HNYWEF -Chapter 109 The Physician’s Nightmare

Residence of the Duke of Xianguo.

Zhou Xiong and Cheng Yaojin sat in the main hall, each with a cup of tea in front of them.

Cheng Yaojin had just returned from the training grounds. His clothes were still wet as he wiped his face with a cloth.

Zhou Xiong had been pulled over by Cheng Yaojin after they happened to meet halfway. He had just finished a delivery and thought he would come in, sit for a bit, and leave.

Cheng Yaojin finished wiping his face and casually tossed the cloth aside, about to say something—

When hurried footsteps sounded outside.

A servant rushed in, out of breath.

“My lord, a guard from the Thousand Ox Guards is outside. He says he’s looking for Doctor Zhou—”

Before he could finish, the Thousand Ox Guard soldier had already rushed in behind him.

Standing at the entrance of the hall, drenched in sweat, he spotted Zhou Xiong and shouted:

“Doctor Zhou! Your son has been slashed at the shop! General Niu told you to hurry back!”

The teacup in Zhou Xiong’s hand paused for a moment.

Then—

Smash!

The cup shattered on the floor into pieces, tea splashing everywhere. He didn’t even feel it.

“What the hell did you just say?”

Cheng Yaojin’s teacup also slammed heavily to the ground.

Crash!

Both cups shattered almost at the same time.

Cheng Yaojin was about to say something more—

But Zhou Xiong had already rushed out.

He ran into the courtyard and saw the horse tied to the post.

Cheng Yaojin’s horse—a strong reddish-brown Dawan horse—freshly fed and full of energy.

Zhou Xiong untied the reins and swung himself onto the saddle.

Cheng Yaojin chased after him from the hall, shouting:

“Bear bastard, you—”

The sound of hooves had already exploded into motion.

Zhou Xiong leaned low over the horse’s back, charging out of the mansion and onto the street.

Pedestrians panicked and scattered. Porters dropped their loads. People holding children pressed themselves against the walls.

Someone shouted curses behind him—but he couldn’t hear, and didn’t care.

The horse galloped furiously, hooves striking the blue stone road, sending dust and碎石 flying.

His mind was completely empty.

Nothing at all.

Just run.

He turned two streets, then another alley. The shop appeared ahead.

At the entrance stood several Thousand Ox Guards, restraining three men—two guards in strange clothing, and one who looked like an envoy.

When they saw him, their mouths opened as if to speak.

He didn’t look at them.

He dismounted and walked past.

Zhou Hong stood at the door and saw him, shouting “Brother—”

He didn’t look at Zhou Hong either.

He crossed the threshold and entered the shop.

Niu Jinda stood inside. Nearby, Zhou Yi sat with half his sleeve soaked in blood, his shoulder wrapped in cloth.

Still, Zhou Xiong didn’t look at Niu Jinda.

His gaze only briefly landed on Zhou Yi’s arm.

The wound.

From left shoulder down to the elbow.

Flesh turned outward.

Blood still seeping.

He kept moving, rushing into the inner room.

The wooden medical box was in the corner.

He grabbed it and rushed back out.

He opened it—needles, threads, powder, small knives, forceps—all in place.

He pulled out a small cylindrical device.

Metal, with a small mirror embedded inside, edges polished smooth from use.

Zhou Yi was still sitting there.

Niu Jinda had already stepped aside.

Zhou Hong stood nearby, not daring to breathe too loudly.

Zhou Xiong stepped in front of Zhou Yi.

He fitted the cylinder over his eye and picked up a needle.

Through the lens, he examined the wound.

Long, but not deep. No bone damage. No major blood vessel severed. The flesh was torn open—needing stitching.

He had sewn countless wounds like this before.

More severe than this.

Deeper than this.

On battlefields, in Wagang strongholds, he had stitched endless gashes like this.

His hands had always been steady.

Always.

But now—

He raised the needle, staring at the wound.

At the torn flesh.

At the blood still seeping out.

That was Zhou Yi’s arm.

His son’s arm.

The son he had raised since infancy, feeding and cleaning him himself.

The son he woke up every morning to train.

The son he taught forging, stances, and reading poetry.

The son he had watched grow to fifteen.

His hand hovered in midair.

The needle tip was less than an inch from the wound.

He couldn’t move.

His mind was blank.

And yet, everything surged in at once.

The cylinder magnified the wound, making it painfully clear.

Every split line. Every trace of blood.

His hand began to tremble.

Very slightly.

But he knew.

“Operating on your own kin is the greatest nightmare of this profession.”

An old professor had once said that during his medical training in the military hospital.

He hadn’t believed it then.

He thought he could handle anything.

Later, on the battlefield, he saved comrades and brothers.

He could save anyone.

But now—

Zhou Yi stood there, watching his father.

His father’s face showed no expression.

But he saw it.

His father’s hand was shaking.

“Dad.”

Zhou Xiong didn’t move.

“Dad.”

Still no movement.

He crouched there, holding the needle, frozen completely.

The shop was silent.

So silent that even the sound of blood dripping could be heard.

One drop.

Two drops.

Three drops.

Zhou Yi suddenly spoke.

Very softly:

“Dad… your hand is shaking…”