HNYWEF -Chapter 130 Severed Contact

The fourth year of Zhenguan, tenth month, second day.

Zhou Xiong stood at the mouth of the alley, looking at the gate ahead.

The gate was shut.

Two sealing strips were pasted across it—white paper with black characters—fluttering slightly in the morning wind.

The official seal on the strips was bright red, glaring to the eye.

Two guards stood at the entrance, wearing armor, hands resting on their sword hilts, backs straight.

Zhou Xiong lifted his foot and walked forward.

One step.

Two steps.

When he was still seven or eight steps from the gate, the two guards noticed him.

Their eyes widened for a moment.

Then—

“Shing!”

Swords were drawn.

Two blades, cold and gleaming, pointed directly at him.

“Stop! This place has been sealed by order. No one is allowed to approach!”

Zhou Xiong stopped.

He stood there, looking at the two blades, at the two sealing strips, at the gate he himself had opened for years.

The two guards gripped their swords tightly, palms already sweating.

They knew who he was.

The Marquis of Jiuyuan County, father of the imperial son-in-law.

Yesterday, an imperial decree had sent them here to seal this workshop. And today, the man stood right in front of them. What were they supposed to do?

Stop him? How could they?

Not stop him? How would they answer to the emperor?

People passing by in the surrounding streets saw the drawn swords, froze for a moment, then immediately turned and ran. Porters dropped their loads, parents pulled their children against the walls. In the blink of an eye, the alley was empty.

Only Zhou Xiong remained, facing the two guards with their swords drawn.

He didn’t move.

He just stood there, looking at the gate.

He looked for a long time.

And then he lost all direction.

He turned around.

And walked back.

His steps were neither fast nor slow, one after another, striking the stone pavement.

The two guards watched him leave, slowly sheathing their swords.

Their palms were completely soaked with sweat.

—

The Marquis’ residence.

The courtyard was deathly quiet.

Zhou Xiong sat by the stone table, a wine jar in front of him.

It was wine sent earlier by Cheng Yaojin, stored in the warehouse all this time, untouched.

Now he opened it.

Bowl after bowl.

He drank quickly.

Zhou Hong stood nearby, not daring to speak.

He watched Zhou Xiong pour bowl after bowl into himself, watched the face with no expression at all, watched those eyes—chaotic, utterly chaotic, deeper and heavier than yesterday.

He wanted to say something.

Opened his mouth.

And swallowed it back down.

Zhou Xiong poured another bowl.

Lifted it.

Drank.

Set it down.

Poured again.

Footsteps came from under the corridor.

Zhou Yi walked out.

The cloth bandage on his left arm had already been removed. The imperial physician had come yesterday and said the wound had healed and no longer needed to be supported.

He wore ordinary clothes and stood under the corridor, looking at his father.

Zhou Xiong didn’t look at him.

He kept drinking.

Zhou Yi walked over and sat beside him.

Zhou Hong opened his mouth, wanting to say something.

Zhou Yi shook his head.

Zhou Hong closed his mouth and stepped aside.

Zhou Xiong poured another bowl.

Lifted it.

Zhou Yi reached out and pressed down on the bowl.

Zhou Xiong’s hand paused.

He looked at that hand.

A fifteen-year-old hand—knuckles defined, already strong. There were several faint scars on it, burns from forging iron. Old and new marks layered together.

Zhou Xiong said nothing.

Zhou Yi said nothing.

Father and son sat there like that—one hand pressing the bowl, one hand holding it.

A long time passed.

Zhou Yi let go.

He couldn’t hold it down anymore.

His father’s strength was far greater than his.

Zhou Xiong lifted the bowl, drank it, and set it down.

Then he poured more wine.

Zhou Yi stood up.

He no longer looked at Zhou Xiong.

He turned around and walked away.

Zhou Hong froze for a moment.

“Hey kid, where are you going?”

Zhou Yi didn’t look back. He said nothing.

Zhou Hong opened his mouth, hesitating.

He watched Zhou Yi’s back cross the courtyard, pass through the hanging flower gate, and disappear behind the screen wall.

Then he turned around and looked at his elder brother.

Zhou Xiong was still drinking.

Bowl after bowl.

The sun slowly climbed higher, spilling into the courtyard and falling onto him.

He didn’t notice.

He just kept drinking like that.

Zhou Yi walked along the street.

His steps were neither fast nor slow.

It was just past the tenth month; the weather hadn’t turned fully cold yet. The wind brushed past, dry and clean.

The streets were busy as always—porters carrying loads, carts being pushed, children being led by hand. Nothing was different from usual.

No one knew what had happened yesterday.

No one knew why that iron shop had been sealed.

No one knew that the blacksmith was now sitting in the courtyard, drinking bowl after bowl.

Zhou Yi walked past them, eyes fixed straight ahead.

He thought of what Li Shimin had said in the palace that day.

Now the iron shop was gone.

Zhou Yi clenched his fist.

Then slowly released it.

He kept walking.

Not to find Li Shimin.

But to the Duke of Su’s residence.

To find Uncle Cheng.

Because Uncle Cheng was his father’s sworn brother.

Because that day at the iron shop, he remembered how Uncle Cheng had shouted at his father.

Uncle Cheng had shouted him back to his senses.

And now his father was lost in daze again.

He had to go find Uncle Cheng.

The alley was long.

The sun was warm.

Zhou Yi walked at an unhurried pace, but every step was steady.

He remembered what Li Shimin had asked him in the palace that day:

“Do you hate me?”

He had said he didn’t know.

And now, he still didn’t know.

But he knew one thing—

His father couldn’t keep drinking like this.

He had to find someone.

Someone who could shout his father back awake.

From a distance, the gatekeeper of the Duke of Su’s residence saw him and froze for a moment, then immediately turned and ran inside.

Zhou Yi stood at the gate, waiting.

After a while, Cheng Yaojin strode out.

He reached the gate, saw Zhou Yi, and paused.

“Kid? Why are you—”

He stopped halfway.

He looked at Zhou Yi’s face.

There was no expression on it at all.

But those eyes—

Cheng Yaojin had seen that look before.

On Zhou Xiong’s face.

He suddenly didn’t know what to say.

Zhou Yi looked at him.

“Uncle Cheng.”

Cheng Yaojin nodded.

“Mm.”

Zhou Yi said, “My father is drinking.”

Cheng Yaojin froze slightly.

Zhou Yi continued, “He’s drunk a lot. He’s still drinking…”

Cheng Yaojin’s brows furrowed.

He looked at the child.

Standing there, saying these words.

No expression on his face—but something in his eyes.

Not a request.

More like a cry for help born from despair.

Cheng Yaojin scratched his head.

“Let’s go.”

He strode out.

Zhou Yi followed behind.

After a few steps, Cheng Yaojin suddenly stopped.

He turned back and looked at Zhou Yi.

“How much has your father had?”

Zhou Yi thought for a moment.

“I don’t know. When I left, he’d already finished several jars.”

Cheng Yaojin’s brows tightened even more.

He said nothing else and continued walking.

This time his steps were faster.

Zhou Yi followed closely behind.

The two of them walked one after the other, through streets and alleys, heading toward the Marquis’ residence.

The sun shone down on them, casting long shadows behind them.