Chapter 2 To the Funeral

The morning light trickled through the half-drawn curtains, casting faint gold lines across the marble floor. The ticking of the wall clock was the only sound in the stillness of the room. Huyan sat alone at the kitchen table, shirt wrinkled, eyes hollow, chewing on a piece of bread without tasting it. His head throbbed as if it carried the weight of another life. The silence around him didn't comfort-it clawed at him.

Then came a knock-three soft raps on the door, precise, practiced.

A man entered. Tall, sharply dressed in a black suit with a silver pin on his collar and thin-rimmed glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. His name was Yan. He stood with the composure of someone used to delivering bad news.

He spoke gently. "Boss... your father. He was found dead in his study this morning. Likely sometime during the night."

Huyan didn't flinch. Not a twitch in the eyes, not a flicker of surprise.

He swallowed the last bite of bread and said quietly, "What do you think, Mr. Yan?"

Yan blinked. "Sir?"

Huyan's voice dropped, as if speaking to himself. "Do you think a man can go back in time? Not just with his body-but with his pain? Can he carry the wounds of a future that hasn't happened yet?" His eyes stared past Yan, past the kitchen, into some ghost-ridden void only he could see.

Yan hesitated. "I... I'm not sure, Boss. But I've read stories. Ancient ones. About men and women who return to the past... bound by love... or a promise too strong for death to erase."

That made Huyan smile-faint, fleeting, bitter.

"Unexpected," he said. "I never took you for someone who believed in legends."

"I like to read," Yan answered softly. "Old stories. Sometimes they feel more honest than real life."

Huyan stood slowly, every movement heavy with something unspoken. "Do you think," he said, voice hardening, "a man can know the truth of his father's murder... even if the world tells him it's a lie?"

Yan lowered his gaze. "If you feel it in your bones, sir... it's worth listening to. But feelings aren't proof. Not in our world."

Huyan let out a breath that felt like it carried decades. "You're right. Let's go say goodbye to him. For the last time."

He paused.

"Though I can't remember the last time he was truly my father."

He left the kitchen and walked down the hall. Moments later, he returned, wearing a pitch-black suit, tie knotted tightly, shoes echoing on the floor. Yan was already by the car, engine humming. He opened the door for Huyan wordlessly.

As the car sped through the city streets, Huyan leaned against the glass, watching the world blur by. His mind drifted back to the day his mother died. He had been young. Broken. And then his father-stone-faced, emotionless-had placed a gun in his trembling hands.

> "You're ready," he had said. "The empire is built on blood. Start counting."

And Huyan had killed. For power he never wanted. For a legacy that felt more like a curse. He had stopped counting somewhere along the way.

The car jolted to a stop, snapping him out of the memory.

"Did we arrive?" he asked, voice low.

Yan, from the driver's seat, answered quietly, "No. Just a red light."

Huyan turned to the window.

And then his heart stopped.

Across the street-her.

A girl with short blue hair, dancing in the wind, as if pulled from a forgotten dream. She walked casually, unaware, crossing the road like any stranger in the city. But to Huyan, she was the eye of the storm.

His fingers fumbled for the door handle, trembling violently.

Yan noticed. "Boss...?"

Huyan's voice came out as a whisper. "Open the door..."

Yan didn't question. He reached over and unlocked it.

Huyan stumbled out, the world narrowing to that single figure.

He called out, but his voice cracked. "Wait-!"

She didn't hear. Or maybe she did. But she never looked back.

She crossed to the other side of the street, almost reaching the sidewalk.

His heart was racing, every beat like a drum of war. She's the girl from my dreams... from that world... from that death...

He sprinted after her.

"Boss, the signal's green!" Yan shouted behind him.

Horns blared. Tires screamed.

Huyan didn't stop.

He reached out-so close he could almost touch her-

And then metal struck flesh.

The world spun. Blood. Screams. Then-

Silence.

Huyan's eyes snapped open.

He was back in the kitchen. The light was the same. The bread halfway to his mouth. Yan stood there, adjusting his glasses-again.

"I don't know, Boss," Yan said, just like before. "If anyone can travel in the past... but I've read stories. About those bound by a promise."

Everything-every word, every sound-was identical.

The same lines. The same shadows. The same ache.

But this time, Huyan didn't speak.

He just stared at Yan.

And thought: This isn't the first time I've lived this moment. And it won't be the last.

A storm began to rise quietly in his chest.