Chapter 787: Song Yangzhu’s Pride

Ye Mo expected Song Yangzhu to live near the school, but the long drive into the suburbs revealed the extent of his daughter's commute. He understood; with her current circumstances, city living was beyond her means. He hadn't dared use his spirit sense to locate her, unsure of what he'd find.

Alighting from the car, Yimo led Ye Mo to a modest house. He was stunned. An elderly woman, her hair white, struggled to carry a bucket of water to the stove, her weakened gait causing spills.

Was this Song Yangzhu? The cold, beautiful woman he knew? Ye Mo felt profound regret. If not for her distinctive features and bearing, he would have doubted this frail woman was the same Song Yangzhu. The black-level cultivator was now barely yellow-level, burdened by internal injuries. The brilliant genius was white-haired, her hands calloused and scarred. And she was only in her thirties!

This plight, he knew, stemmed from raising Yimo. Guilt, too, likely played a part. She had borne a daughter for the enemy of her family. Though the Song family had long forgotten her, she remained hidden, nursing her wounds. She might have sought death after leaving Luo Yue, but her daughter was her anchor.

"Mom!"

Yimo's call startled Song Yangzhu. Joy flickered in her eyes, then she saw Ye Mo. The wooden bucket clattered to the floor. She stared, the figure before her blurring. She'd envisioned this countless times in her dreams—Ye Mo holding Yimo's hand. Now, it was real.

"Sorry, Yangzhu. I'm thirteen years late," Ye Mo said.

Song Yangzhu's vision swam. She opened her mouth, but no words came. This wasn't a dream. Ye Mo was truly here. Relief washed over her. Yimo had found her father. She could finally rest. She had always spoken of him to Yimo, promising his return—and it seemed her efforts weren't in vain. Yimo instinctively clung to him.

Song Yangzhu's lips trembled, but she remained silent.

"Mom, what's wrong? Dad's back!" Yimo noticed her mother's unusual demeanor.

Song Yangzhu forced a smile. "Yimo, listen to your dad from now on." Then, shakily, to Ye Mo, "Water splashed on me. I'll change."

"Dad, Mom is—" Yimo hesitated. Her mother had always spoken of her father, yet now he was here, her reaction felt muted, less exuberant than she'd anticipated. In her heart, her parents' relationship had been idyllic—but that didn't seem to be the case now.

Ye Mo watched guiltily as she entered the room and closed the door. As she began undressing, he cautiously deployed his spirit sense.

"Dad, I'll cook and clean the kitchen," Yimo said, creating space for her parents.

Ye Mo understood. He ruffled her hair. "Okay."

…

Song Yangzhu donned her old clothes and stared at her reflection. After a long silence, she murmured, "You haven't changed, but I have grown old. Now that Yimo has found you, I can rest."

She produced a dagger, wiped her eyes, and without hesitation, brought it to her throat. She was a woman of pride. She couldn't bear to be seen like this by her man. She knew of his other wives, his lack of love for her. Her pride wouldn't allow this humiliation. She wouldn't burden him.

She was Song Yangzhu—proud, beautiful, and above all, proud. Time had stolen her youth, but not her spirit. She needed neither love nor pity. Yimo had a new home; she had no remaining attachments.

But the dagger didn't pierce her throat. A hand grasped the blade. Blood welled; Ye Mo hadn't used chi to deflect the blow. He felt he owed her this much.

"Yangzhu, you're being foolish. We've met again; it's fate. Why do this?" Ye Mo's voice was heavy with sorrow. He understood her, but didn't know how to comfort her. He could restore her beauty, but a decade of trauma was not so easily undone.

"Huh? Your hand!" Song Yangzhu snatched his hand, forgetting her pride, desperate to tend his wound. She'd forgotten his strength; a minor cut couldn't harm him.

Ye Mo healed the wound with chi, then pulled her into his arms, stroking her white hair. Song Yangzhu stiffened, an inexpressible sadness rising within her. For years, Yimo had been her only family; she'd been without a home, dreaming of this moment, of resting in his arms. Now, it was happening.

She wept, feeling like a vulnerable child. The agony of fleeing his wedding, the years of hardship, melted away at his touch. She hadn't known love before, but she knew that ever since he'd pushed her from that exploding tomb, she'd remembered him always. Hearing of his survival had filled her with unspeakable joy.

"Ye Mo, I don't deserve you. I'm old—" she began, though the thought of leaving Yimo or him never truly crossed her mind.

"You're not old," he whispered.