HNYWEF -Chapter 192 Completely Giving Up

Zhenguan Year Five, May 23rd.

South Gate of Jianmen Pass.

Zhou Xiong stood at the city gate and looked up at the plaque overhead, but he did not go in.

Instead, he turned toward the official relay station.

The inn was small, not much bigger than the one north of Jianmen Pass, but the entrance had been swept clean, and water had been sprinkled over the steps, making the place look fresh and tidy.

He pushed the door open and walked in. The manager, a middle-aged man, froze for a moment when he saw Zhou Xiong’s tattered clothes.

Zhou Xiong slapped his travel permit onto the counter.

The manager picked it up, glanced at it, then looked at him again. This time he did not hesitate and directly handed over a key.

Zhou Xiong went upstairs, opened the room, and shut the door behind him.

He stripped off the ragged clothes and tossed them onto the floor, then stood in front of the washbasin, looking down at the water.

He scooped up a ladleful and poured it over his head.

The water was cold. It hit his scalp and made him shiver.

Water streamed down his face, into his collar, across his chest, washing channels through the dirt caked on his skin.

He closed his eyes and let the water run over him for a long while before grabbing the soap and scrubbing his hair, face, and body in rough, careless motions.

The water on the floor mixed with dust and turned gray-black as it flowed toward the doorway.

He washed for a very long time.

Long enough to change the basin water three times. Long enough for water to spread all across the floor and seep under the door, soaking part of the corridor outside.

Then he dug through his bundle and pulled out a clean set of clothes.

He shook them open, put them on, tied his belt, and took out a pair of new boots.

Finally getting rid of that “sportswear” feeling made Zhou Xiong let out a long breath.

He stood before the bronze mirror and looked at himself.

The man in the reflection had lost weight. His cheekbones stood out more sharply, and his eye sockets had sunk deeper. But his beard was shaved clean, his hair tied up properly, and his clothes were neat again.

Now he finally looked like a respectable person.

He went downstairs and returned the key to the counter.

The manager took it, glanced at his face, then at his clothes, and froze again.

This was clearly not the same person who had walked in earlier.

Still, he asked no questions.

Zhou Xiong left the relay station and looked around the street.

There was a carriage hire shop nearby. Several horse carriages were parked outside, and a driver was leaning against one of them, dozing.

Zhou Xiong walked over and knocked on the carriage panel.

The driver opened his eyes groggily and looked at him.

“Going to Yizhou. You taking passengers?”

The driver sized him up from head to toe. The man before him wore clean clothes and carried himself like someone important, so he immediately sat up straighter.

“Yes, yes. How many travelers, sir?”

“One.”

The driver glanced into the carriage, then back at Zhou Xiong.

“Then you want—”

“I’m hiring the whole carriage, driver included. Take me to the Yizhou prefectural city. How much?”

The driver named a price.

Zhou Xiong did not bargain. He pulled out a string of copper coins and handed it over.

The driver weighed the coins in his hand, his eyes lighting up. He jumped down, hurriedly cleared the junk out of the carriage, then wiped the seat with a rag.

“Please get in, sir. We’ll leave right away.”

Zhou Xiong climbed aboard.

The carriage was small, but more than enough for one man to lie down in.

He leaned against the back panel, stretched out his legs, and rested his arms on his knees. Outside, the driver shouted once, the whip cracked, and the carriage started moving.

Zhou Xiong lay down.

Not slowly easing himself down—he simply collapsed sideways onto the wooden bench.

The hard seat dug painfully into his back, but he did not care.

The carriage rocked lazily along. The wheels rattled over the stone road with a clack-clack rhythm, steady and repetitive, like the ox carts he had ridden as a child.

He stared at the roof of the carriage.

There were several cracks in it, thin beams of light leaking through and swaying across his face.

He thought about all the mountains he had climbed.

The mountains of Ziwu Valley. The mountains of Jianmen Pass. And all the other mountains whose names he could not even remember anymore.

He had climbed for nearly a month.

His clothes had torn apart, his shoes had fallen to pieces, his face had been covered in dust, and his beard had grown out until he looked like a wild man.

Why had he climbed at all?

That deep-blue shadow never urged him onward.

It would not come any closer just because he hurried, nor would it disappear because he slowed down.

It was simply there.

Quietly there.

He had not climbed those mountains for its sake.

He had climbed for himself.

To make himself feel like he was still moving forward. Like he was still on the road. Like he was doing something.

Lying there in the carriage, swaying with its motion, Zhou Xiong suddenly found it funny.

A quiet laugh escaped him, more a snort through the nose than a real laugh.

How out of his mind had he been back then?

From Wagang to Chang’an, he had ridden hard, changing horses again and again. Yet from Chang’an to Hanzhong, he had stubbornly refused to ride.

He had insisted on walking through Ziwu Valley. Insisted on climbing mountains.

He had worn himself down until he looked like a refugee. He had even argued with a manager on the plank roads—and even if he won the argument, so what?

The road was still the same road.

The mountains were still the same mountains.

After tormenting himself into this state, what exactly had he gained?

The carriage jolted suddenly, and his head knocked against the wooden panel with a dull thud.

He did not move.

He simply lay there.

Then he closed his eyes.

The carriage kept rocking, clack-clack, clack-clack, over and over.

Listening to that sound, his eyelids gradually grew heavy.

He was not fully asleep.

Just suspended in that hazy space between sleeping and waking, unable to rise or sink.

The mountains, the roads, that deep-blue shadow—all of it churned together in his mind like a pot of porridge.

He ignored them and let them churn on their own.

Slowly, those thoughts settled.

They sank to the very bottom, leaving only a clear layer on top.

He rolled over to face the carriage wall, tucked one arm under his head as a pillow, curled his legs slightly, and found a comfortable position.

Outside, the driver was humming some off-key tune.

Zhou Xiong did not find it annoying.

Wind slipped through the gaps in the curtain, cool against his skin, carrying the scent of wild grass from the fields.

Suddenly, he felt that this was far more comfortable than climbing mountains.

When life could be this good, why make yourself suffer for no reason?