Chapter 3 The Gun that Raised Me

The dim kitchen light reflected off the polished floor like a pool of quiet gold, casting long shadows that stretched and flickered with the soft hum of the refrigerator. The silence clung to the room like smoke-thick, heavy, waiting to be broken.

Huyan stood by the counter, the last bite of cold bread in his hand, untouched. His eyes were distant, dark with the weight of too many lives-some lived, some remembered, and some... relived.

He gave a faint, almost ghostly smile.

"Mr. Yan," he said, his voice calm but laced with something deeper, like a whisper echoing from a grave, "let's go to the funeral. My father's waiting. And I think... I finally understand what's real."

Yan tilted his head slightly, confused. "What do you mean, Boss?"

Another small smile tugged at Huyan's lips, but this one didn't reach his eyes. "I don't know the future I remember. I only live in a past I've already experienced. The past repeats itself. The future... it's an illusion. But if the past changes, even once, the illusion shatters."

Yan blinked, unsure. "Boss... have you been watching sci-fi again?"

Huyan turned away without answering, walking toward his room with a slow, heavy gait.

"I've seen everything. My past. My future. I've died, I've bled, I've broken... and still, I fear what's to come. It's like knowing the date of your death, and still pretending to breathe."

He vanished into the room, leaving the air colder in his absence.

Yan stepped outside, standing beside the black car, staring up at the grey sky. He tugged at his collar and muttered under his breath, "He's cracking... losing grip. If he falls now, the wolves won't hesitate. They'll tear him apart."

Moments later, the door opened. Huyan stepped out, dressed in the same black suit he had worn before. His hair still damp from the morning, his expression unreadable. He looked like a man heading to war-not mourning a father.

Yan opened the door. Huyan slid into the backseat without a word.

The car moved through the city, each turn echoing a route Huyan had already taken-again and again.

Then came the red light.

The car slowed to a halt. Silence stretched between them.

Huyan stared ahead, then leaned slightly forward, his voice barely a breath.

"She'll be here."

Yan frowned in the mirror. "Boss?"

"I have to be careful. Memories blur. But... when I tried to act, I went back. I need to know if she remembers me."

At that moment, the blue-haired girl stepped into the crosswalk.

She didn't run. She didn't rush. She moved like she had all the time in the world-like the universe bent around her.

Huyan's breath hitched.

"There," he whispered. "Mr. Yan. Do you see her? The girl with blue hair?"

Yan looked. "Yeah, I see her. You know her?"

"Not yet," Huyan murmured. "But I will. Find out everything. Name. Address. Where she walks. Who she loves. I need to know."

Yan gave a small nod. "Understood."

The light turned green. The girl vanished into the crowd.

The car rolled forward, and Huyan leaned back, jaw tight. His throat was dry. The pressure in his chest built like a scream with no voice.

Today wasn't just his father's funeral. Today was the day he faced the man who made him a monster. The man who taught him how to kill without blinking. The man who gave him a gun instead of a childhood.

They arrived at the funeral home. Grey stone, sharp gates, black umbrellas.

Yan opened the door. Huyan stepped out, adjusting his suit collar. His fingers trembled slightly, though he forced them still.

"Mr. Yan," he said, not turning, "do you think someone like my father can truly die? A man with that much power. That many sins."

Yan lowered his eyes. "In the end, Boss... power means nothing. Time eats everything. If you spent your days enjoying life, maybe death doesn't hurt. But if you spent them burying others..."

Huyan walked toward the entrance. "Then the graveyard follows you."

Inside, the air was heavy with incense and whispers. A coffin sat at the center of the room, draped in black and gold. Pale candles flickered around it, casting jagged shadows on the walls.

He approached the coffin.

There lay the man who forged him in blood-his face pale, still, cold as the empire he ruled.

Huyan reached into the coffin and clasped the dead hand. It was stiff. Hollow.

"You gave me this gun," he said, voice barely audible. "And you told me to make it mine. You watched as I stained my soul with every pull of the trigger. For your kingdom."

He paused, lips trembling.

"Today... I return it. My hands are my own now. And I leave my darkness with you."

He placed a small, rusted pistol into the coffin-the same one he had used for his first kill.

Then turned without a tear.

Outside, the rain had started. He stood beneath the archway, pulling out a cigarette with unsteady hands. He tried to light it, but the flame kept dying-his hands were shaking too much.

A flame lit beside him.

He turned. A thick lighter clicked shut in a muscular hand.

Jake.

His brother stood beside him, towering, all muscle and menace, dressed in an expensive black suit that looked more like armor than clothing. His smile was too wide, too white.

"It's been a while, little brother," Jake said smoothly, sliding the lighter back into his pocket. "Didn't think you'd show."

Huyan didn't respond.

Jake leaned in, lowering his voice to a breath.

"You know, when I choked him... he whispered your name."

Huyan didn't blink.

Jake's grin widened, whisper turning venomous.

"His eyes were searching for you. Gasping. Begging. It was beautiful, really. Watching the great king drown in his own blood. You should've seen his face... You would've loved it."

Huyan's eyes finally shifted. Cold. Controlled. But beneath the surface... something ancient stirred.

He took a drag of the cigarette, exhaled slowly.

"Jake," he said softly. "Did he beg you for mercy?"

Jake smirked. "Like a dog."