HNYWEF -Chapter 187 Recuperation

Zhenguan Year Five, First Day of the Fifth Month.

By the time the walls of Chang’an appeared in sight, Zhou Xiong had already changed horses seven times.

He sat on horseback with wrinkled clothes, dust covering his face, sunken eyes, and cracked lips. He looked like someone dug straight out of the dirt.

But his eyes were frighteningly bright.

He entered the city through the western gate. He did not go to the Ministry of Works, did not go to the Directorate of Palace Buildings, and did not meet anyone.

He went straight back to the marquis estate.

Old Chen the gatekeeper was sprinkling water at the entrance when he heard hoofbeats. He looked up and saw a man on horseback, clothes filthy beyond recognition, beard untrimmed. For a moment, he almost failed to recognize him.

Only after the man swung down from the horse and walked closer did he see the face clearly.

“Marquis?”

Old Chen’s voice carried obvious confusion as he glanced behind Zhou Xiong.

There was nothing behind him.

No carriage. No guards. No young master. No princess.

Only the marquis had returned.

Zhou Xiong said nothing. He walked past him, crossed the courtyard, and entered the main hall.

The door curtain swayed once, then became still.

Old Chen stood there holding the water ladle for quite a while in a daze.

He took two steps toward the entrance and leaned out to look.

The alley was empty. Still nothing.

He withdrew, stood there a moment, then turned around and continued sprinkling water.

After two splashes, he stopped again and glanced toward the main hall. The curtain hung motionless.

He lowered his head and continued.

Not long after, hoofbeats sounded outside again—more than one horse this time.

Old Chen had not even set down the ladle before someone charged in.

Cheng Yaojin.

He wore ordinary clothes, sweat covering his face, striding with enough force to stir wind behind him. Two personal guards followed at the rear, left behind at the courtyard gate.

The moment he entered, he shouted:

“Where’s that bear-eyed bastard?”

Old Chen pointed toward the main hall.

Cheng Yaojin strode over and yanked open the curtain.

Zhou Xiong sat by the table holding a bowl of tea. He had not drunk from it, merely held it there.

He still had not changed clothes. Dust covered him, and the exhaustion of travel lingered on his face, but he sat perfectly straight.

Cheng Yaojin stopped in front of him, breathing heavily.

He sized Zhou Xiong up from head to toe, his brows tightening.

“Where’s the cub? What happened?”

Zhou Xiong lifted his head and looked at him.

That gaze was not cold.

It was irritated—the irritation of someone being dragged out of a hard-won moment of silence.

“You hoping something happened to him?”

Cheng Yaojin froze.

“No, I heard you came back alone, so I thought—”

“Thought my ass.”

Zhou Xiong slammed the tea bowl onto the table with a bang.

“He’s busy relocating his mother’s grave. What could happen?”

Cheng Yaojin opened his mouth but failed to speak.

He stood there looking at Zhou Xiong’s face, at the dark circles beneath his eyes, the cracked skin on his lips, the wrinkles and dust on his clothes—the kind only desperate travel could produce.

Cheng Yaojin scratched his head and laughed awkwardly.

Not out of relief.

More the embarrassment of I think I said the wrong thing, but I don’t know what was wrong with it.

He sat across from Zhou Xiong, rubbed his hands together, and spoke cautiously.

“So… everything over there’s settled?”

Zhou Xiong lifted the tea bowl and took a sip.

“The matters over there are settled.”

He paused.

“But my own matters aren’t finished.”

Cheng Yaojin froze again. He looked at Zhou Xiong, waiting for him to continue.

Zhou Xiong said nothing more. His eyes remained fixed outside the window, as though staring at something far away.

The sky outside was blue.

So blue it looked fake.

Cheng Yaojin opened his mouth, wanting to ask what else remained unfinished. But when he saw Zhou Xiong’s expression, he swallowed the words back down.

His own matters. Why am I asking about that?

He sat a while longer, then stood and walked to the doorway. Turning back, he said:

“Then get some rest. I won’t bother you.”

Zhou Xiong ignored him.

Cheng Yaojin lifted the curtain and walked out.

Old Chen still stood in the courtyard holding the water ladle, watching him.

Cheng Yaojin waved a hand at him and strode toward the exit.

At the gate, he stopped, turned around, and looked once more toward the main hall.

The curtain hung there without moving.

He stood for a breath, then turned and left.

The sound of hoofbeats echoed through the alley for a while before fading farther and farther away.

The courtyard became quiet again.

Old Chen splashed the remaining water from the ladle onto the ground. Water droplets scattered across the blue bricks, spreading into dark patches.

Holding the empty ladle, he stood there for a moment before heading toward the kitchen.

The marquis was a man who loved cleanliness.

He knew what should be prepared for him.

Inside the main hall, Zhou Xiong still sat by the table. The tea in his hand had long gone cold.

He neither changed clothes nor drank again. He simply held the bowl there, eyes fixed outside the window.

That dark-blue shadow kept circling through his mind.

Not clearly.

Only vaguely, like something obscured behind a layer of fog.

He could not tell who it was. Could not tell whether it was a man or a woman. He could only see a silhouette standing there—standing within that gray mist, standing before things he could not make out.

That shadow was not her.

But he knew that shadow was himself.

When he crouched before that gravestone, he had seen her.

And he had also seen that shadow.

She stood in front.

The shadow stood farther behind, at a more distant place.

She smiled at him.

The shadow did not move.

She faded away.

The shadow remained.

That was not a hallucination.

He knew it was not a hallucination.

He knew that in the mountains of Yizhou, something was waiting for him.