HNYWEF -Chapter 189 The Hard Road to Shu

In the fifth year of Zhenguan, on the eleventh day of the fifth month.

Hanzhong.

When Zhou Xiong emerged from Ziwu Valley, he looked like someone dug straight out of the dirt.

His clothes had been ripped by branches so many times they were covered in tears, gray with dust to the point their original color was impossible to tell.

His face was caked in grime, his beard untrimmed, his eye sockets hollowed from exhaustion. Yet his eyes were still bright—far too bright for someone who had spent days forcing his way through mountain roads.

Mounted on horseback, he saw the walls of Hanzhong from afar and did not stop.

After entering the city, he asked a passerby for directions and headed straight for the official post station.

The post station stood in the eastern part of the city. It was small, with a lantern hanging by the entrance. Zhou Xiong swung off his horse, tied the reins to the hitching post outside, and pushed the door open.

The main hall was dimly lit.

Several tables of travelers sat drinking tea and talking quietly. Hearing the door open, they looked up briefly before lowering their heads again.

Behind the counter stood a steward in a dark green official robe, head lowered as he worked an abacus.

Zhou Xiong walked over and placed his official identification document on the counter.

The steward looked up and gave him a once-over.

His gaze swept across Zhou Xiong’s dusty face, then over the tattered clothes hanging off him, before finally settling on the document.

He picked it up, opened it, read it once, then read it again. His brows slowly furrowed, as though confirming he had not mistaken something.

“County Marquis of Jiuyuan?”

Zhou Xiong said nothing.

The steward looked at him again, eyes full of doubt.

A marquis? This?
Anyone who didn’t know better would think he was some refugee who escaped from the mountains.

Still, he did not ask questions.

He closed the document, set it aside, pulled a key from the drawer, and handed it over.

Zhou Xiong accepted the key but did not leave.

He turned around, found an empty table in the hall, and sat down.

The steward glanced at him, said nothing, and lowered his head to continue working the abacus.

The hall held all kinds of people.

Some were traveling merchants, some minor officials, others looked like locals.

Now and then they exchanged a few words, voices low and indistinct, blending together into a vague hum.

Zhou Xiong sat there quietly, waiting.

Waiting for what?

Even he did not know.

The food had not arrived yet. He had not gone to his room. He simply sat there, one hand resting on the table, eyes fixed ahead at nothing in particular.

After sitting there for a while, he suddenly spoke.

“Ah—”

The voice was soft and rough, like air leaking through a worn throat.

He was not reciting for others to hear.

It sounded more like he was speaking to himself.

The hall fell silent for a moment. Someone lifted their head and glanced over.

Zhou Xiong did not notice.

Still staring ahead, he continued.

“How perilous, how lofty!
The road to Shu is harder than climbing to the blue heavens.”

This time his voice was slightly louder, though still not meant for an audience.

He recited slowly, pausing after every line, as if savoring something.

“Since Cancong and Yufu founded their ancient realm,
Forty-eight thousand years have passed, cut off from Qin by human paths.”

A merchant at the next table slowly lowered his teacup and turned to look at him.

Behind the counter, the steward had also raised his head. The abacus in his hands stopped clicking.

“To the west stands Taibai, where only bird-paths run,
Crossing straight over the peaks of Emei.
Mountains collapsed, heroes died,
And only then were ladder paths and stone bridges linked together.”

At this point, Zhou Xiong paused.

He stared straight ahead, eyes distant, as though lost in thought. Then he continued.

“Above are heights where the six dragons turn back the sun,
Below are raging rivers twisting against the current.
Even yellow cranes cannot fly across,
And monkeys despair at the climb.”

The hall grew quieter and quieter.

The murmuring conversations disappeared completely. Every eye in the room was now fixed on him.

Some sat with mouths slightly open. Some held teacups forgotten halfway to their lips. Others exchanged bewildered looks with the people beside them.

“What’s he reciting?”

“No idea… but it sounds incredible.”

Zhou Xiong ignored them. He kept going.

“How winding the Green Mud Pass,
Every hundred steps turning nine times around the cliffs.
One touches the stars and gasps for breath,
Pressing a hand to the chest and sighing long.”

His voice remained rough and steady, neither fast nor slow.

Like a man walking an endlessly long road, counting his own footsteps as he went.

“I ask you, traveler westward, when will you return?
These fearful cliffs cannot be climbed.
One only sees sorrowful birds crying among ancient trees,
Male and female circling through the forest.
Again one hears the cuckoo beneath the night moon,
Mourning through the empty mountains.”

At this point, his voice dropped lower and lower, nearly too soft to hear.

He paused.

His throat bobbed once before he spoke the final line.

“The road to Shu is harder than climbing to the blue heavens—
Hearing of it alone makes youthful faces fade.”

The hall was so silent that people could almost hear their own heartbeats.

Behind the counter, the steward stood frozen, the abacus set aside, mouth slightly open as he stared at Zhou Xiong.

The merchants sat motionless, as though nailed in place by something unseen.

In the corner sat an old man who had been dozing earlier. At some point he had awakened. Squinting at Zhou Xiong, something flickered deep within his cloudy old eyes.

Zhou Xiong finished reciting.

Not the entire poem—only this much.

Suddenly, he no longer felt like continuing.

He sat there quietly, staring ahead, one hand still resting on the table without moving.

He had memorized only half the poem, but he felt that was enough.

The rest could wait for the road ahead.

He picked up the teacup on the table and took a sip.

The hall remained silent.

No one spoke. No one moved.

Only after a long while did the steward finally come back to himself. Lowering his head, he picked up the abacus again. The beads clattered once before stopping.

He looked up and glanced at Zhou Xiong once more.

Now, at least, he finally looked somewhat like a nobleman.

Zhou Xiong did not look back.

He sat there holding the teacup, eyes fixed on the doorway.

The door stood open. Sunlight streamed in from outside, shining brightly across the floor.

He watched it for a very long time.