When Jiaojiao's parcel arrived with the shoes inside, he actually leapt up—hard enough to bang his knee agains…
When Jiaojiao's parcel arrived with the shoes inside, he actually leapt up—hard enough to bang his knee against the table.
After so many years, he was wearing something made by his daughter again. The stitching was fine as silk, but the fit—just a little loose.
That evening, when he was slumped in a dim corner of the banquet, the heel slipped off just as the girl called Xiaopan edged toward him.
Then the hall erupted. Through the chaos, he charged straight at Fang Bai. The two of them—future in‑laws who had met only once—locked eyes in the middle of that desperate moment. And in that single glance, they both decided to gamble. Fang Bai's Sage Palm swept toward him. He shifted back just a hair. The blow struck him, but didn't pierce through. He crumpled into a nameless heap in the corner—one more "corpse" no one would check, no one would mourn. Their gamble paid off. But his shoes were gone.
Carried out with the dead, he drifted in and out, dimly grieving the loss. Even after he crawled out of the corpse pile, he was still thinking about them.
Without those shoes, even a clear path betrayed him—blocked by a massive fallen rock. The thing sat there, shameless as a stubborn mule. He pushed, he slapped, he shoved with all the breath he had left. It didn't move an inch.
Anger rose hot in his chest. If only he still had those shoes.
A good pair lets a man find his footing. And this boulder—this lump—was nothing more than a scrap from his youth, a stone he could once shatter with half a palm. So why couldn't he budge it now?
He must be hurt. Weakened. Had his hands... gotten smaller?
And then it dawned on him. Age shrinks a man, the same way cloth shrinks when shoes are made. Jiaojiao had sewn for him so many times—it wasn't her stitching that had grown too large. He was the one who had grown small.
When he was young, his wife had fallen for him at a single glance—broad‑shouldered, tall, unshakable. After she died, he carried his daughter from city to city in search of cures. She used to say her father was like a mountain.
But now—when had that mountain crumbled into a small hill?
He struck the boulder again and again. A lifetime of memories rushed past him. None stopped—Until one did.
He remembered carrying little Jiaojiao to seek help from a famed master. The gates were locked tight. He waited so long that his knees nearly gave way to the dirt.
But had he knelt? What held him back? His knees had hurt—was Jiaojiao calling him? What had she said?
Lan Shouchi pounded the rock, searching the past. And suddenly he knew. The words Xiaopan had repeated earlier were the very ones Jiaojiao had said back then:
"My father is the Palm Master Fierceness—the greatest hero in the world."
"He—*cough, cough*—he'll never kneel to the likes of you!"
Lan Shouchi straightened. He drew back his arm and struck.
Jiaojiao said I'm a great hero.
The boulder split.
Half‑Palm Against the Tide—returned to the jianghu.
In a heap of bodies no one looked at.
In Peach Grove Pass about to drown.
The waves were rising high—but he was Palm Master Fierceness.