HNYWEF -Chapter 184 Not a Chance Encounter

The fifth year of Zhenguan, sixteenth day of the fourth month.

Daybreak had only just arrived, and the mist had yet to fully clear.

Old Liu walked in front, the hammer hanging from his hand.

The road grew narrower and narrower.

Leaving the stronghold, it had still been a dirt road wide enough for carts. But after passing the grove of scholar trees, it turned into a tiny trail that only allowed one person through at a time.

Further in, even the trail disappeared, leaving only traces hidden beneath the grass.

A landslide had buried the road back then. Fifteen years had passed, and no one had repaired it.

The horses could go no farther.

Zhou Xiong pulled on the reins and glanced behind him.

Two horses followed behind—one carrying Zhou Yi, the other carrying Li Lizhi. Behind them were two guards leading the horse loaded with offerings for the memorial.

“Leave two men to watch the horses.”

Zhou Xiong’s voice drifted back from the front, rough and muffled by the mist.

One guard answered and stayed behind.

The other unloaded the offerings from the horse, hoisted them onto his shoulder, and followed after them.

Zhou Xiong dismounted and tossed the reins to the guard.

Without another word, he turned and walked deeper inside.

Zhou Yi got down as well and followed.

When Li Lizhi stepped off her horse, her foot landed squarely in mud.

She made no sound, merely lifted the hem of her skirt and followed behind Zhou Yi.

Old Liu walked ahead, the hammer now hanging from his waist as he used both hands to push aside the branches jutting across the path.

He walked slowly, but steadily. He had taken this road for more than ten years. He could probably walk it blindfolded without taking a wrong turn.

Zhou Xiong followed behind him, head lowered, eyes fixed on the ground beneath his feet.

The road had long since ceased to be a road.

The grass had grown waist-high. Dew soaked through their pant legs, clinging coldly to their skin.

Sometimes a footstep would sink into soft mud half an inch deep, and when they pulled free, a clump of mud came up with it.

Zhou Xiong walked very slowly.

Not because the road was difficult.

Because of something else.

Zhou Yi followed behind him, watching his father’s back.

Trembling.

Not the obvious kind of shaking, but the kind that seeped outward from deep inside, impossible to suppress.

His shoulders were trembling. His hands were trembling. Even his footsteps shook faintly.

Very lightly.

But Zhou Yi saw it.

He said nothing.

He simply stepped forward, reached out, and held his father’s arm.

That arm was rigid, taut as iron.

The moment Zhou Yi’s hand touched it, the arm paused, then slowly loosened—not entirely, but just a little.

Zhou Yi’s grip shifted from support to a firm hold.

He gripped his father’s arm tightly.

The two of them walked one behind the other, neither speaking.

Li Lizhi walked last.

She said nothing either, never glancing toward them. She kept her head lowered, watching the path beneath her feet as she followed step by step.

Up ahead, Old Liu pushed aside a clump of bushes and stopped.

“We’re here.”

He stepped aside.

Ahead of them lay an open clearing.

It was not large. Mountains surrounded it on all sides—not tall, but steep. Moss clung to the rocks in dark green-black patches. In the middle of the clearing stood a mountain cave facing east. The stone around the entrance had been blackened by smoke from years ago, remnants of burned paper offerings.

Before the cave was a small stretch of flat ground.

Grass grew across it, tall and yellowed in scattered clumps.

A person stood there.

With his back facing them, dressed in a Daoist robe, he stood motionless before the cave.

Old Liu froze.

He looked at Zhou Xiong, then at that figure. His mouth opened slightly, as if wanting to call out, but no sound came.

Zhou Xiong stood there, staring at that back.

His arm slipped free from Zhou Yi’s grip as he slowly took a step forward.

His lips moved.

The voice that emerged scraped out from his throat, hoarse and uncertain—the kind of hesitation that came from recognizing someone yet not fully daring to believe it.

“Xie Yingdeng?”

The figure stirred slightly.

Then slowly turned around.

That face had aged considerably. He had grown a beard now.

But those eyes had not changed.

Just like before—quiet when they looked at someone, as though they could see straight into a person’s heart.

His hands were empty.

He simply stood there, in that patch of grass, before that mountain cave.

He looked at Zhou Xiong.

And Zhou Xiong looked at him.

Separated by a dozen paces, the two men stared at each other.

Xie Yingdeng spoke first.

His voice was not loud, but perfectly clear.

“I happened to be passing by, so I came in to take a look. Didn’t expect to run into you.”

Zhou Xiong looked at him for a long time.

Then he spoke, his voice steadier than before, though the emotion underneath could not be concealed no matter how hard he tried.

“How did you know it was today?”

Xie Yingdeng shook his head.

“I didn’t. We just happened to meet.”

His tone was flat, like he was stating something entirely ordinary.

Zhou Xiong stood there, looking at this man.

Fifteen years without seeing each other.

This man had gone from being an archer of Wagang Stronghold to becoming a Daoist priest.

From that sharp-eyed young man who could read people so accurately… to the Daoist now standing before the cave in a worn old robe.

Zhou Xiong opened his mouth as though to speak, then swallowed the words back down.

He stepped forward.

Then another step.

Stopping in front of Xie Yingdeng.

The two stood face to face in silence.

Wind swept in from the mountains, pressing the grass flat before letting it rise again.

Rustle.

Rustle.

As though it were trying to say something.

Or perhaps saying nothing at all.

Old Liu stood behind them, watching the two men together for quite a while.

Then he turned away, walked several steps to the side, crouched down, set the hammer beside his feet, and pulled out a fire starter from his robes to light the paper offerings.

His movements were slow.

One motion at a time.

Zhou Yi remained where he was, staring at the two figures.

He did not know who Xie Yingdeng was. He had never heard the name before.

But he knew one thing.

This man had been waiting here for a very long time.

It did not look like a “chance passing by” at all.

Li Lizhi stood beside him, equally silent.

The wind stirred the edge of her robe, but she did not shrink back.

Smoke from the burning spirit paper drifted over from Old Liu’s side, spreading through the air in thin gray wisps until everything became hazy.