HNYWEF -Chapter 103 Intertwined Joy and Sorrow

Year: Zhenguan 4, March 26

The sky was overcast, heavy clouds pressing low.

Wind swept across the open fields, carrying the dampness of freshly turned soil, mixed with the burnt, bitter smell of paper money.

Zhou Xiong stood among the crowd, looking at the new grave ahead.

It was not large. The soil was still fresh—dark yellow and uneven. A few white mourning banners were planted in it, flapping loudly in the wind.

Today was the seventh day after Du Ruhui’s death.

He had received an invitation—not an official one, but personally delivered by Cheng Yaojin, who shoved it into his hands and said, “Second Brother Qin told me to bring you a message. You must come.”

So he came.

He stood at the back of the crowd in a slightly worn dark robe, keeping several steps away from the people around him dressed in sackcloth and mourning bands.

At the very front stood a line of men.

Li Shimin was in the lead, dressed in plain mourning clothes. His face was ashen, lips pressed into a thin line. Since arriving on the mountain, he had not spoken a single word—just stood there, staring at the grave.

Beside him was Fang Xuanling, his eyes red but holding back tears. Next to him stood Li Chengqian, Cheng Yaojin, Qin Qiong, Li Ji, and several others Zhou Xiong did not even recognize.

When escorting Du Ruhui up the mountain, Zhou Xiong walked among that group.

The path was difficult. It had just rained, turning the dirt road slick and muddy. No one spoke. Only footsteps and the low, occasional chanting of the coffin bearers broke the silence.

Zhou Xiong walked at the very back, watching those figures ahead.

Li Shimin’s back.

From behind, he still looked the same—broad shoulders, straight spine, walking with presence.

But today was different. That back seemed weighed down by something invisible. Each step landed heavily, as if nails were driven into the ground beneath his feet.

Watching that figure, Zhou Xiong suddenly thought of something.

Not long ago, Chang’an had been bustling.

Envoys from all the foreign tribes had arrived—Turkic, Tiele, Xi, Khitan—wearing strange clothing, crowding the entrance of the Ministry of Rites, all vying to see Li Shimin.

Later, they submitted memorials, calling him “Tian Khan”—Heavenly Khagan.

Cheng Yaojin had told him this with great excitement, laughing as if he had struck gold. “You know what ‘Heavenly Khan’ means? It means ruler of the world! Those barbarians all knelt down shouting ‘Long live His Majesty’—what a sight!”

Zhou Xiong had said nothing then.

He knew this event.

It was recorded in history—Zhenguan Year 4, March: foreign tribal leaders came to court, requesting Emperor Taizong be titled “Tian Khan.”

It was a glory beyond measure.

But now, standing before Du Ruhui’s grave, he suddenly felt that all that noise and celebration was very far away.

Very far.

Wind blew ashes of paper money toward him, settling on his shoulders.

He didn’t brush them off.

He kept looking at that figure ahead.

The man hailed by foreign kings as “Heavenly Khan” now stood here in mourning robes, face grey, saying nothing.

Zhou Xiong suddenly felt tired.

Not the exhaustion of walking up the mountain.

A deeper kind of fatigue.

It seeped out from his bones, sinking his entire body downward.

He couldn’t explain it.

But he knew this feeling too well.

Five years ago, when he first returned to Chang’an, he had been like this too.

Sitting in silence all day. Watching the sky outside the door. Watching people come and go, feeling nothing at all.

Later, it got better.

He started laughing again, cursing again, arguing with Cheng Yaojin again.

He thought he had recovered.

But now—

Looking at the new grave, at the mourners in hemp clothing, at that upright figure in front—

That feeling returned again, suddenly.

He opened his mouth.

Wanted to say something.

But nothing came out.

Something was stuck in his throat, blocking everything.

Ahead, someone began reciting the funeral eulogy.

The voice was long and drawn out, broken by the wind, hard to make out.

The man now lay inside that grave. Li Shimin stood in front, still silent.

Zhou Xiong lowered his head, looking at the soil beneath his feet.

It was wet. Soft and sinking under pressure.

He stared at it for a long time.

Then he lifted his head again.

Looking at the grave ahead.

The eulogy ended.

Someone started crying.

The cries were suppressed, muffled, as if afraid of disturbing something.

Zhou Xiong listened, feeling as though the sounds were very far away.

Separated by something invisible.

He stood there, unmoving.

The wind continued to blow.

Ashes of paper money drifted over, sticking to his shoulders, his hair, even smudging his face.

He didn’t brush them off.

The sun rose slightly higher.

It fell upon the grave, the white banners, and the people standing there.

Zhou Xiong stood in that light, watching.

For a long time.

Then he turned around.

And walked back.

After a few steps, he suddenly stopped.

Without looking back.

He stood for a moment.

Then continued walking.

The downhill path was even harder. The soil had been trampled into pits—each step sank unevenly.

He walked slowly, step by step.

At the foot of the mountain, he stopped again.

Looked back once.

The people were still standing halfway up the slope.

He withdrew his gaze.

And kept walking.

In the alley, the Zhou iron shop door was open.

Zhou Hong was tidying up inside, while Zhou Yi crouched by the furnace, poking at the firewood.

Zhou Xiong walked in.

Zhou Hong looked up and froze slightly.

“Brother, you’re back?”

Zhou Xiong said nothing.

He walked past them into the inner room.

The curtain swayed and then fell still.

Zhou Hong and Zhou Yi exchanged a glance.

Zhou Hong walked over and lifted the curtain, peeking inside.

Zhou Xiong was sitting on the edge of the kang bed, head lowered, motionless.

Zhou Hong let the curtain drop and came back.

Zhou Yi looked at him.

“Second Uncle?”

Zhou Hong shook his head.

Said nothing.

Zhou Yi stood up, walked to the doorway, and looked at the curtain.

He stared for a while.

Then returned to the fire pit and crouched down again.

Continuing to poke the firewood.

Zhou Hong also silently picked up his hammer and began striking it absentmindedly.

No one spoke.

Inside the room, only the crackling sound of the furnace fire remained.