When Thành returned, Lê Soạn was still sitting motionless in his spot.

"I brought you some clean clothes." Thành placed the neatly folded outfit on the table. "Get changed and get some rest."

Soạn didn't respond. Seeing that, Thành simply scooped him up. The boy yelped in surprise and instinctively clung to Thành's neck, afraid he might fall.

"W-What are you doing?!"

"So, do you want to change by yourself, or should I do it for you?"

"I can do it myself!" The kid's face turned bright red. Once he was sure he wouldn't fall, he immediately started pushing Thành away.

"Can you get to bed on your own, or do you need me to carry you?" Thành tightened his grip, keeping Soạn from wriggling away as he asked, his tone firm.

Obviously, Soạn didn't want to be treated like a little kid. He might be small, but he was already twelve—thirteen if you went by traditional age. In a couple more years, he'd be old enough to get married.

"I can go to bed myself. Put me down." As expected of someone mature beyond his years, Soạn quickly pulled himself together. Instead of pushing Thành away, he met his gaze head-on, his voice flat, his face serious.

Seeing the shift in attitude, Thành let him go. He ruffled Soạn's hair and softened his tone.

"Alright, get changed, then."

Soạn said nothing and moved to a corner to change. Knowing kids could be shy, Thành turned away, pretending to busy himself with tidying up the table.

When Thành turned around, Soạn had already finished changing. His wet clothes were neatly folded and placed on a chair. Without a word, the kid had climbed onto the bed, curled up on his side, and taken up just a tiny spot on the left.

Thành's bed was a massive ebony wood platform, spacious enough for several grown men to sleep comfortably. Seeing the kid curled up in a small corner of such a huge bed was both amusing and a little sad.

He still didn't understand why Lê Soạn refused to go back to his own room, nor could he figure out how someone as reserved and disciplined as him could so easily accept spending the night here.

Soạn often came to his room in the evenings for lessons and had sat on this very bed reading with him countless times. But staying overnight? That had never happened before.

Thành blew out the lamp and got into bed. The two of them lay far apart—too far to reach even if they stretched. He knew Lê Soạn was hurt and didn't want to be alone, but he still needed his space, so Thành decided not to bother him. Resting an arm over his forehead, he started thinking about how to deal with that troublesome cousin tomorrow.

People in the past didn't care much for cats and dogs, but drowning a helpless little creature like that was just cruel.

He drifted off after a while, but it wasn't long before a noise beside him woke him up.

The kid was crying.

The sky was beginning to lighten with the first traces of dawn. Thành watched the small, trembling figure in front of him for a long while. His thoughts drifted to the boy's circumstances.

Lê Soạn came from a noble family. Once, he had parents who loved him.

And once, he had known the pain of losing them.

Xôi Xéo had been more than just a pet to him. It had been a companion, a silent witness to the moment he finally opened his heart again—after who knew how long.

And now, it was gone.

Without thinking, Thành shifted closer and reached out, pulling the small, shivering body into his arms.

"It's okay," he murmured. "From now on, I'll protect you. I won't let anyone hurt you again."

Lê Soạn was still trembling, but at the sound of his voice, the boy slowly steadied. His quiet sniffles faded into silence.

A long time passed. The child's breathing evened out, and Thành's shirt grew warm from the heat of his small frame. Then, in a barely audible voice, Soạn whispered:

"People who do evil... they'll get what they deserve and go to hell, won't they?"

Thành hadn't expected him to remember those meaningless words about justice and retribution—the ones he had thrown at Thị Lan earlier that morning.

He wanted so badly to say yes.

Since the beginning of time, hasn't everyone wished for the wicked to be justly punished? Like in fairy tales, where villains all met disgraceful and bitter ends.

But reality was far crueler.

Hell might not even exist. And out there, the world was still full of people who committed countless vile, despicable acts—yet lived in comfort and joy.

Thành didn't want to soothe the child with empty words, nor did he want him to grow up consumed by hatred, clinging to the hope that those who wronged him would face retribution—only to end up heartbroken and disappointed.

"I'm sorry," Thành said gently, rubbing the boy's back. "I told Lan that this morning because she's still young, and I knew she wouldn't think too deeply about it. I just wanted her to realize she was wrong. But the truth is... I don't know if hell or karma really exist in this world.

What I do know is this: in life, the best thing we can do is focus on ourselves. Don't worry about what others say or think. Just live in a way that keeps your heart at peace—be kind, be ethical, don't harm anyone, and don't do anything you'll regret. As for the lives of others, even those who've hurt us... just let them be."

Lê Soạn listened quietly but said nothing.

Thành's words were far simpler than the elaborate teachings Văn Nhữ had drilled into the boy's mind day after day. He didn't expect Soạn to take them as gospel, to treat them as some sacred life philosophy.

He just hoped the boy would understand them—as advice from an older friend who had seen more of the world.

The two of them sat in silence until the sky brightened completely. Thành dozed off for a bit, though his sleep was light and restless. When he stirred awake, Lê Soạn was still nestled in his arms, his small body motionless, eyes shut tight.

Thành shifted slightly, just to get more comfortable, but the moment he moved, the boy jolted upright. Without a word, he leapt off the bed and bolted out the door.

