HNYWEF -Chapter 164 Cognitive Collapse

The eleventh day of the third month, fifth year of Zhenguan.

The sun had only just risen when Zhou Yi got up.

He stood in the courtyard, looking at the pale white glow in the eastern sky for a while.

The morning wind swept in from the mouth of the alley, carrying the chill of early spring. The lantern beneath the corridor swayed lightly in the breeze.

Today, he was going to the Duke of Qi’s residence.

That day, when Zhangsun Wuji had stood at the gate and said, “Come visit your uncle sometime,” he had agreed.

Not on the spot. Some time later, he had Old Chen deliver a formal calling card.

The proper courtesies had been observed. The reply from the other side said the Duke would welcome him at any time.

He had chosen this day because the weather was good, and his father’s condition was fairly stable too.

Zhou Yi turned around, preparing to change clothes.

Then he froze.

Zhou Xiong was standing behind him. No one knew when he had come out. He was wearing a clean robe, and even his hair had been retied neatly.

Zhou Yi stared at him and parted his lips.

“Dad?”

Zhou Xiong didn’t answer. He simply stood there, looking at Zhou Yi.

“I’m going out for a while,” Zhou Yi said.

“I know.” Zhou Xiong’s voice was rough and hoarse, but every word was perfectly clear. “I’m going with you.”

Zhou Yi was stunned.

He looked at Zhou Xiong’s face. There wasn’t a trace of expression on it.

The haze was still there in those eyes, but beneath the haze, something was slowly surfacing.

Not the kind of movement that churned violently.

The kind that pushed outward bit by bit.

Like something buried deep for a very long time had finally found a crack and was forcing its way out.

“I’m going to the Duke of Qi’s residence.”

“I know,” Zhou Xiong repeated.

Zhou Yi stood there, unsure what to say.

His father had never gone to the Duke of Qi’s residence before. Had never exchanged an unnecessary word with that man before.

And now his father was standing in front of him, dressed in clean clothes, saying he wanted to go together.

Zhou Yi thought for a long time.

Then he nodded.

“Alright.”

The two of them left the house and headed east.

Morning light spilled down from the rooftops, casting two shadows across the stone-paved road, one long and one short, walking side by side.

The entire way, Zhou Xiong said nothing.

Neither did Zhou Yi.

By the time they arrived at the Duke of Qi’s residence, the sun had already climbed above the eaves.

The gatekeeper saw them, froze for a moment, then immediately turned and ran inside.

A short while later, Zhangsun Wuji personally came out to receive them.

He wore an ordinary robe with the sleeves rolled up slightly, as though he had been reading something in the study.

He stood at the gate. When he saw Zhou Yi, he nodded.

Then he saw Zhou Xiong.

The expression on his face shifted from calm to surprise, from surprise to bewilderment, and from bewilderment to something indescribable.

He stood there staring at Zhou Xiong, completely motionless.

He had known Zhou Yi would come today. He had sent back a reply, prepared tea, and tidied the study.

But he had never imagined Zhou Xiong would come with him.

Suddenly, Zhangsun Wuji didn’t even know where to put his hands.

He stepped aside.

“Please, come in.”

His voice was lower than usual.

Zhou Yi entered first. Zhou Xiong followed behind him. As he passed Zhangsun Wuji, his gaze paused briefly on the man’s face.

That look was cold.

The three of them passed the screen wall, rounded the corridor, and entered the main hall.

Tea and several plates of pastries had already been set out inside, arranged neatly and properly.

Zhangsun Wuji invited them to sit, then seated himself opposite them.

Zhou Xiong sat down but didn’t touch the tea. He simply sat there, staring at Zhangsun Wuji.

Those clouded eyes looked directly at him, as though he were looking at a man he had never seen before.

The stare made Zhangsun Wuji deeply uncomfortable.

He picked up his teacup and took a sip. His fingers rubbed twice along the rim before pulling back.

Zhou Xiong spoke first.

“You’ve already got my son calling you uncle. Of course I had to come see what your attitude is.”

His voice was rough and unhurried.

But his tone was not the tone of someone making a friendly visit.

It was the tone of someone coming to demand accountability.

Zhou Yi’s hand froze halfway while holding the teacup.

He looked at Zhou Xiong, then at Zhangsun Wuji.

Zhangsun Wuji sat there silently for a while.

His hand resting on his knee clenched once, then loosened.

Then he spoke.

His voice was steadier than before, but the nervousness underneath was impossible to hide.

“Mr. Zhou, what happened that year… I overstepped.”

Zhou Xiong said nothing.

He merely looked at him and waited.

