Winter, 1989.

The Taoist shadowpolitician remained silent, almost in oneness with the everlasting winds.

He stood in front of a grave.

There it was marked: “Jun Ling. Born November 2nd, 1945. Death on April 19th, 1971.”

…Eighteen years.

Over two decades ago, Hong was a terrible man, raised by an even worse father to create only a weapon to overtake China: Jun Lao. He hadn’t seen his father since the birth of his daughter… and subsequent passing of his wife.

But without her, he would have never attempted a moral overture.

So, there he stood, the winter breeze coursing past his robes and fur.

“…我永远爱你，凌。”