Page 20 of Sweet Dominion

A suffering widower.

A regretful father.

A heartless murder.

I looked at him, really looked at him and saw the cracks in his armor. And it didn’t make me hate or love him. It just made me sad.

Still, I swallowed down the sorrow and whispered, “Thank you, father.”

He faced the reporters and smiled.

I did the same.

Cameras flashed.

The image would be legendary—the Mountain Master and Grand Mountain Master’s last tea together. Doting father and loving son. Generations of kids in the East would see this picture in their history books and have to fill out a question on the date of the ceremony. Some would even need to write an essay.

But no one would know of the underlying deception and dark undertones of this moment.

More cameras flashed and silence stretched between us like a rubber band ready to snap.

He really won’t be here anymore. How will I get used to that?

Turning back to my father, I used this moment of quiet to study him. His long hair was more gray than black. There were new wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. Once fine lines were now deepened trenches, suggesting days of heavy thoughts and burdens.

Memories of my childhood with him flooded my mind.

Unbidden and bittersweet.

I remembered the days he taught me how to fight. His voice, stern yet encouraging, echoed in my ears as he demonstrated stances and strikes. He had been relentless, pushing me to my limits, but always with a purpose—to make me stronger, to prepare me for protecting the East.

Then, there were the calmer memories like the day he taught me how to ride a bike. I could still feel the wobble of the handlebars and the uncertainty in my grip as I pedaled for the first time without training wheels.

His hands had been there, steadying me. “Keep going, Lei. You’ve got this.”

When I finally managed to ride on my own, the pride in his eyes had been unmistakable.

My heart warmed.

Other moments flashed by—him showing me how to tie a fishing line, teaching me to swim at the beach, the evenings by the fireplace with only him and I as he read the East’s history to me.

Oh fuck. . .

Against all sanity, a deep sadness welled up within me, knowing that I would have to kill him.

Can I kill you?

Suddenly, the thought became almost unbearable. For a moment. . .I even wondered if there could be another way, a path that didn’t end in bloodshed.

Could I put him in the dungeon? No. Someone would let him out.

I gritted my teeth.

What if I sent him to China like he did with Yan? No. He would still be plotting and killing.

But then, the image of Romeo and Chanel’s brutal deaths forced its way back into my mind.

No. He would go too far if I let him live. . .and I would regret not killing him. Any new blood would be my fault.

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