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Summary
No, he was no father. What kind of parent would send their child into battle, allow them to face the most dangerous and savage of opponents, and then delight in the bloodlust and exhilaration that emerged? What kind of parent would see the perfection in spattered crimson across a young, delicate face, all while criticizing the slipup in footwork that led to an unnecessary injury? Because when Yanqing was fourteen, Jing Yuan had realised quite abruptly after one particularly vicious slaughter, that the boy looked strikingly beautiful covered in blood.
He had always thought himself to be a good man, an honourable man. But that was the moment Jing Yuan began to realise that… perhaps he was not.