Thành blinked in confusion, staring after the small, frantic figure disappearing into the morning light.

Had the kid even slept at all last night?

That morning, Lê Soạn was nowhere to be found. No matter how much Thành called, the boy never appeared.

Left with no other choice, Thành buried Xôi Xéo alone. He dug a hole beneath the old starfruit tree in the garden, placing the wooden box gently into the earth. As he covered it with soil, he whispered a quiet prayer—wishing that in its next life, Xôi Xéo might be reborn as a human. Or, if it were to remain a cat, that it would find a home where it would be loved, cherished, and protected far better than it had been in this one.

Once he finished, Thành made his way toward the main house, where he happened to spot Thị Lan standing in the outer courtyard. Dressed immaculately in fine silk, she was chatting and laughing with the other young women, looking every bit the picture of elegance and grace.

As it turned out, Madame Thị Diễm had arranged a temple visit with some of their relatives, and Thị Lan was among those invited.

She was smiling, carefree—as if nothing had ever happened.

A flicker of irritation rose in Thành's chest. He walked over, his voice carrying a sharp edge as he asked her about Xôi Xéo's death.

At first, she simply widened her eyes in apparent surprise. With an innocent expression, she insisted she knew nothing about it. But the more Thành pressed, the more she denied it. Her responses grew frantic, and soon, tears welled up in her eyes.

Then, she burst into sobs.

"You're accusing me of something I didn't do!" she wailed, her voice quivering with hurt.

She looked so pitiful, so genuinely distressed, that it didn't seem like she was faking it.

The women around them quickly stepped in to calm the situation, gently advising Thành not to be so harsh. After all, they said, he was a man—a true gentleman shouldn't make such a fuss over something so trivial. In the end, the cat was just an animal. Besides, it was clear that Thị Lan wasn't the culprit.

Her mother was especially adamant, swearing that after Thị Lan had returned home from Thành's place the day before, she had stayed inside the house all night. There was simply no way she could have orchestrated something as bold as sending someone to his home in the dead of night just to drown a cat.

The household servants were gathered and questioned.

The gatekeeper testified that no strangers had entered the estate the night before. The other servants, who all shared a single sleeping quarter, claimed that not one of them had stepped out during the night.

And truthfully, despite being a pampered young lady, Thị Lan didn't have the kind of wealth or power to bribe another household's servant into doing her dirty work.

At least, not easily.

Thành found himself at a loss for words. Against the chorus of sharp-tongued women, he couldn't argue his case any further. Just then, Madame Thị Diễm emerged from the house, having finished dressing for the temple visit. With her composed demeanor and the quiet authority of the household matriarch, she commanded the gathering to settle down.

After hearing the entire matter from start to finish, she offered a few words to save Thành some dignity—yet still made sure to gently chide him, just enough to appease the other side and smooth over any lingering resentment.

Heat crept up Thành's face. He hadn't expected to be the one accused of being biased and short-sighted. But with no proof to back up his suspicions, he had no choice but to apologize to Thị Lan, even though unease still gnawed at him.

Thị Lan's mother, startled by the unexpected apology from the lady of the house, pinched her daughter's arm in warning. With so many eyes watching, Thị Lan knew better than to make a scene. She quickly wiped away her tears and accepted Thành's apology.

The other women, eager to move on, exchanged a few pleasant remarks to ease the tension before gathering their things and making their way toward the waiting carriages.

In mere moments, the once-crowded courtyard was empty.

Thành wiped the sweat from his brow and pressed his fingers against his temple.

Aside from Thị Lan, there was no one else who seemed remotely suspicious. But then... how had Xôi Xéo died? Who killed it? Or was it possible that the cat had simply slipped and fallen into the pond by accident?

The midday sun blazed overhead, casting an eerie stillness over the western courtyard of the Trương estate.

Meanwhile, Vân Trang walked unhurriedly into her room, carrying a tray of food.

She hadn't gone to the temple with her mother-in-law that day. The day before, Madame Thị Diễm had extended an obligatory invitation, her words laced with feigned warmth, her voice devoid of any real affection. Vân Trang had long understood her mother-in-law's distaste for her, so she declined the offer with graceful ease, citing that she was on her monthly cycle and didn't want to risk desecrating the sacred grounds.

And so, while the others were away, she had spent the morning quietly in her chambers—unaware of the commotion that had unfolded in the main courtyard.

Vân Trang gently set the tray down on the table before turning her head and calling softly,

"Liên, come eat while it's still warm."

Lê Soạn sat on the wooden daybed, eyes glued to the pages of a book, utterly absorbed. He neither moved nor responded.

Vân Trang stepped closer, her touch light as she ran her fingers over his shoulder.

"Come have some food, dear."

His gaze flickered downward, but he made no move to put the book away.

With a quiet sigh, Vân Trang turned back to the table, taking her seat. She scooped rice into her bowl and began eating in silence.

After a while, she placed her bowl down, her voice as gentle as wind chimes in the breeze—still warm, but tinged with quiet reproach.

"Come eat."

At last, Lê Soạn closed the book and made his way to the table.

His sleeve had somehow gotten pushed up, revealing the faint scratches on his forearm, their edges crusted over with dried scabs. He stared at them for a moment, his expression unreadable, before yanking the sleeve down abruptly.