Chapter Eighteen: The Mohist School

All the maids greeted her with enthusiasm, as if they were genuinely happy to see her return. These were all her so-called father's maids—her mother had left early on. The only redeeming quality of her father was that he had never remarried. This was the sole comfort in Mo Lan’s heart.

Returning once again to this place—so familiar, yet so strange—Mo Lan was filled with growing sighs of emotion. For reasons she could not quite name, her mind had begun to wander lately, drifting into reverie at the oddest times.

The two girls did not walk hand in hand, but as they moved side by side, they inspired envy in all who saw them. Each exuded an air of independence, something deeply appealing.

To the servants, these two were like the moon and the sun—figures to be admired from afar but never reached.

Seated in the grand hall was her so-called father, and the always-smiling old grandfather—the patriarch of the Mo family. His long beard framed a kindly face, and his eyes brimmed with genuine concern. His warmth felt entirely sincere.

“Lan, you’re back at last. I’ve been wanting you home—come, sit and eat with us,” the old man called out, approaching to take the girls’ hands with a gentle familiarity.

Qian Yin felt a touch of awkwardness at this, unaccustomed to such affection, but she didn’t pull away from the old man’s grasp. She let him guide her to her seat.

Mo Lan’s gaze remained fixed on her so-called father. She hoped he would not trouble Qian Yin, for Qian Yin was her reason to go on. If asked whom she valued most in the world, Mo Lan would answer Qian Yin, without hesitation. This girl, born on the same day as herself, yet never celebrating her birthday.

The table was round, with the four of them seated together. The dishes were already laid out—twelve in total, a true feast. Qian Yin noticed that half were Mo Lan’s favorites.

It seemed the old patriarch did care for Mo Lan after all; otherwise, he would not have inquired after her tastes.

Looking at the spread, Mo Lan tasted bitterness amid the abundance. So grandfather knew what she liked to eat. But did her so-called father? This display was likely a one-time occurrence; before, no one cared what she ate.

Once seated, the old man continued to serve the girls with steady hands, while her so-called father sat silently, head bowed, as if this were an ordinary dinner and nothing more.

Qian Yin shared Mo Lan’s tastes; their preferences were nearly identical. Seeing her plate piled high with food gave her a sense of happiness—a warmth that felt like home.

The two girls ate with quiet grace. The food was delicious, well-prepared, far cleaner and more flavorful than what one found outside these walls.

The old patriarch watched them with a smile, his chopsticks in hand, as if savoring the happiness of having daughters and granddaughters at his table.

Her so-called father, meanwhile, picked at his food, never raising his head, entirely indifferent to the scene.

“Lan, what’s your friend’s name?” the old grandfather asked, his gaze lingering kindly on Qian Yin. There was nothing calculating in his eyes—only pure, benevolent interest.

“I’m back.” The boyish voice cut through the moment—a youthful tone, belonging to Mo Fan. He was Mo Lan’s full brother, though they had rarely seen each other growing up and were more like strangers now. He’d been spoiled into arrogance, as befitted the young master of a wealthy family.

He wore a white school uniform and fitted black trousers—a tall boy of seventeen, standing at about 170 centimeters, with a proud, languid bearing. Standing next to Mo Lan, they could have been mistaken for twins.

“Qian Yin,” she replied crisply, finding the old man rather endearing. Her attention then shifted to the boy who’d entered. He bore a resemblance to Mo Lan, sharing her striking good looks, though his features were more masculine. If a woman were ever attracted to Mo Lan, she’d do well to marry her brother instead.

“Fan, you’re back! Come, join us for dinner,” the so-called father called out, his attention reserved for the boy alone. Before anyone else could greet him, he’d already led the young man to the table.

Perhaps the boy couldn’t abide the awkward atmosphere, and was eager to find something to do—someone to stand with.

Mo Lan’s brother, Mo Fan, was seventeen—a sophomore in college, yet already the chief financial officer of the Mo Group. When not in class, he worked at the company—a true talent.

“Then I’ll call you Xiao Yin,” the old patriarch continued, undeterred, ignoring his newly arrived grandson.

Yet the mood in the room inexplicably stalled. Everyone’s eyes seemed to hold calculations. Mo Lan felt exhausted. Was this really what a family was supposed to be?

The meal dragged on for half an hour. Qian Yin enjoyed herself at least—the dishes were untainted, and the old man’s smile was genuinely kind. He seemed incapable of deceit, though the two men at the table were another matter, each a source of discomfort for Mo Lan.

Qian Yin thought to herself that if either of those two ever harmed Mo Lan, she would destroy the Mo family. It was a powerful clan, but with her influence, she could bring it to ruin in a matter of days.

“Stay here tonight,” the old patriarch announced. “Tomorrow, I’d like you both to accompany me to a banquet. Don’t refuse me, Lan—it’s been so long since we’ve gone out together.” As he spoke, real tears seemed to glisten in his eyes—a sincere, if awkward, display that tugged at the heart.

Mo Lan and Qian Yin both twitched their lips in a silent response.

“Father!” the so-called father blurted anxiously, as if the plan was news to him.

The brother seemed equally surprised, mouths agape, as if the banquet were of great importance.

“That’s settled. Someone, please show the young ladies to their rooms,” the old patriarch commanded, cutting off further protest.

“We’ll share a room,” Mo Lan interjected quickly, still uneasy, pulling Qian Yin off toward the room she remembered from her childhood.

They paid no heed to the reactions behind them. In truth, the three left in the hall had reached the peak of awkwardness—the so-called father dared not speak, and the brother said nothing in her defense.