100: Chapter 98 The sorrows and joys of the world are not shared

Jiang Yong looked at his son with worry:

"I went to Xiao Qing's place for dinner today, and I heard that many people died down the mountain. Is that true?"

"Father, that's not true. There's a merchant association saving people down the mountain. You're worrying for nothing."

"Saving people?" Father Jiang looked disbelieving.

"So, there are still unscrupulous merchants who aren't completely heartless?"

Jiang Hanwen didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Why did he feel like he was being scolded? The key was that he couldn't talk back.

"I think they must be kind-hearted."

"Mofan~" Father Jiang called out to the door.

Then, Xiao Bu Dian walked into the house and leaned against Father Jiang's feet.

With that obedient look, Jiang Hanwen found it difficult to associate him with the murderous 'Black Dragon' from that day. He just wanted to curse him for being so fake, so good at pretending.

"You can't lie to me. Xiao Bu Dian said he could go down the mountain and check for me." Father Jiang pouted, a hint of grievance in his tone.

Jiang Hanwen glared at Xiao Bu Dian, as if saying, 'You're the only one with guts, aren't you? Don't you know to only report good news?'

Xiao Bu Dian, who usually would have argued back, was exceptionally quiet this time when faced with Jiang Hanwen's glare. No emotion could be seen in his eyes; he was like a stone statue, a little eerie.

Left with no choice, Jiang Hanwen had to tell his father his 'analysis' of the merchant association, explaining how seemingly harsh conditions were used to filter out those who truly needed help.

"Father, it's like this, I heard..."

The gentle lamplight was soft, one speaking, one listening.

Xiao Bu Dian looked into the distance, wondering what he was thinking.

At first, they talked about the refugees down the mountain.

As they chatted, Father Jiang spoke to Jiang Hanwen about his mother, whom he had never met.

Then, he recounted how he had picked him up from a pile of dead bodies and raised him.

Jiang Hanwen used to wonder why people tended to reminisce about the past more as they got older.

Now he understood: because the future no longer belonged to these elders.

Time is a cruel thing. When one is young and has abundant youth, it follows like a shadow, thrown into countless trivialities by the youth, yet it still chooses to follow eagerly.

But as one ages and the stakes decrease, time gradually becomes terrifying, transforming into a giant maw, blocking the inevitable path of life, waiting to swallow the youth's past and regrets.

To buy osmanthus and drink wine, it is ultimately not like the journeys of youth.

Father's words tonight were exceptionally numerous, so much so that Jiang Hanwen became a complete listener, unable to interject a single word.

"Son, you always say I'm a good person. Actually, there's no such thing as good people or bad people, just different ways of living.

What you sow, you shall reap.

I grew up eating from a hundred families. When I was seven, my father..."

For the first time, Father Jiang spoke about his own childhood.

Xiao Bu Dian climbed onto the bed, leaning next to Father Jiang, acting incredibly sweet.

Father Jiang leaned against the pillow, sitting on the bed, with Xiao Bu Dian on his left and Jiang Hanwen on his right. They chatted like this all night.

His father and son had never talked like this before. Finally, Father Jiang held Jiang Hanwen's hand, looking at him with a smile:

"Son, I miss your mother. For the road ahead, your father can't help you. You must be well." After saying this, Father Jiang closed his eyes, a fixed smile on his lips, and fell asleep.

The unexpected arrived, a chill spreading from his feet throughout his body.

Jiang Hanwen gently covered his father with the quilt and stood by his side, pinching his thighs tightly.

Although he had prepared himself, when this moment truly arrived, he still couldn't remain calm.

"I miss my mother," three words.

His father refused resuscitation and life extension.

Xiao Bu Dian's eyes were red, and at some point, clear tears streamed down his Face.

His father's breathing gradually thinned, like a wisp of Qi, until finally, his heartbeat disappeared.

Tomorrow and the unexpected, you never know which will knock first.

On the morning of September 13th, at the end of the Yin hour, before the sun had even touched the earth, Jiang Yong departed this world forever.

"Boom!"

A bolt from the blue, a violent clap of thunder shattered the silence of Dazhai Village.

In less than ten breaths, dark clouds rolled in, as if the world was ending, encompassing the entire Dazhai area for dozens of miles.

The sky, which had just brightened, turned dark again.

Countless people looked up, astonished by the sudden change in weather.

"What's going on? The sky just brightened, why is it cloudy again?"

"I don't know, hurry and gather things. The weather isn't right. Don't go out today."

..."Rustle~"

A faint crimson, carrying afishy smell, fell from the sky as raindrops.

Outside the window, a pattering rain began to fall. It was red, as if the sky itself was weeping.

Xiao Bu Dian walked to the bedside, and in a blink, transformed into a stern, black-robed youth. With a wave of his hand, a black coffin lay quietly on the ground, with incense, candles, paper money, and other items neatly arranged beside it.

He clenched his fists, looking at Jiang Hanwen with yearning eyes.

At this moment, he was not the Black Dragon who could move clouds with a single hand, but merely a filial son hoping for recognition of his identity.

"You come along too," Jiang Hanwen said.

Washing the body, dressing, placing in the coffin, lighting soul lamps, burning paper money, lighting incense, hanging spirit tablets... In the pouring red rain, the two finished arranging the mourning hall.

Jiang Hanwen, dressed in mourning clothes, knelt before the hall.

Beside him, Xiao Bu Dian also knelt, holding a tablet on which was clearly written:

Master: Jiang Yong.

Servant: Jiang Mofan.

Jiang Mofan, Xiao Bu Dian said, was the name his father gave him.

Given such a cultured name, his father must have loved it very much.

Just like his own name, Hanwen, which his father deliberated over for months, finally settling on it when he learned to speak.

He was the only son, and Xiao Bu Dian was the only servant.

The hanging soul-summoning banner fluttered high.

In the blood rain, figures rushed over.

Song Shuming, Lei He, Xiang Jie, Zhuang Kongming, Zhuang Mingyu, Chen Qingzhi... Regardless of their feelings, or whether their condolences were sincere, all were stopped by Jiang Hanwen.

He was sorry, but this time, he wouldn't give anyone Face.

In his heart, a funeral was an extremely private matter, a solemn occasion at the gates of the underworld, where the living bid farewell to the deceased, and absolutely not a boisterous place for exchanging favors.

His father liked quiet during his lifetime, and Jiang Hanwen didn't want this last journey to be chaotic.

The only exception was Gong Qing.

This unfortunate man, whom his father regarded as a junior and often fussed over, became the fourth breath in the mourning hall.

Outside the courtyard, people who came to pay their respects voluntarily formed a large circle, white becoming the main theme of the entire Medicine Field.

For the next six days, the entire Medicine Field was eerily quiet. No one dared to speak loudly, no one dared to argue, and even the usually lively side courtyard fell silent.

The kitchen of Tianyuan Residence ceased its cooking fires and became silent.

The shadow of death pressed the pause button, and the entire Medicine Field seemed like a silent film, immersed in boundless sorrow.

On the seventh day, a black coffin was buried in a corner of the Medicine Field, bringing an end to the days of silence.

The mourning hall was dismantled, the soul-summoning banner burned, and the sky was clear.

The solemnity that had weighed on everyone's hearts dissipated, and amidst discussions, laughter resumed.

The joys and sorrows of the human world are not interconnected.