When the tidings of his father and brother's cowardice arrived, Ding Xiao faltered for a moment, yet in his he…
When the tidings of his father and brother's cowardice arrived, Ding Xiao faltered for a moment, yet in his heart, he found them strangely credible.
For he recalled a childhood memory: watching from the shadows as his father tutored his brother in the art of the blade.
Tilting the blade, his father explained that a blade differs from a sword. It is a weapon of defense. One must always dwell behind the spine of the blade.
"You two brothers, one for the blade, and one for the brush. One to shield, and one to strike. A perfect union."
Back then, Ding Xiao did not see why a swordsman must hide, or how the brush in his own hand could ever be a weapon.
Then came the fall of the city and the ruin of his house. Imprisoned, he surmised it was his father's and brother's cowardice, their habit of hiding too deep, that had cost them all.
Through frozen nights in the dungeon, beaten without cause, he lay curled on the floor, watching moonlight wash over the stones, clear as frost.
It evoked the memory of sweet cakes, still fresh in his mind. He reached out to touch the light, but met only an icy chill. Life, it seemed, had nothing left but bitterness.
It was this bitterness that forged his resolve: he would live a life far removed from that of his father and brother.
Once free, the first skill he mastered was the smile.
Then he learned the low bow, and the art of lacing his words with thrice-measured respect.
Later still, he learned to craft his calligraphy into something supple and rounded. The brush became his true weapon; loath as he was to admit it, perhaps his father hadn't been entirely mistaken.
In this manner, his narrow path soon widened into a thoroughfare. Gold flew his way, men called him brother, and he secured himself a place within the general's tent.
Prosperous once more, he lived a life of plenty, yet every day he bought half a parcel of sweet cakes, chewing each morsel slowly.
Until a man named Meng Kuan appeared, bearing the grim truth of his kin's demise. A mere four words: The reinforcements never arrived.
His father and brother had not been hiding behind the blade. They had been used as the blade.
In the wake of the truth, Ding Xiao attempted to wield his brush for Du Qiyin once more.
Yet his resolve faltered, and the ink bled across the paper in jagged stains.
Had he not been a blade himself all these years? Concealed behind a bowing smile, masked by submissive ink.
But to dwell behind the spine is to parry first, biding time for the perfect opening, and to strike back with a lethal blow when least expected.
Father... was right all along.
He understood too late, having remained in the shadows far too long. If he were to launch his assault... it would be now.
That night, no moon graced the sky.
Yet for the first time since the passing of his father and brother, Ding Xiao tasted the true sweetness of the cake.
Perhaps when the deed is done, this sweetness, once guarded so fiercely, can finally be shared with the world.