The autumn rain grew heavier, splashing on the ground, soaking clothes, and chilling the heart. The square in front of the imperial palace was completely shrouded in misty rain, a damp, desolate scene as far as the eye could see.

Everyone's gaze was fixed on the small wooden platform in the autumn rain, on the two figures on it. An eerie silence prevailed, as if everyone was infected and controlled by some unknown emotion. No one spoke, no one moved, they simply watched, their gazes piercing through the heavy rain, focused on the platform.

Hundreds upon hundreds of imperial guards, inner court experts, and Qing Temple ascetics stood tensely and solemnly, drenched by the rain, like petrified wooden figures.

Just a moment ago, several people had died at the hands of the Little Fan. More importantly, with the rain falling so fiercely, they couldn't discern the color of emotion flickering in the eyes of the supreme ruler on the palace walls.

Yan Bingyun had recovered from his initial shock at seeing Fan Xian's figure. He lowered his head and began preparing for what might happen next, issuing instructions in a very low voice to his most loyal subordinates. The sounds were drowned out by the rain, unheard by anyone. However, several Surveillance Office spies dressed in ordinary clothes had already begun pushing through the crowd towards the execution ground.

Officials and commoners alike, both inside and outside the imperial palace, were stunned by the scene of Fan Xian charging in on horseback, drenched in blood, furiously drawing his sword in the rain, and covering the old man's body with his own robe. The first to react was He Zongwei, the highest-ranking official present, responsible for overseeing the execution.

The moment Fan Xian charged into the crowd, He Zongwei had reacted. With the utmost speed and subtlety, he quietly left the vicinity of the wooden platform, hiding himself behind the officials and guards. Peering through the gaps between wet shoulders and rain hats, he watched Fan Xian cradling Chen Pingping's frail body on the platform, a solitary and desolate figure. A complex emotion flickered in He Zongwei's eyes; he simply didn't want to die, yet both the old man and the young man on the platform had to.

Many others didn't want to die either. At this moment, Fan Xian exuded a chilling aura that even the biting autumn rain couldn't suppress. Everyone instinctively moved away from the platform. Eunuch Yao had long since retreated into the ranks, unwilling to become the next sacrificial lamb offered by the Little Lord to Chen Pingping.

Several corpses lay scattered around the platform. The autumn rain quickly diluted the color of the blood. The executioner, trembling and clutching a sharp dagger, was now the closest person to the platform steps. He looked at the Little Fan on the platform and noticed that he had lowered his head deeply, embracing Old Master Chen tightly, seemingly oblivious to any sound or movement in the world around him. Terrified, the executioner quietly retreated down the steps.

He had only taken two steps when his throat was severed with a crack, and his head fell heavily into the rain. The headless body followed, crashing to the ground.

The surrounding crowd gasped in shock, staring at the platform. Only those with extremely high cultivation could have noticed Fan Xian's hand twitch slightly a moment before, a black dagger flying out and disappearing into the rain.

…

…

Fan Xian sat cross-legged on the wooden platform, amidst the gazes of the multitude, yet seemingly unaware of them. He simply held Chen Pingping's body, his head lowered, letting the rain fall over him. His back was slightly hunched, making him look utterly desolate.

The old man's body felt weightless, like holding a wisp of wind that could dissipate at any moment. Beneath his disheveled hair, Fan Xian's pale face twitched slightly. Instinctively, he reached out and grasped Chen Pingping's cold, aged hand, holding it tightly, refusing to let go.

The old man had endured countless hardships in his life, crippled for half of it. His internal energy and blood had long since withered. During the slow slicing execution today, each cut, besides the pain, hadn't produced much blood. Yet, the torture of so many cuts still caused blood to gather, soaking Fan Xian's black Surveillance Office uniform, making it sticky, warm, and burning to the touch.

In the autumn rain, Fan Xian gently cradled his frail body, afraid of causing him any more pain, holding his cold hand tightly, afraid of him leaving just like that.

