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

The news that Fang Zhaoru would be appointed as the Pacification Commissioner of the Western Regions and would travel west with the White Wolf Tribe spread like a gust of wind into the schools of the capital.

During the afternoon break, the classroom was quiet and peaceful, unlike usual.

The first batch of students walked out of their classrooms, but instead of going to the playground or chatting in small groups, they spontaneously lined up in a row on the way to the temporary lecture hall.

They just stood there, without saying a word, like rows of newly sprouted trees.

When Fang Zhaoru's thin figure appeared at the intersection, all eyes turned to him.

The old man wore a faded old blue robe and walked slowly but steadily.

When he saw the scene before him, he paused slightly, a hint of surprise flashing in his cloudy eyes.

He didn't speak, but simply nodded to the young faces, and then, as usual, walked into the temporary lecture hall where he most often stayed.

The lecture hall was packed with people, and students were even standing in the aisles.

Fang Zhaoru walked to the corner in the last row that was his and sat down.

This lesson was about policy discussions. The instructor was on stage talking about "what is the foundation of the nation." Halfway through, he noticed the old man in the corner and unconsciously softened his voice.

Fang Zhaoru listened attentively, without a pen in his hand, simply listening quietly.

He listened to the person on stage say "The people are the foundation of the country, and the scholars are the pillars of the country," and listened to the questions, some naive and some sharp, as his gaze swept across the young faces.

These children were different from those he had seen in the sands of the Western Regions.

Their eyes held light, doubt, and anticipation for the future.

When the bell rang to signal the end of get out of class, Fang Zhaoru stood up, preparing to leave quietly as usual.

But a figure blocked his way.

It is Wei Changming.

The boy stood ramrod straight and bowed deeply to him.

He didn't say anything polite like "Thank you for your guidance, sir." When he looked up, his eyes were a little red, and his lips moved slightly. He only said, "Have a safe journey, sir."

Fang Zhaoru looked at him.

This child has a certain energy about him, somewhat like His Majesty when he was young.

It's not that they look alike, it's that indomitable spirit.

The old man smiled slightly and nodded gently: "I've read your policy proposal. It's well-written."

Wei Changming was stunned.

Fang Zhaoru raised his hand, as if to pat his shoulder, but lowered it halfway through.

"You will be able to sit on this podium in the future."

After saying this, he didn't linger and turned to walk out the door.

Wei Changming stood there blankly, watching the old figure disappear through the doorway. His heart felt both filled with something and empty.

He knew that the old gentleman who had been listening in would never return.

That evening, when Fang Fuyao returned to the Imperial Preceptor's residence, Fang Zhaoru was packing his bags.

There wasn't much stuff; a worn-out bundle lay on the bed, containing only a few changes of clothes and a few books with frayed edges.

There is also a volume of his own hand-drawn notes on the Western Regions.

Fang Zhaoru carefully placed the scroll of notes into the innermost layer of the bundle, moving very slowly, as if he were placing a rare treasure.

Fang Futao stood at the door, watching his busy figure, without saying a word or going forward to help.

The room was quiet, with only the faint sound of clothes rubbing together.

After a long while, Fang Zhaoru suddenly spoke, his voice somewhat hoarse.

"Girl, in my life, Grandpa has done two great things."

Without turning around, he continued, "One thing is that when I was young, I was bewitched and brought that painting back from the Western Regions."

"The other thing is to return this picture to you now."

He paused for a moment and sighed.

"The former killed many people and forced a tribe to endure in the desert for another three hundred years. The latter... hopefully it can save some people."

Fang Fuyao went in, sat down beside him, and straightened a piece of clothing that had been folded crookedly.

"And the third one?" she asked in a low voice.

Fang Zhaoru turned his head and looked at his granddaughter, who had become the Imperial Preceptor. A rare smile appeared on his face, deep wrinkles.

"The third thing is that I raised you to be the way you are now."

He looked at her with a kind of pride that was unique to the elderly, almost a boastful pride.

"That was the best thing I ever did in my life."

Fang Fuyao's eyes immediately reddened.

She turned her head away, not wanting him to see.

But Fang Zhaoru seemed to have known all along, and gently patted the back of her hand.

"Alright, stop acting like a little girl. You are the Imperial Advisor now, His Majesty's right-hand man. What kind of behavior is this, crying and whining?"

He said that, but he didn't remove his hand.

Fang Fuyao sniffed, holding back her tears, and when she turned her head back, her face had returned to its usual calm.

"It'll be cold on the road, so bring an extra warm coat."

"I brought it."

"Where's the medicine? Did you bring the medicine for rheumatism?"

"I brought it. The bag you sent the day before yesterday, I put it in my inner pocket."

"Once you reach the Western Regions, don't push yourself. Rest when you can't walk anymore; the White Wolf tribe won't dare to do anything to you."

"I know, my old bones are very precious."

The question and answer sounded like the usual instructions between grandparents and grandchildren, but everyone knew that this departure might be a final farewell.

On the day of departure, the sky was just beginning to lighten.

An inconspicuous blue cloth carriage drove out of the side gate of the Imperial Preceptor's residence without alerting anyone.

Neither Wei Zhao nor Fang Fuyao went to see them off.

This was Fang Zhaoru's own request. His original words were: "The more people see me off, the less I want to leave. Just think of it as me going out for a walk, a little further away."

The carriage slowly drove westward out of the capital.

Outside the West Gate, a procession was already waiting on the official road.

Two hundred White Wolf Knights stood in neat rows along the roadside, silent as a forest.

Their warhorses pawed restlessly, but dared not utter a neigh.

At the very front of the procession, beside the tall, greyish-white camel, stood Ashina Jinle, the new leader of the White Wolf tribe.

He was dressed in a black robe, his waist still empty, and simply watched the carriage approach.

The carriage stopped in front of the procession.

Fang Zhaoru did not get out of the carriage, but simply lifted the curtain and nodded in the direction of Jin Le.

Jinle bowed in return.

No further words were spoken.

The driver flicked the reins, and the carriage started moving again, merging into the silent procession.

Amidst the creaking of wheels rolling over the dust of the official road, Fang Zhaoru turned back for one last look at the majestic city wall behind him.

In the morning light, the gray-blue city wall resembles a sleeping dragon, guarding the peace and tranquility of the city's myriad lights.

He looked at it for a long time, then slowly lowered the carriage curtain.

Inside the carriage, darkness returned.

Ultimately, this is a path I must walk myself.

He closed his eyes, but in his heart he wondered if this journey westward was the end of the road or the end of his life.