was thinking about something extremely difficult to say.

Fang Fuyao glanced at him and suddenly asked, "Grandpa, why didn't you come back sooner?"

The cup in Fang Zhaoru's hand stopped.

He had thought of many things to say.

He said the road was blocked, that he couldn't find the person, that the White Wolf tribe was keeping too close a watch, and that he was old and his legs weren't as strong as before.

But none of those words mattered when she said that.

She wasn't asking about the road or the situation.

She asked him why he had delayed until today when he clearly had the opportunity.

He put down his teacup and lowered his voice.

"I'm thinking about something."

Fang Fuyao didn't reply, she just looked at him.

She was waiting, waiting to see if he would try to brush her off with the same old excuses again.

Fang Zhaoru smiled bitterly to himself when he saw her expression.

She was like this even when she was little; once she set her mind on something, she wouldn't even blink.

Even now that he's the Imperial Advisor, he hasn't changed.

"That painting has remained in the Central Plains for three hundred years."

He said slowly, "Besides our Fang family, no one can understand the markings on it. If I had drawn it down and returned it to them back then, the White Wolf tribe might have gone back long ago. So many people wouldn't have died."

Fang Fuyao tightened her grip on her sleeve.

She didn't speak immediately; she knew her grandfather wasn't making excuses.

He is genuinely thinking about this issue.

It is precisely because it is real that it is even more frustrating.

Three hundred years have passed, and only today do we say "maybe." It sounds light, but it weighs heavily on our shoulders.

"It's not too late now."

She reached out and pressed his cold hand against it: "His Majesty has already sent someone back with the map, along with an edict of submission."

Fang Zhaoru looked up at her.

"Was it sent back?"

"It's been sent back."

Fang Fuyao answered decisively: "The map is the map, and the people are the people. The White Wolf Tribe wants to find a route, not to treat the Central Plains as enemies. His Majesty has returned the map, which also makes his position clear. If you want to go home, you can. First, you must acknowledge Xinwu."

After listening, Fang Zhaoru was taken aback for a moment, then nodded.

"He was a good emperor."

Fang Fuyao looked at him, and her eyes finally moved.

"Have you heard of him in the Western Regions?"

"I've heard of it."

Fang Zhaoru leaned back in his chair, a hint of fatigue on his face: "I heard that the emperor of Xinwu is a young man who rose through the ranks of war, and all nine of his wives are capable women. When I was waiting for Nie Yinniang in the oasis, I was thinking—an emperor like that wouldn't hide that map away like a treasure."

Fang Fuyao couldn't help but smile.

"You know how to compliment people."

"I'm not exaggerating."

Fang Zhaoru shook his head: "It depends on the person. A person who can put his whole family on the battlefield to maintain the situation won't just focus on one map. Such an emperor knows what to hold onto and what to let go of."

He spoke very calmly, as if he were talking about something that had nothing to do with him.

But Fang Fuyao could tell that he was actually worried the whole time.

It wasn't that they were afraid the emperor would covet the secret map, but that they were afraid the people in the Central Plains would treat it like a powerful tool to suppress others, clinging to it tightly.

That would truly cut off the White Wolf tribe's path home.

She suddenly felt a tightness in her throat.

She rarely showed such emotions in front of her grandfather. Even when the Fang family was in trouble, even when she was sent to hide in the deep mansion, even when she later took on the role of the national advisor, she rarely spoke softly.

But now, she doesn't know whether to scold him or to breathe a sigh of relief for him.

In the end, all she said was, "It's good that you're back."

Fang Zhaoru looked at her for a long time before finally smiling.

"You've grown up."

"I'm all grown up now."

"I know."

He raised his hand, intending to pat her head like he did when they were children, but stopped halfway and instead pressed his sleeve down: "I'm sorry I came back late."

Fang Fuyao lowered her eyes and did not respond.

She actually knew it in her heart.

Whether it's too late or not is no longer up to him to decide.

Three hundred years of old grievances cannot be settled in one go.

Being able to send the map back, send out the edict of submission, and put this path back on the table is already the best possible outcome.

She didn't want to keep asking "Why not sooner?" because asking would only make her feel worse.

But she still felt that the old man was too resilient.

He managed to hold on until she almost didn't recognize him anymore.

"When you were waiting for Nie Yinniang in the oasis, did you really not think about running away?" she asked.

"I've thought about it."

Fang Zhaoru answered quickly: "Where can I run to? The White Wolf tribe recognizes me, and the Black Flag Army recognizes me too. To the east is Xinwu, and to the west is the desert. At that time, I thought that if I could hand over the things to someone who would listen to me, then my life would not have been in vain."

Fang Fuyao lowered her head and tapped her finger lightly on the rim of the cup.

"You've got it now."

"Um."

Fang Zhaoru responded softly, "That's enough."

The night fell silent for a while.

Fang Fuyao picked up the empty teapot and got up to add hot water.

As she walked to the door, Fang Zhaoru suddenly spoke.

"Soaring High"

She stopped, but didn't turn around.

"I used to think that if Tu Ruo didn't return it, the Fang family would be letting down our ancestors. But when I actually got to the Western Regions, I realized that what our ancestors wanted was not for us to cling to a piece of skin." Fang Zhaoru looked at the gray sky outside the window paper, "What they wanted was for future generations not to go down the wrong path."

Fang Fuyao had her back to him, and after a long while, she finally hummed in response.

She poured the hot water into the kettle, turned around, and her face remained expressionless.

But when Fang Zhaoru saw the redness at the corner of her eyes, he knew in his heart that this girl was not unaffected, but was just used to not saying it.

"You're back. The rest is up to His Majesty."

She put the teapot back: "I don't want to worry about you anymore."

"it is good."

"And don't run around anymore."

"it is good."

"If you disappear for another three years, I'll put your memorial tablet in the front yard."

Fang Zhaoru chuckled upon hearing this, finally seeming like a truly living person.

"Then I'd better live a long time, otherwise you'll even drive away the incense offerings."

Fang Fuyao didn't respond to that, but instead lowered her head and poured him another cup of tea.

After she sat back down, the two of them remained silent.

This time, it took longer than before.

Fang Fuyao didn't stand up until dawn, her sleeve brushing against the edge of the table, her voice very soft.

"I'm leaving."

Fang Zhaoru nodded.

"Go."

She walked to the door, paused, and without turning back, left only one sentence.

"Grandpa, don't think of yourself as someone who owes you a life."

After saying that, she pushed open the door and went out.

The room suddenly became empty.

Fang Zhaoru sat in the same spot, looking at the still steaming cup of tea on the table, his gaze slowly drifting into the distance.

He waited a long time before whispering something.

"The debt of three hundred years has finally been repaid. Let them walk their own path from now on."

He reached out and lowered the wick, the flame dimmed, and the room darkened.

Fang Zhaoru leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and slept without a dream.