William Sullivan put the xun aside and took the medicine bowl. “Ungrateful brat, wouldn’t it be nice to be my son? He was so good to you.”

He drank the medicine without any difficulty, clearly used to it, finishing it in one gulp. Then he took the mouthwash that Charles handed him, took a couple of sips, and waved it away. “There’s a market at Changyang Pass today. I brought you something fun, come here.”

After speaking, William Sullivan bent down and started groping messily around the desk. He couldn’t see well, his nose almost touching the tabletop. Charles could only say helplessly, “What are you looking for? Let me do it.”

Then he couldn’t help but complain, “I’m already this old, why do you keep bringing me a bunch of toys for little kids?”

If you have that much time, you might as well cause less trouble and let me have more time to learn something useful—this last thought circled in Charles’s mind, but when it reached his lips, he felt it was a bit hurtful, so he didn’t say it.

As a good-for-nothing drifter, William Sullivan wasted his own time and always dragged Charles along with him—either calling him to the market or pulling him to go horseback riding. Once, he even picked up a “puppy” from who knows where for him to raise—only, that time, Mr. Sullivan was so frightened his face turned green. Turns out this blind man couldn’t tell a wolf from a dog and had brought home a wolf cub.

John Foster was rarely home and was a taciturn man. Although he treated Charles well, he didn’t often communicate with his stepson. All in all, those crucial two years when Charles was twelve or thirteen seemed to have been spent at the side of this unreliable adoptive father, William Sullivan.

Growing from a scruffy kid into a handsome young man—how much self-control did it take to keep from being led astray by William Sullivan?

Charles could hardly bear to look back.

He was not naturally playful or mischievous, always had his own plans, and was strict in carrying them out. He didn’t like being disturbed and was often annoyed by William Sullivan.

But the annoyance never lasted long, because William Sullivan didn’t just take advantage of him in words—he truly cared for him like a son.

One year, Charles fell seriously ill. John Foster was, as usual, not at home, and the doctors all said it was dangerous. It was his little adoptive father who carried him home and watched over him day and night for three days straight.

Every time Sixteen went out, no matter how far or for what reason, he would always bring back some trinket or snack for Charles. Charles didn’t care for the trinkets, but he couldn’t help but care for the thoughtfulness behind them.

In short, every day Charles saw Sixteen, his liver would burn with irritation, but if he didn’t see him, he’d miss him.

Sometimes Charles would wonder, although William Sullivan was useless in both civil and martial matters, maybe someday someone would be foolish enough to fall for his good looks?

His little adoptive father would eventually marry and have children of his own. When he had his own, would he still care about this adopted one?

Thinking of this, Charles felt a strange blockage in his heart. He found a square box on Sixteen’s desk, shook off his wild thoughts for a moment, and handed it to William Sullivan with little interest. “This one?”

William Sullivan: “It’s for you, open it and see.”

Maybe it was a slingshot, or maybe some cheese—anyway, it was never anything proper. Charles opened it with no expectations, grumbling as he did, “Even if you have money to spare, you should save a little. Besides, I…”

The next moment, he saw what was inside the box, and immediately fell silent, his eyes widening in surprise.

Inside the box was actually an iron wrist guard!

The so-called “iron wrist guard” was actually part of the light armor used in the military, worn only around the wrist, very convenient, and often used separately. The iron wrist guard was about four inches wide and could hide three or four small knives inside. The knives were made with special craftsmanship, thin as cicada wings, and also called “silk in the sleeve.”

It was said that the best “silk in the sleeve,” when shot out by the spring mechanism in the iron wrist guard, could cut a strand of hair several yards away in two.

Charles exclaimed in delight, “This… where did you get it?”

William Sullivan: “Shh—don’t let James Sullivan hear. This isn’t a toy. If he sees it, he’ll nag again—do you know how to use it?”

Mr. Sullivan himself was watering flowers in the courtyard. He wasn’t deaf, and could hear everything said inside the house. There was really nothing to be done about this half-deaf man who judged others by himself.

Charles had learned from James Sullivan how to assemble and disassemble steel armor, so he skillfully put on the iron wrist guard and immediately noticed its special features.

Silk in the sleeve was hard to make and rare among common folk. Most iron wrist guards on the market were old military surplus, sized for adult men. The one William Sullivan brought back was clearly a size smaller, just right for a young man.

Charles was momentarily stunned. William Sullivan knew what he was about to ask and said slowly, “I heard from the seller that this is a defective product. There’s nothing wrong with it except that it’s a bit small, so no one wanted it. That’s why he sold it to me cheap. I don’t use it, so you can play with it. Just be careful not to hurt anyone.”

Charles couldn’t help but show his joy. “Thank you…”

William Sullivan: “Thank who?”

Charles called out cheerfully, “Adoptive father!”

“With milk, anyone can be your mother, you rascal.” William Sullivan laughed, put his arm around Charles’s shoulders, and walked him out. “Hurry home now. Don’t wander around outside late at night during Ghost Month.”

Only then did Charles remember—it was the fifteenth day of the seventh month.