C7 A Rusted Knife

After a hurried burial, Jing Chong bowed several times at his parents' graves, burned paper money, and wept profusely. By then, most of the villagers had already left, leaving only a handful of people, with Uncle Li steadfastly by his side.

It was only after a long wait and Uncle Li's comforting words that Jing Chong finally left the gravesite and returned home.

The once bustling courtyard was now eerily quiet. The dispersing crowd left behind a disheveled space, stirring in Jing Chong a sense of inexplicable fear and loneliness. In just a matter of days, his parents were gone, their laughter and joy a thing of the past. The desolate entryway echoed with silence, leaving him to wonder about his next steps.

Suddenly, a pair of words surged into his mind, reigniting his passion.

Revenge!

Such a burdensome concept. At his young age, even with all his might, how could he possibly seek vengeance? He feared that even if his adversary stood before him, he would lack the strength to exact revenge and might instead lose his own life.

Without realizing it, his thoughts circled back to that singular notion.

He recalled the previous night when he had returned home to find Dazhu beating him mercilessly. There was something off about the encounter, but he quickly rationalized that perhaps Dazhu had misunderstood him due to his close relationship with Jing Chong's father, and this thought brought him some comfort.

But what was truly happening? Who could harbor such animosity towards the Jing family?

The more he pondered, the more muddled his thoughts became. Overwhelmed by pain and confusion, Jing Chong staggered into the dilapidated mountain house.

Inside, the once familiar furniture lay toppled, a stark reminder of the crime that had occurred. Given Dawnbreak's isolation, such an incident would hardly attract the attention of the Wolf Law Enforcement Division responsible for tribal security. Jing Chong realized that seeking justice for his family's tragedy would likely end in vain, especially since he lacked the funds to pursue legal action.

Jing Chong shook his head in agony and stumbled into the inner room. He was so exhausted that he didn't even notice which bed it was before he collapsed onto it and fell asleep.

The past few days had taken their toll, and even with a heart as resilient as his, he had reached his breaking point.

He slept for half a day, but the sleep was restless and of poor quality. Nightmares frequently disturbed him, and he struggled to awaken, his chest heavy with an unrelieved mental exhaustion.

As soon as he lay down, his eyes closed and he drifted off once more. But the moment he did, the horrific image of his parents' wrongful deaths invaded his dreams. He could feel a knife scraping incessantly at his neck, the sensation so vivid that it jolted him awake.

Drenched in cold sweat, Jing Chong's mouth was bitter, his throat parched. He sat up abruptly and slapped his face twice in an attempt to clear his mind.

After drying the sweat from his face, he stood up to look for a water jug.

His hand brushed against the bed frame, and the rough sensation instantly dispelled all his discomfort.

He couldn't resist following the sensation with his eyes, and there it was—a conspicuous knife mark.

"Why is there a knife mark here? The killer must have snuck into my parents' room and caught them off guard. But the cut should be at the head of the bed, not on the middle of the bed frame," he mused, his thoughts now fully captivated by the mystery.

He lay back down in the original position and reached out, but he couldn't feel the knife mark he had just seen.

Glancing at the head of the bed, Jing Chong noticed another mark in the spot where he had been lying. The two marks, clear in his mind, prompted a thoughtful consideration.

"Perhaps it was due to the chaos of multiple attackers," he conjectured. The only plausible explanation seemed to be that one of the assailants had struck the bed frame by mistake during the assault.

But this notion was quickly dismissed. Although Jing Chong was no martial artist, he understood the basics of chopping wood: a knife typically cuts deeper in the direction of the force applied, leaving a shallower impact on the receiving end. This was due to the concentration of force in the direction of the cut.

If that's the case, it was clear that the blade had been swung from a lying position.

"Lying down to swing a blade? Could it be Father?"

The thought of his father wielding a knife made Jing Chong's eyes sparkle with realization.

His father, Jing He, possessed considerable strength and had never been seen using a knife. Even when chopping wood, he seldom used anything but an axe, preferring it even when it was blunt. It was as if he had a certain aversion, deliberately avoiding knives.

Yet, in a life-threatening situation, the fact that he could instinctively use a blade to chop suggested one thing: his father always kept a knife close at hand.

But how could that be? At twelve years old, Jing Chong knew every inch of their modest home. If his father had hidden a knife, why had he never come across it?

With his mind swirling with questions, Jing Chong felt compelled to take action.

He sprang to his feet, noticing the bloodstain still on the floor. It appeared that the assailant hadn't killed his father with a single blow in bed, but rather during a confrontation after getting up.

When Jing Chong had first heard the noise and rushed into the room, his parents were already lying there, but he hadn't had the chance to take it all in before being chased out by the intruders.

Now, three days later, the house seemed untouched except for the moved bodies, suggesting that clues might still be found.

With this thought, Jing Chong's excitement surged. He crouched down and peered under the bed. The gap was narrow, and with dusk setting in, the light was faint. Straining to see in the dimness, he could make out nothing until his eyes adjusted and he spotted a long, indistinct shadow in the corner.

The immediate thought that flashed through his mind was that it must be his father's knife.

Without a moment's delay, he grabbed a wooden stick and reached under the bed, stirring around.

Clang!

The metallic sound jolted Jing Chong's nerves, and he frantically manipulated the stick, sweat beading on his forehead in his urgency. Finally, he managed to retrieve it.

The object Jing Chong had just unearthed was indeed a knife, though it was not particularly remarkable. It resembled the type of knife commonly used by performers in the marketplace. The only notable difference was that this knife was slightly shorter than the average, measuring around two and a half feet in length.

The blade was slender yet exceptionally sharp. Despite being covered in rust, one could still sense a faint coldness emanating from its edge.

Jing Chong carefully held the knife in his hands, aligning it with the crack in the bed frame. It fit perfectly.

"Father actually had a treasured blade. What was his life like when he was younger? Could he have made enemies back then?" Jing Chong mused, his thoughts sharp, yet he found it challenging to uncover the deeper truths with what little he knew.

Driven by curiosity, he continued to flip the blade over in his hands, scrutinizing it intently. The blade, as wide as a palm, bore deliberate marks of having been ground down. Beneath the layers of rust, Jing Chong could just make out some inscriptions. With the aid of the dim light, he discerned the character for "sun."

The character "sun" appeared flattened, resembling a radical rather than a complete character, and the characters beneath were indiscernible.

His father must have done this intentionally. It seemed he was concealing something, or perhaps he had crossed someone, leading to such dire consequences.

The radical "sun" suggested there were more characters, possibly the character "Jing," which could be his father's surname. Was his father from a powerful family or part of a significant faction? This was Jing Chong's immediate conjecture. However, the truth of his father's identity and the identity of his parents' killer remained elusive, hidden behind the mystery of the blade.

Involuntarily, Jing Chong let out a sigh of resignation and shook his head in dismay.