Flaherty Family Cemetery.
The stone tombs stood in solemn order, their cold, weathered facades a silent testament to the generations of Flaherty blood that had returned to the earth. Only those of direct lineage were allowed to rest here—no distant relatives, no in-laws—unless they had made extraordinary contributions to the family legacy.
Among the rows of ancestral graves was one peculiar tomb. Its inscription read:
"From the very beginning, this man failed his exam three times. Later, while practicing martial arts, the hilt slipped and severed his little finger. Then, he turned to medicine, made some modest achievements, and even created a promising prescription. But after taking it, he died."
John couldn't help but chuckle. The absurdity of the tale carved in stone caught him off guard. This particular Flaherty had quite the journey—killed by his own prescription. Tragic, yes, but somehow deserving of remembrance for the sheer irony.
Still smiling faintly, John turned his attention back to Alexandra, who hadn't spoken a word since their arrival. She strode ahead in silence, her back rigid, ignoring whether he followed or not. Her silence unnerved him more than anything she might have said.
Eventually, she stopped in front of a tombstone that stood out among the rest. It was smoother, newer, not yet worn by time. It hadn't been there for more than twenty, maybe thirty years.
John approached, and his gaze landed on the inscription:
"Tomb of the beloved daughter, Aviana Flaherty."
The smile vanished from his lips.
A chill crept down his spine.
He stared at the name.
Aviana Flaherty.
He felt like the ground beneath him had cracked open.
No. This wasn't what he thought it was.
He hoped it wasn't.
But dread curled in his gut like a coiled snake, suffocating and unrelenting.
Alexandra stared at the tomb, her eyes unreadable, voice distant as she said, "Aviana is my sister... and your mother."
BOOM.
Her words struck like thunder on a clear day, shattering every thought in John's head.
His mother... was dead?
No. No, it couldn't be.
His chest constricted. He shook his head, as if that could erase the truth. His hands trembled.
"Are you sad?" Alexandra's voice was cold now, razor-sharp. She turned to look at him for the first time since they entered the cemetery. Her eyes were like ice.
"You want to know who killed my sister?" she asked, mockery lacing her tone.
John couldn't respond.
His fists clenched so tightly that his fingernails punctured his palms, blood dripping in crimson arcs onto the grass.
He didn't want to believe it. He couldn't believe it.
His mother had been murdered?
He didn't even realize the killing intent pouring from his body, sharp and suffocating, like a storm of blades rising into the sky, charged with fury and grief.
The burial ground seemed to tremble beneath his fury.
Alexandra's eyes flickered with surprise at the aura he was unleashing, but her hatred was undeterred. "You're angry, aren't you?" she said. "You hate the murderer. Good. So do we. My father adored Aviana. He loved her more than anyone—so much that even I grew jealous of the bond they shared."
Her voice cracked slightly, but she pushed on, bitterness seeping into every word.
"When he found out she was dead, my father was devastated. He wanted to cut the murderer into pieces, grind his bones to ash."
John's face twisted in anguish. His breath came in ragged gasps. "Just tell me," he growled, voice hoarse and broken, "Tell me who killed my mother!"
Alexandra looked at him, her sarcasm growing darker. "You really want to know?"
"Tell me!" he roared.
His voice shook the stillness of the cemetery. Even the dead might have stirred from his rage.
And then, Alexandra dropped the final blade.
"The one who killed my sister… was your father."
Silence.
A void.
John staggered back, as if her words had physically struck him.
His fury, his hatred, all the murderous intent inside him turned into a frozen lake of shock.
His father…?
No. That wasn't possible.
His thoughts spiraled. The ground felt unsteady beneath him.
Alexandra's lips curled into a cruel smile. "You want to know why, don't you? We want to know too. But after killing Aviana, that bastard disappeared without a trace."
She turned her gaze back to the grave.
"You were just a baby. My father couldn't bear the sight of you—couldn't accept that his precious daughter was gone and her killer was free. When he looked at you, he saw him."
John stared at her in silence.
"He was going to kill you," she said quietly. "He didn't care that you were just a newborn. But I… I couldn't let him. You were innocent. So before my father could act, I ran. I took you away."
Her voice lowered.
"On the road, I met a Daoist. I handed you over to him. I told myself it was better that way."
John's heart pounded. "So why…" he whispered, "Why did he try to kill me later?"
Alexandra closed her eyes. "Because five years later, my father found out you were still alive. That I had lied to him. That you were in a welfare home in New York."
She didn't need to say more. John already understood.
Alexandra had returned home, lied to her father that she'd killed the baby.
And five years later, the truth had surfaced.
Warren Flaherty hadn't hesitated. He couldn't kill John himself—too public, too dangerous—so he pulled strings, pressured others. That's when he found Ned Russell.
The fire at the orphanage… it hadn't been an accident.
At first, Warren had sent martial arts masters to do the job. But something strange happened. The area around the welfare home had been protected—shielded by a monk's mysterious formation. Martial artists above the Heaven Realm found their internal energy useless within it. Those below Heaven Realm… disappeared one after another.
It was only after that failure that Warren turned to arson.
He believed John had perished in the flames.
But fate had other plans.
Years later, John reappeared—in Houston, bold and powerful—and Warren had taken notice once more.
Alexandra's expression turned hollow. "This is why I didn't want to tell you. Because the man who murdered my sister is my father."
John stared blankly at the grave. "A son should pay his father's debts, right?" he said bitterly. "I carry his blood. But I'm also his grandson. How could he be so cruel?"
"Grandson?" Alexandra laughed mockingly.
"You're not his grandson. He doesn't see you that way. He never did."
Her eyes gleamed with derision.
"When my sister got pregnant, she hid it. She told everyone she was going out to explore the world. She gave birth to you in secret. My father didn't even know. Only I did."
Her voice hardened.
"To him, you're an illegitimate child born of betrayal. A stain on the Flaherty name. That's all he sees when he looks at you."
She stepped closer, the scorn in her tone cutting deep. "Well? There's your answer. You wanted the truth. Are you satisfied now?"