HNYWEF -Chapter 134 Unusual Behavior

In the fourth year of Zhenguan, the tenth day of the tenth month.

The Marquis’s residence was unusually quiet.

Zhou Yi walked around the courtyard a few times, then stopped and looked up at the sky.

It was a dull gray, clouds pressing low as if ready to rain, yet also as if holding it in.

He withdrew his gaze and glanced toward the main house.

The door was shut.

His father had locked himself in the room for several days already.

Ever since that night—after he had smashed Uncle Cheng—he hadn’t really come out.

Meals were brought in by servants. Sometimes he ate a few bites, sometimes the food was brought back untouched.

Zhou Hong had gone back to the iron shop two days earlier.

The iron shop had been unsealed; someone had to keep watch over it. When he left, he stood in the courtyard for a long time, staring at the main room, but in the end, he still left.

Zhou Yi paced another round.

He didn’t even know why he was walking—he just couldn’t sit still.

His legs wanted to move; his mind didn’t. So he let his legs do the thinking.

On the third round, he suddenly stopped.

Something was drifting out from the crack in the main room’s door.

Smoke.

A thin wisp, slipping through the gap and dispersing into the air.

Zhou Yi froze.

Then his mind went “buzz.”

Fire?

He didn’t think further. He turned and rushed to the well, grabbed a bucket of water, and staggered toward the main room.

“Father!”

He kicked the door open and rushed in with the bucket—

Then he stopped.

The water in the bucket swayed and spilled a little, splashing onto his feet. He didn’t notice.

He just stood at the doorway, staring at the person inside the room.

Zhou Xiong was sitting by the window, his back to the door, holding a strange object in his hand.

It was long and thin. One end was smoking, the other end was pinched between his fingers and brought to his mouth.

He took a drag.

The burning tip glowed briefly, then dimmed again.

He exhaled.

White smoke drifted out of his mouth, floating into the room.

Zhou Yi stood there, bucket still in hand, his mind completely blank.

He had seen people smoke before.

They packed tobacco into a pipe, lit it, inhaled, and exhaled.

But that was a pipe.

What his father was holding—

What was that?

Zhou Xiong heard the noise and slowly turned his head.

He looked at Zhou Yi, at the bucket of water in his hands, at the stunned expression on his face.

He said nothing.

Just looked.

Zhou Yi opened his mouth.

“Father… you… what are you doing…?”

Zhou Xiong didn’t answer.

He took the object away from his mouth, glanced at it, then put it back and took another drag.

White smoke rose again.

Zhou Yi lowered the bucket.

He walked forward and stopped in front of Zhou Xiong.

He looked at the thing in his father’s hand.

It was a thin paper roll, tightly packed, one end charred as it burned.

Smoke came from that end, carrying a strange smell—not tobacco, something else.

Zhou Yi sniffed.

Familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

He turned toward the table.

On it were scattered small sheets of neatly cut paper, and beside them a pile of dried, yellow-brown leaves that looked like nothing special.

He picked up a bit and brought it to his nose.

Tea.

He froze.

He looked at the tea leaves, then the paper, then the smoking thing in his father’s hand.

Something in his mind stalled.

His father had crushed tea leaves, rolled them in paper, and lit them to smoke?

What kind of way of smoking was this?

He had never heard of it.

Zhou Yi stood there, the crushed tea still in his fingers, unsure what to say.

He looked up at his father again.

Zhou Xiong was still by the window, holding that cigarette, smoking one drag after another.

His face showed no expression. His eyes stared out the window at nothing in particular. He coughed occasionally.

White smoke drifted slowly from his mouth, filling the room.

Zhou Yi felt a chill run down his back.

He remembered what Uncle Cheng had said that day.

“Your father has gone mad.”

He hadn’t believed it then.

But now, standing here, watching his father smoke rolled tea leaves with a blank face and hollow eyes—

He didn’t know what to do anymore.

Zhou Xiong took another drag.

Exhaled.

White smoke spread through the air, the burnt-tea smell filling Zhou Yi’s nose.

Zhou Yi stood still.

After a long while, he finally spoke, very softly.

“Father.”

Zhou Xiong didn’t respond.

Zhou Yi called again.

“Father.”

Zhou Xiong finally turned to look at him.

Those eyes were still clouded, unreadable.

Zhou Yi opened his mouth.

He wanted to ask: What are you doing?

He wanted to ask: Why are you smoking this?

He wanted to ask: Have you really gone mad?

But none of the words came out.

He just stood there, looking at his father.

Zhou Xiong looked back at him.

They stared at each other.

Neither of them spoke.

The room was filled only with the smell of burnt tea leaves—and the thin, drifting white smoke.