Chen Rong was sitting on the edge of the bed when Lin Yue brought Chen Wei home.
He didn't look like a man who had just survived a night alarm. He looked like a man who had been awake for three days and was pretending he hadn't.
His cloak was gone. His shirt was half-unlaced, one sleeve rolled up to the elbow. A strip of cloth had been tied around his forearm, already turning dark at the edges where blood had soaked through.
Not a deep wound—Lin Yue could tell that at a glance—but enough to remind everyone in the room that "alive" still came with a price.
When Chen Rong saw Lin Yue, his eyes softened for one second.
Then they moved to Chen Wei.
The softness didn't disappear—it just got buried under something heavier. A kind of quiet seriousness, like looking at a newborn in a war town was the same as looking at a promise you weren't sure you could keep.
"You're back," Chen Rong said.
Lin Yue nodded and stepped closer. "Three wounded at the east wall. One was bad."
Chen Rong's jaw tightened. "Did you—"
"I handled it," Lin Yue said quickly. Then, after a pause, softer: "I'm fine."
Chen Rong didn't believe her, but he didn't argue. He only reached out and touched Chen Wei's blanket with his fingertips, careful like he didn't trust himself to hold something fragile.
Chen Wei's tiny hand found his finger again, clumsy but determined.
Chen Rong watched that reflex grip for a moment longer than he needed to.
Then he looked away and said, "The Chief sent word."
"I know," Lin Yue replied. "An elder told me at the wall."
Chen Rong gave a short nod. "He wants us there."
He stood, and Lin Yue flinched slightly—only slightly—because standing made the bandage pull. Chen Rong hid the pain behind a blank expression, the same way soldiers always did.
He washed his face at the basin, splashed water on his neck, and tied his hair back again. His movements were efficient. Practiced. Like he was preparing for inspection, not a meeting.
Lin Yue adjusted Chen Wei against her chest and wrapped him tighter.
The town outside had quieted compared to the night before, but it wasn't peaceful. It was the aftermath kind of quiet—people stepping carefully around what had been lost.
As they walked, Chen Wei stared.
Not because he enjoyed it, but because his mind refused to waste anything. Every sound was information. Every pattern mattered.
They passed a row of houses with black streaks on the walls. Someone was replacing a broken door with planks. A woman swept ash into a pile, then stopped to cough so hard she had to lean on the broom.
A group of militia men jogged past, carrying spears and a few crude shields. Their armor didn't match. Some wore leather, some wore metal plates strapped with rope. Their faces were young, but their eyes weren't.
Chen Wei felt Lin Yue's arms tighten slightly each time someone ran by.
The Chief's house was larger than the others, but not by much. It wasn't a palace. It was simply built with thicker wood, stronger stone at the base, and a fence that had actually been repaired instead of patched.
Two guards stood at the entrance.
They weren't relaxed. Their hands stayed near their weapons, even when they recognized Chen Rong.
One of them nodded. "Captain Chen."
Chen Rong returned the nod. "Open."
The guard didn't question it. He pushed the gate wider and let them through.
Inside, the yard was neat, but not decorative. Everything had a purpose. Stacked firewood. Water barrels. A small training space where the dirt had been packed hard from repeated use.
Chen Wei noticed that too.
Even the Chief trained.
Even the Chief didn't trust peace.
They were led inside without waiting long.
The main room smelled like incense and old paper. Not fancy incense—cheap, practical, meant to mask smoke and blood and sickness.
An older man sat at a wooden table.
Chief.
Chen Wei's eyes tried to focus on him, but the room was too bright and his body too weak. Still, he saw enough to remember: gray hair, sharp cheekbones, hands that looked like they'd held weapons before they held authority.
The Chief's eyes landed on Lin Yue first, then on the baby.
Then on Chen Rong.
"Captain Chen," the Chief said, voice calm.
Chen Rong bowed his head. Not deeply. Respectful, but not submissive.
"My Lord Chief."
Lin Yue lowered her head as well, but her grip on Chen Wei didn't loosen.
The Chief studied Chen Wei.
Not like a doting grandfather.
Like a man counting future numbers.
"A son," the Chief said.
"Yes," Lin Yue answered softly.
The Chief's gaze shifted to Chen Rong. "Healthy?"
Lin Yue answered before Chen Rong could. "He's strong. He cried like he meant it."
The Chief made a small sound—almost approval. Then he gestured to a chair.
"Sit."
Chen Rong sat. Lin Yue remained standing for a moment, then sat as well, still holding Chen Wei close.
