HNYWEF -Chapter 110 True Torture

Zhou Xiong was crouched there, holding a needle, completely motionless.

Outside the door, a series of urgent hoofbeats suddenly rang out, followed by the sound of someone dismounting in a hurry, and then Cheng Yaojin’s unmistakably loud voice—

“Bear! Where’s the bear-sighted one?!”

Before the words even finished, he had already stormed in.

Cheng Yaojin was drenched in sweat, his clothes crooked from running. The moment he entered, he saw Zhou Xiong standing in front of Zhou Yi, holding a needle over the wound, frozen in place.

He paused for a split second.

Then he exploded.

“Bear-sighted fool! What the hell are you standing there for?! Stitch it!”

Zhou Xiong didn’t move.

Cheng Yaojin rushed over and grabbed him by the collar.

“Look at him! That’s your son! You’ve been saving people your whole damn life, and now your son is lying here, and you’re spacing out next to him?!”

Zhou Xiong still didn’t move.

Cheng Yaojin’s eyes turned red, his voice cracking violently.

“Zhou Xiong! Wake the hell up!”

Zhou Xiong’s vision suddenly blurred.

He blinked.

The wound in front of him was still perfectly clear—every split edge, every trace of blood, all of it unmistakable.

But that wasn’t someone else’s son.

It was his.

It was Zhou Xiong’s son.

He took a deep breath.

The needle dropped.

It pierced flesh.

Zhou Yi’s brow tightened. He clenched his teeth but didn’t make a sound.

Second stitch.

His breathing grew heavier, but still no sound.

Third stitch.

Fourth stitch.

Fifth stitch.

Zhou Xiong’s hands began to steady. Stitch by stitch, he moved a little faster than before.

Then Zhou Yi couldn’t hold it back and let out a muffled groan.

Very soft.

But Zhou Xiong’s hands paused.

Just for a moment.

The needle hung there, suspended for half a breath, before continuing.

Cheng Yaojin stood to the side, fists clenched, not daring to breathe loudly.

Niu Jinda stood at the doorway, not daring to move either.

Zhou Hong stood in the corner, staring dead at his brother’s hands.

The room was completely silent.

Only the sound of needle piercing flesh, and Zhou Yi’s occasional suppressed groans.

Every time he groaned, Zhou Xiong’s hands slowed.

Slow, then continue.

Slow, then continue.

Cheng Yaojin had never seen Zhou Xiong like this before.

The man who could stitch wounds in the battlefield while cursing, whose hands were as steady as forged iron—now he paused every few stitches.

Not because his skill had failed.

But because it was his son.

The sun slowly shifted westward.

Light from the doorway stretched across the floor, fading from bright white to a dull golden hue.

Cheng Yaojin didn’t know how long he had been standing.

Niu Jinda didn’t know either.

Zhou Hong’s legs were numb from standing in the corner, but he didn’t dare move.

Zhou Xiong was still stitching.

One stitch. Another. Then another.

Sweat streamed down his forehead into his eyes, but he didn’t wipe it away.

The cylindrical lens still pressed against his eye socket, leaving a red ring around it.

Zhou Yi had stopped groaning.

He bit his lip so hard it bled, refusing to make a sound.

But every so often, his body would twitch.

Each twitch made Zhou Xiong slow down again.

Cheng Yaojin suddenly realized something.

A wound that usually took half an hour to stitch was now—

He didn’t even know how long had passed.

He only knew the sky outside had darkened.

Finally, Zhou Xiong placed the last stitch.

He cut the thread and set down the needle.

Then he began bandaging.

His hands were still steady.

One layer. Two layers. Three layers.

Wrapped.

Tied.

Knotted.

His hands paused on the knot.

He lifted his head and looked at Zhou Yi.

Zhou Yi looked back at him.

Father and son met each other’s gaze.

Zhou Xiong opened his mouth, as if to say something.

Nothing came out.

Then his body suddenly went weak—and he collapsed sideways.

“Brother!”

Zhou Hong rushed forward.

But Cheng Yaojin was faster, catching Zhou Xiong in his arms.

“Bear-sighted fool! Hey! Hey!”

Zhou Xiong’s eyes were half-open, figures swaying in front of him.

He heard many voices calling him.

Cheng Yaojin’s voice.

Zhou Hong’s voice.

Niu Jinda’s voice.

And Zhou Yi’s voice.

Calling him father.

He tried to respond.

But something felt stuck in his throat. Nothing came out.

The world in front of him grew darker and darker.

The voices drifted further and further away.

Then he lost consciousness.