Zhangsun Wuji continued, “In the ninth year of Wude, in that broken-down house, I said things I never should have said. Later, Cheng Yaojin scolded me for it. Qin Qiong also reproached me. I knew then that I was wrong.”

He paused.

His Adam’s apple bobbed, as if swallowing something difficult.

“But I never apologized to you.”

He paused again. Lowered his head and looked at the teacup on the table.

“Today, I want to say this to you—I’m sorry.”

After he said it, he sat there motionless.

The main hall was deathly quiet.

So quiet that one could hear the sound of the steam dissipating from the tea.

Zhou Yi sat nearby, watching the scene unfold.

He watched Zhangsun Wuji lower his head, watched him stare at the bowl of tea, watched the expression on his face.

Then he turned to look at his father.

Zhou Xiong sat there, looking at Zhangsun Wuji.

Those muddled eyes, at that moment, suddenly changed.

Not becoming clear—

but catching fire.

He stared at Zhangsun Wuji, stared at this man sitting before him with his head lowered, saying “I’m sorry,” and his lips began to tremble.

Then he suddenly stood up.

The chair behind him toppled backward, crashing onto the floor with a loud bang.

He pointed at Zhangsun Wuji.

That finger was shaking violently, but it remained pointed straight at Zhangsun Wuji’s face.

“You’re not Zhangsun Wuji!”

The words exploded out of his throat, hoarse and cracked, as though something inside him had been torn open.

This wasn’t the rambling madness that came and went.

This was lucid. Furious. A voice that had been suppressed for years and could no longer be contained.

Zhangsun Wuji abruptly lifted his head, stunned.

Zhou Xiong’s voice grew louder and faster, every word seeming to be dragged forcibly out of his chest, carrying the weight of time itself.

“Zhangsun Wuji would never apologize! Zhangsun Wuji would never say he was sorry! Zhangsun Wuji would never sit there with his head lowered and apologize to someone he looked down on!”

His eyes were wide open.

“Who the hell are you?”

He took a step forward. The finger pointing at Zhangsun Wuji was still trembling, but his voice no longer was.

It was sharp as a blade, each sentence carving its way out.

“Are you Zhangsun Wuji? Are you the man who asked me in that ruined house, ‘What kind of attitude is this?’ Are you the man who stood outside the palace gates and said, ‘To insult His Majesty before the palace gates is a capital crime’?”

He took another step forward.

Zhangsun Wuji sat there, face white as paper, mouth slightly open, unable to say a single word.

“That man would never apologize! That man would never say he was sorry! That man would never—”

His voice suddenly caught.

Not because he couldn’t continue, but because the fire inside him had reached its peak, burning even his throat dry.

He stood there, chest heaving violently, finger still pointed at Zhangsun Wuji.

Then his voice suddenly dropped.

“What gives you the right to apologize?”

He stared at Zhangsun Wuji.

“What gives you the right to say you’re sorry? What gives you the right to sit there with your head lowered, acting like a good man, apologizing to me?”

His finger was still trembling, but his voice wasn’t.

It was terrifyingly steady.

Zhangsun Wuji sat there without moving.

His face was drained of all color, his lips pressed into a thin line.

He looked at Zhou Xiong—looked at those eyes burning through the haze, looked at the finger pointed at him, looked at that twisted face filled with fury.

He said nothing.

He could say nothing.

Zhou Xiong stood there looking at him for a long time.

The fire was still burning, but his eyes were no longer wide.

Slowly, they narrowed into slits, and through those slits he looked at Zhangsun Wuji as though staring at something he had never seen before.

“Are you really Zhangsun Wuji?”

The words leaked from his throat, hoarse and low, carrying the embers of a fire not yet extinguished.

Zhangsun Wuji sat there looking at him. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

His lips moved. His Adam’s apple bobbed once.

Then he spoke.

“I am.”

Very softly, but every word trembled.

Zhou Xiong looked at him for a long time.

Then the finger pointed at him slowly lowered.

Not because his anger had faded—

but because he had sheathed the knife.

Yet the fire in his eyes remained.

He stepped back, picked up the fallen chair, and sat down.

He said nothing more. He simply sat there, staring at the man across from him.

The main hall was deathly quiet.

The tea had already gone cold. The steam was gone.

Zhangsun Wuji sat opposite him, his hands still trembling.

Suddenly, he felt that in that moment just now, this man hadn’t been looking at him at all.

He opened his mouth.

“I am Zhangsun Wuji…”

The voice came out smaller than he expected. So small it sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

Zhou Xiong looked at him without speaking.

But the fire still burned in his eyes.

He picked up the bowl of now-cold tea and took a sip.

Morning light streamed through the window lattice, falling onto the floor in one brilliant patch.

The three of them sat in the main hall without speaking.

But none of them moved.