"If you weren't willing to come back, who could make you come back? Why did you drag me to Dongyi City?" Fan Xian said in a hoarse voice, his parched lips pale and peeling from the rain, looking utterly pitiful. "Who have I been working so hard for all these years? Wasn't it so that you old fellows could leave Kyoto and live a good life? I've been trying so hard..."

"You know I know everything." Fan Xian lowered his head even further, gently resting his cheek against the old man's wrinkled face, his body swaying gently in the rain, as if lulling the old man to sleep.

Suddenly, his hand tightened. The old man gripped Fan Xian's hand forcefully, but all his remaining strength wasn't enough to clench even a single hand. Whether it was reluctance or fear, in the midst of this wind and rain, amidst the blood-soaked ground, he wanted to hold onto something.

Like a knife slowly tearing through his heart, Fan Xian watched the old man in his arms, feeling cold and terrified, knowing that he couldn't hold on any longer. Instinctively, he squeezed the old man's hand, so tightly that his fingers began to turn white and ache faintly.

Chen Pingping's turbid, unfocused gaze moved slowly in the rain, taking in the familiar imperial palace, the rain-laden sky, and the blurry figure of the emperor on the palace walls, unable to clearly see that person's face. Then, he saw Fan Xian's face beside him. A faint smile flickered in the old man's cloudy yet clear eyes.

The old man knew he was about to leave the world he had lived in for a lifetime. His eyes gradually dimmed, barely able to hear any sounds in the world, the light before him slowly transforming into bizarre shapes.

In that instant, perhaps his legendary life flashed before his eyes like a slideshow – the young eunuch, the Eastern Sea, that woman, the Surveillance Office, the Black Knights, another woman, the dead, conspiracies, revenge... Various images flashed before his eyes, forming a blinding white line. Yet, no one knew what he saw in his final moments, what he most wanted to see.

—Was it the mud splashed up during a fight in the Cheng Wang Manor? Was it a branch of plum blossoms blooming in the Taiping Villa in winter? Was it the small fish freely playing in the shallow pond in the backyard of the Surveillance Office's square, somber building? Was it a flash of palace dress in the northern mountains? Or was it the little boy in Danzhou City, the one who held all his emotions and hopes for the second half of his life?

In the sound of the wind and rain, Chen Pingping suddenly heard some sounds again – singing, a graceful and familiar song, the one he had heard countless times in Chen Garden. Those concubines were beautiful, those songs were beautiful. The old man had spent his life immersed in darkness, being cold and ruthless, yet he had the gentlest desire to collect and cherish beauty. If tragedy is the destruction of all that is beautiful in the world for people to see, then Chen Pingping had only ever destroyed what he considered ugly and filthy, throwing himself into ugliness and filth, and then watching all things beautiful from afar.

"If you hear the sound of rain, who will be happy? Climbing over one mountain after another, in the rain, there is a happy song. When you hear the song, my heart will be happy..."

This was a song that the women in Chen Garden used to love. It echoed again in Chen Pingping's ears in the wind and rain. He struggled to open his eyes, looking at the sky, the earth, and the people around him, listening to the graceful sound. His bloodless lips moved slightly, as if singing along, but no sound came out.

Chen Pingping suddenly looked at Fan Xian and asked a question: "The box...?"

Fan Xian smiled wryly, speaking into the old man's ear, "It's a gun, a firearm that can kill people from a great distance."

This was probably Chen Pingping's last question in this life, so he asked it in his final moments. Hearing Fan Xian's answer, the old man's eyes shone slightly, as if he hadn't expected this answer. He seemed surprised, yet relieved. A gurgling sound came from his throat, and he gasped for breath. A look of coldness and arrogance appeared on his face as he said,

"That... thing... I... also... have."

