Let Go

Another figure emerged from the darkness.

It was An Changsong.

His gaze swept over Su Yuehe, standing resolutely with her back to the entrance, before finally settling on Su Jin’s rigid silhouette. He let out a soft sigh.

“The child has grown up. Some things can no longer be kept from her.”

“Not being able to hide something and simply letting it happen are two different things.”

Her voice echoed through the spacious tent, devoid of emotion.

“What she needs is guidance, not indulgence.”

“Guidance?”

An Changsong walked in slowly and poured himself a cup of hot tea. The chill inside and outside the tent seemed to be shut out by that single cup.

“What you did just now wasn’t guidance. It was building a wall.”

He looked toward Su Jin.

“You used your authority as Chairwoman to suppress your daughter’s questions. For that child, the desire for knowledge is what drives her. Don’t tell me you failed to see that.”

Su Jin finally turned around, but she remained just as forceful.

“An Changsong, watch your words. She is my daughter.”

Holding the warm teacup in both hands, An Changsong looked past her toward the curtain that had not been fully drawn shut.

“You and I both know that Lu Ming’s actions can’t be written off as simple betrayal.”

“He ignored the ban, touched upon forbidden knowledge, and nearly caused an irreversible disaster. What more is there to understand? If he isn’t a traitor, then what is he?”

“If Yuehe meets him, who knows what that madman might—”

“But his original purpose was good.”

An Changsong looked at her.

“In this world, being ordinary is a crime.”

He and Lu Ming had been classmates and close friends since their student days.

That was why he knew Lu Ming had been researching this plan since his school years. Su Yuehe’s birth had merely provided the opportunity.

Unable to accept that his daughter would be nothing more than an ordinary person, Lu Ming had brazenly decided to put his theory into practice.

“What if it had failed?”

Su Jin had thought she could let go, but the moment she closed her eyes, her mind filled with scenes she could not bear to imagine.

What was wrong with being ordinary?

A normal job, earning a modest income, marrying someone who was neither handsome nor ugly, and living an ordinary, peaceful life to the end.

“But Yuehe succeeded, and Lu Ming’s theory succeeded as well.”

An Changsong raised his eyes to look at her.

“She harnessed that power. Wasn’t that within your expectations, Su Jin?”

“Don’t tell me you had no faith in that child.”

Su Jin’s lips pressed into a thin line. She did not answer.

“Whether he succeeded or failed cannot change the nature of Lu Ming’s actions.”

She emphasized the point again, refusing to mention her daughter’s success.

“He is a traitor to the council. That fact will not change.”

An Changsong set his teacup on the table with a faint clink.

“Then what do you intend to do? Continue using orders to keep her locked inside the academy?”

He gestured toward the entrance.

“Do you really think she’ll still obey your orders now?”

“Didn’t you hear what she said just now?”

Su Jin turned back toward the vast star map, her finger gliding lightly across the region representing the northern frontier.

“She’ll calm down.”

Her tone stated it as an inevitability, something confirmed countless times in the past.

“Emotions are temporary. Reason will return.”

Just as it had for her. She, too, had once acted on impulse, but in the end, she had returned to the role demanded by her identity.

An Changsong gave a low laugh, the sound tinged with helplessness.

“Reason? Su Jin, your biggest problem is that you put too much faith in reason.”

He walked to her side and looked at the twinkling points of light across the star map.

“You treat everything as a foregone conclusion, including your own daughter.”

“I once knew someone who was just like you—someone who liked to fit all things into calculations. Back then, even I was included in those calculations.”

As if recalling something, An Changsong’s face took on a foolish grin.

“But you underestimate the power of emotion.”

“Just like that child.”

His voice sank, and his expression turned serious in an instant.

“She has emotions. She has a will of her own. And now, she has the confidence to stand against you.”

Su Jin’s voice was cold and hard.

“That confidence was given to her by me.”

“No.”

An Changsong shook his head. Looking at Su Jin, he felt a headache coming on.

He often felt that this old friend of his had a split personality, forever caught in a battle between the left and right sides of her brain.

But in truth, reason and emotion were simply at war within her, leading her to make all sorts of strange decisions.

That was a good thing, because at least her humanity had not been erased.

“She earned that confidence herself. In that spacetime ruin, in the instant when everything went out of control and was reforged, she earned it.”

“You saw the power she gained, but you didn’t see the pain she endured to obtain it. She already possesses the heart of a strong warrior. She didn’t merely pick up a peerless imperial weapon left behind by one.”

Su Jin’s finger, resting on the star map, came to a stop.

“You can’t keep using the old methods.”

An Changsong spoke like a patient old friend persuading a stubborn companion.

“The more tightly you try to restrain her, the harder she’ll struggle to break free.”

“That child has been trapped in lies for long enough.”

At last, Su Jin took her eyes off the star map. Deep within them, a fleeting weariness appeared.

“Then… what should I do?”

For once, she asked with a rare air of seeking advice.

An Changsong’s voice was firm and clear as it echoed through the tent.

“Let go.”

He said only two words.

Then he turned and walked away.

If saying this much was still not enough to change Su Jin’s mind, then anything more would be pointless.

…

Elsewhere.

Long Ao walked beside Chen Guan, carrying two cans of self-heating hot drinks. He shoved one of them over.

“Here.”

The warm can dispelled some of the chill from Chen Guan’s fingertips.

Chen Guan took it and thanked him.

[It’s been ages since we last heard Bro Coffin say thank you.]

[The most ungrateful man alive.]

[Bro Coffin is practically a saint now if he isn’t making me eat beef.]

“Your arm really is fine?”

Long Ao shot him a glance, his brows tightly furrowed.

“I could tell something was wrong with you earlier. Your complexion’s even worse now.”

“It’s nothing serious.”

Chen Guan’s voice sounded a little airy, mostly because he felt guilty.

“I’ll have Doctor Zhou take a look later. Probably just a bit of an aftereffect from overexerting it.”

He really did plan to find Doctor Zhou—not just because of his arm, but also because he needed a quiet, private place.

It was time to bother—no, pay a visit to—the all-purpose caretaker left behind at base.

Long Ao asked no further questions. He simply slowed his pace to match Chen Guan’s.

[What a thoughtful sweetheart.]

[Long Ao still doesn’t know that Chen Guan is also adjusting his pace to match him.]

[LOL, just let the two of them keep accommodating each other.]

Chen Guan: “…”

Long Ao really was a pretty decent guy.

To avoid continuing to make a fool of himself, Chen Guan suddenly quickened his pace. Long Ao had been fine all along, so why did he need to walk so slowly?

Unaware of the reason, Long Ao was baffled, but he sped up as well.

For a moment, the two of them looked exactly like they were competing in a speed-walking race.