White lilies on black stone. A quiet forest. Jiang and his companion stand solemn—but then *he* appears: broom in hand, grinning like he just won the lottery. The tonal whiplash is genius. As Master, As Father doesn’t mourn; it *mocks* mourning. Grief is just another role to play… until someone forgets their lines. 😏
That ornate spear in Jiang’s hand? Pure theater. He never swung it—just held it like a conductor’s baton while the real violence unfolded beneath him. The kneeling man’s shifting expressions—from terror to sly hope—say more than any dialogue. As Master, As Father isn’t about power; it’s about the *performance* of power. 🎭