Fan Xian didn't say anything, simply sitting cross-legged in the autumn rain, gently holding him, gently shaking his head, feeling the aged body in his arms growing softer and softer, and the aged hand he was holding tightly becoming colder and colder, until in the very end, it had no warmth left at all.

Chen Pingping died, right there in the autumn rain, in the arms of the little boy he cherished most. Before he died, he learned the truth about the box, and his face still held an expression of icy arrogance and self-importance.

Fan Xian numbly held the gradually cooling body, lowered his head, pressed his face against the old man's cold face, and whispered a few words. He suddenly felt that the wind and rain were like knives, tearing at his body, causing him unbearable pain. The pain erupted from his heart, spreading to every inch of his skin, like a slow slicing, until finally, it exploded.

On the small wooden platform in the autumn rain, a loud cry suddenly erupted, a heart-wrenching, liver-tearing, lung-splitting cry, so desolate that even the autumn rain dared not fall, a cry that no one could bear to hear...

In the twenty years since his rebirth, Fan Xian had never cried for anyone. Even on the few occasions when his eyes had moistened, he had forcefully suppressed it. No one in this world had ever seen him cry, let alone seen him cry so completely, so sorrowfully. All his emotions were vented in this one loud cry.

Tears couldn't blur his face, they simply washed away the dust that remained on his face, the dust that even the autumn rain couldn't wash away.

Just as the autumn rain couldn't stop, the tears couldn't stop either, pouring from his eyes, accompanied by endless grief.

…

…

That cry of sorrow from the small wooden platform on the execution ground pierced through the autumn wind and rain, spreading to every corner of the imperial palace, piercing into everyone's ears, causing countless hearts to ache and feel a chill.

However, this cry, landing in the ears of certain people, aroused intense fear, and more importantly, a clear signal.

Old Master Chen had finally died.

Whether anyone secretly rejoiced or breathed a sigh of relief because of this fact, none of the officials in the wind and rain revealed any emotion on their faces. Perhaps some sadness flashed in some eyes, but more held a solemnity and slight tension, and a faint sense of loss in their hearts.

One of the great pillars of the Qing Dynasty had been broken. Those civil officials who had been suppressed by the dark Surveillance Office for decades and had struggled in court disputes suddenly felt a chill in their hearts. The founding father of the Surveillance Office had died just like that? They seemed unable to accept this fact for a time, because in their eyes, this terrifying figure shrouded in black mist seemed impossible to kill.

Countless people were thinking of countless images because of Chen Pingping's death, images of the Qing Kingdom through decades of wind and rain. No one dared to deny the contributions Chen Pingping had made to the Qing Kingdom's empire. In this historical scroll, the thick, dark splashes of ink used to add the finishing touches were this man and the Surveillance Office he had created. Without these splashes of ink, where would the spirit of this scroll come from?

When Fan Xian's cry pierced through the wind and rain, reaching the lofty palace walls, no one noticed that the Qing Kingdom's emperor, radiating imperial aura in his dragon robe, made a very subtle movement. His entire body leaned forward slightly, perhaps only the distance of two fingers. A moment later, the emperor straightened his back forcefully, keeping the distance between his emotionless face and the bloody execution ground in the rain at the initial distance.

And certainly no one noticed the emperor's hands, hidden in the sleeves of his dragon robe, slowly clenching.

At this moment, watching the death of his old companion, his old servant who had followed him for decades, the old fellow who had watched him rise from an insignificant son of a noble family to the most brilliant and powerful man in the world, just die so resolutely, what were the emperor's thoughts? What were his feelings? Was it a deep-seated emptiness, or an anger that even he himself couldn't explain, an anger that came from nowhere?

Yan Bingyun, under the palace walls, lowered his head deeply, lower than all the officials beside him. He faced the execution ground, and through the rain curtain, he could still see Little Fan holding the Old Master's body, looking indifferent and numb. His body trembled slightly as he thought of the words Old Master had once said to him in the Surveillance Office's square building, a long time ago.

One day, I will die, and Fan Xian will go mad...

