HNYWEF -Chapter 199 Go with the Flow

When he returned to the military camp, the sun was already slanting westward.

Zhou Xiong walked through the camp gate, the two soldiers following behind him. None of them spoke.

He crossed the training ground and returned to his room, closing the door behind him.

The room was still the same—broken porcelain shards scattered on the floor, dried tea stains turned dark brown on the wall, the chair left exactly where it had been, the bed untouched.

He sat on the edge of the bed, hands resting on his knees, head lowered, staring at the green bricks on the floor.

That voice in his mind was still spinning.

He sat there, replaying those words over and over again.

Each time he went through them, the tightly stretched string in his heart—strained for who knew how many years—loosened a little.

Not all at once, but bit by bit, like someone slowly turning a tuning peg, one rotation at a time.

He thought of what his father had once said: “Life has eight or nine disappointments out of ten.” “Then are you just not going to live anymore?”

How old had he been then? Ten, maybe a little over ten.

His father had been sitting on the sofa, his right hand wrapped in bandages, patting his head with his left hand and saying, “Go wash your hands. Time to eat.”

He had gone, washed his hands, served his rice, and sat down to eat.

After eating, he did his homework. After homework, he slept. The next day—school as usual, exams as usual. No, after finals it was summer break.

Life went on.

But what about him later?

He wanted to save people. He wanted to save everyone.

On the battlefield, he fought desperately to save lives.

One saved, one lost. Another saved, another gone.

He had died on the operating table, only to open his eyes and find himself in the Sui–Tang era.

And even here, nothing had changed.

He wanted to save Shan Xiongxin—he failed.

He wanted to save Qin Yong—he failed.

He wanted to save Luo Shixin and Ma Jinhua—he failed them all.

Even his own wife—he couldn’t save her.

In both his past life and this one, he had been struggling against the same thing: trying to pull people who “shouldn’t die” back from the hands of Yama, the King of Hell.

Pull one back, lose one. Pull two back, lose a pair.

What had he turned himself into?

Back in the Wagang stronghold, he would sit under a tree in the sun, chewing on a grass stem, laughing carelessly.

Was that really him?

Maybe it was.

But he was afraid others would notice something was wrong. Afraid they would ask, “How do you know this?” “How do you know that?”

So he laughed. He cursed. He drank with Cheng Yaojin, slinging arms around shoulders like nothing mattered.

He buried everything deep down—so deep that it had been pressed there for years.

Until it could no longer be contained, until his eyes went hollow, until he seemed to go mad, until he ended up crouching in a corner holding his head, unable to even speak properly.

Suddenly, he felt like he had lived two lives—and both had gone astray.

“Forty and no longer confused.”

By Confucius’ words, he was already forty in this Great Tang world.

When his father was forty, he worked in a factory. His hand was scraped by machinery, stitched up a few times, and he came home saying, “Just a skin wound.”

His father never thought about changing anything. Never thought about carrying anyone’s fate.

He just lived life—day by day.

Good or bad, he took it all.

And by taking it, one day after another, life simply went on.

Zhou Xiong sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the slightly raised green bricks on the floor for a long time.

Then something clicked.

He stood up, opened the door, and walked out.

The sky had already begun to darken. The lanterns had not yet been lit, and everything was a dim gray.

He walked to the camp gate. The guard had changed—it wasn’t the officer from daytime, but a young soldier leaning against the gateframe, half-asleep with a saber at his waist.

Hearing footsteps, he opened his eyes and quickly straightened when he saw Zhou Xiong.

“Marquis.”

Zhou Xiong stood before him and spoke.

“Prepare a carriage for me. Find a driver.”

The guard froze.

He glanced outside the gate, then back at Zhou Xiong’s face. There was no expression there—but his eyes were bright.

“Marquis, it’s almost nightfall—”

“Prepare the carriage.”

Two words. Not loud. But there was no room for discussion.

The guard swallowed whatever he was about to say, cupped his fists, and ran off.

Footsteps echoed through the camp, fading into the distance.

Zhou Xiong stood at the gate. Wind came from the mountains, cold and carrying the scent of pine resin.

He looked west.

It was completely dark now. No mountains, no trees—nothing could be seen. But he knew the mountain was there. That mound was there, facing east, facing the rising sun.

He lowered his gaze and looked at his hand.

A cut from grass blades had already healed, leaving behind a thin pink line of new skin like a thread.

He stared at it briefly, then tucked his hand into his sleeve.

The carriage rolled out from behind the barracks, wheels crunching over gravel. The driver saw Zhou Xiong and grinned.

“Marquis, where to?”

He got into the carriage and sat down.

“Chang’an.”

The driver froze for a moment, then glanced at the pitch-black road, then back at him.

Zhou Xiong said nothing more.

The driver scratched his head, raised his whip, and cracked it through the air.

“Pa!”

The carriage moved.

Wheels rolled over gravel, rattling forward toward the east.

Inside the carriage, it was dark—nothing could be seen. Only the sound of wheels on the ground, steady and rhythmic, like a heartbeat.

The carriage moved through the night, heading east, toward Chang’an.

Toward the place where he was meant to live his life properly.