Chen Wei's eyes drifted around the room.
There were maps on the wall. Old maps, worn at the edges. Lines drawn and redrawn. Pins marking places. A board with numbers scratched into it like an ongoing ledger—food, patrols, weapons, names.
War math.
He recognized it instantly.
The Chief followed Chen Wei's gaze for a moment and then looked back to the parents.
"Last night was not the worst we've seen," the Chief said. "But it was close."
Chen Rong didn't speak.
He didn't need to. His bandaged arm said enough.
The Chief leaned back slightly. "We lost two at the north watch. One at the east ditch. A boy—sixteen—took a claw through the chest."
Lin Yue's mouth tightened. She didn't look away.
Chen Wei couldn't understand everything, but the tone made his stomach feel strange. Like the air itself carried grief, and everyone had learned to breathe through it.
The Chief continued, "They didn't breach the wall. That's victory."
He said it like a fact, not comfort.
Then his eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at Chen Rong.
"You handled the line well."
Chen Rong answered simply, "We held."
The Chief nodded once, satisfied.
Then his gaze returned to Chen Wei, and the air in the room shifted.
Not colder. Just heavier.
"The heir law stands," the Chief said.
Lin Yue's hand tightened around Chen Wei's blanket.
Chen Rong didn't react outwardly.
The Chief tapped the table once with a finger, like punctuating a point.
"In this town, the chief seat passes at eighteen. Not twenty. Not whenever we feel like it. Eighteen."
Lin Yue swallowed. "He was born last night."
"I know," the Chief said. His voice didn't soften. "That means the clock starts now."
Chen Wei couldn't see Lin Yue's face clearly, but he felt her tension. The way her breathing became measured, like she was forcing herself not to shake.
Chen Rong spoke, calm and steady. "He'll be ready."
The Chief's eyes stayed on him. "You believe that?"
Chen Rong didn't hesitate. "I have to."
Silence held for a moment.
Then the Chief leaned forward, resting his arms on the table.
"Captain Chen," he said. "Your family serves at the edge of the knife. You already know this. But now you have a son, and the town will look at him differently."
Lin Yue asked, quietly, "How differently?"
The Chief answered without hesitation. "Like he's either our next anchor… or our next funeral."
Lin Yue's face paled.
Chen Rong's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping once.
Chen Wei didn't understand every word, but he understood enough.
This wasn't a blessing.
It was a burden.
The Chief's gaze moved back to Chen Wei again, and for the first time there was something like a faint warmth in it—thin, careful.
"What is his name?" the Chief asked.
Lin Yue answered, voice steadier than before. "Chen Wei."
The Chief repeated it once, quietly. "Chen Wei."
Then he nodded.
"A good name," he said. "May he have the time to grow into it."
He looked to Chen Rong again.
"You will keep training the militia," the Chief said. "But from today, you also train your house. Your son will not be raised like a normal child."
Lin Yue's fingers tightened. "He's a baby."
The Chief's expression didn't change. "In a peaceful place, that would matter more."
Lin Yue went silent.
Chen Rong bowed his head. "Understood."
The Chief reached to the side and pulled out a small wooden token, carved with a simple symbol—nothing fancy, but clearly official.
He placed it on the table.
"A mark," the Chief said. "Not inheritance. Not yet. But a mark."
Chen Rong stared at it for a second, then took it carefully.
Lin Yue looked like she wanted to ask what it meant, but she didn't.
The Chief stood.
That meant the meeting was over.
He looked at Lin Yue one last time, then at Chen Wei.
"Raise him well," he said. "Not kindly. Well."
Chen Rong stood and bowed again.
Lin Yue stood too, Chen Wei pressed to her chest.
They left the Chief's house the same way they came in—quickly, quietly, with no room for argument.
Outside, the gray morning had turned brighter, but the smoke still hung in the air.
As they walked back through the town, Lin Yue didn't speak for a long time.
Neither did Chen Rong.
Only when they reached their own street did Lin Yue whisper, voice tight:
"Eighteen years…"
Chen Rong didn't look at her. He kept his eyes forward.
"We'll make it," he said.
Lin Yue's laugh came out like a sob. "Will we?"
Chen Rong's hand reached out and touched her shoulder—brief, steady.
"We don't have a choice."
Chen Wei lay in his mother's arms and stared at the sky between rooftops.
He couldn't move.
He couldn't speak.
But his mind was awake.
And behind all the smoke and fear and heavy words, one thing was becoming clearer with every hour:
In this town, time was not a gift.
It was a weapon.
And someone had already started the countdown.
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