…

…

Yan Bingyun suddenly raised his head, took a deep breath, wiped the rain from his face, and continued to issue orders to all sides in secret. The spies hidden in the crowd of onlookers were ready to strike at any moment, containing the madness that might follow within the smallest possible area. Of course, Yan Bingyun hoped that none of this would happen.

——————————————————

The man was dead. Although the slow slicing execution had not been completed, the executioner had been cleaved in two by Fan Xian in his resentment, so there was no need to continue. The autumn rain continued to fall sadly, but no one left the square in front of the imperial palace. Everyone seemed to know what was about to happen next.

The ascetics surrounding the execution ground slowly approached the small wooden platform. The bamboo hats on their heads shielded them from the rain, also hiding the expressions on their faces. Fan Xian seemed oblivious to the danger below the platform, sitting numbly on the platform, still holding Chen Pingping's body, refusing to let go.

The tears had mixed with the rain and gradually stopped. Fan Xian suddenly stood up, but his body swayed slightly. It seemed that the thousands of miles he had traveled these past few days and nights had exhausted him, and the anger and sorrow that pierced his heart today had further weakened his spirit.

However, the swaying figure in the rain on the platform startled the people around the platform, causing them to subconsciously take half a step back.

Fan Xian indifferently carried Chen Pingping's body down from the platform, not even looking at these people, as if they didn't exist.

And these people surrounded the platform, waiting for the order from the supreme ruler on the palace walls.

…

…

The emperor looked at the scene below the palace walls with a pale face, his deep eyes flashing with extremely complex emotions. From the incident at Suspended Temple, his appreciation for Fan Xian was based on the fact that this son was a man of great loyalty and affection. Although he hadn't expected Fan Xian to return, he didn't find this scene strange.

Even our emperor wasn't worried. In his heart, he believed that Anzhi was a pitiful child who had been deceived by the old black dog Chen Pingping. Perhaps Anzhi still didn't know how much Chen Pingping wanted to kill him, wanted to kill all of his sons, wanted to make him childless and heirless... But as he watched Fan Xian's desolate figure, the emperor couldn't suppress a sense of sadness and anger. He was saddened by what Fan Xian was showing, and angered that the old dog Chen Pingping, even in death, had easily captured the heart of his most beloved son.

Just like the woman who had died many years ago.

The emperor was silent for a long time. The injuries he had been forcefully suppressing gradually opened up because of the agitation of his mind, and blood seeped from his chest and abdomen onto the dragon robe, a shocking sight.

He flicked his sleeves and left the palace walls with an indifferent expression.

Below the palace walls, Fan Xian, holding Chen Pingping's body, left the small wooden platform soaked in rain and blood and walked towards the west side of the square, walking slowly and heavily. Until this moment, he hadn't glanced at the palace walls.

His Majesty had already left. No one in the world dared to stand in Fan Xian's way. Everyone instinctively made way for him, the crowd parting like the sea being cleaved by a sword, the waves rising and separating, revealing a path where the rocks could be seen.

In the rain, Fan Xian left, carrying Chen Pingping.

…

…

(Who is a hero, and what does it take to be called a hero? This is a question that everyone has a different opinion on. In this story, everyone who can be true to their own thoughts is actually a remarkable character, it just depends on how much they are willing to pay for this thought. Being able to pay a lot is shocking enough, especially the word "hero," which is only about grandeur, and not about anything else.

Regarding men, it's not enough to just have genitals to be called a man, and spiritual impotence is also unacceptable. And although Chen Pingping was a eunuch, he was actually an idealist, a simple person, a man with a gun...

He was more of a man than most men. The last sentence he said, "That thing, I also have..." is how I've viewed Chen Pingping ever since I conceived this story.

Continue to ask for monthly ticket support, thank you everyone for having the same joy, sorrow, or感动 as I do towards this story, it is a very amazing thing, a very satisfying thing.)