HNYWEF -Chapter 2 The Silent Gourd

The door opened.

No sound.

Standing in the rain, drenched from head to toe, Cheng Yaojin watched the door slowly swing open.

The person inside stood there holding an oil lamp.

The wick flickered wildly in the wind, bright one moment and dim the next, casting shifting light across his face.

That face was far too familiar to Cheng Yaojin.

More than ten years ago at Wagang, he had seen it every single day. They had drunk together, fought battles together, bragged together.

Back then, that face always carried a grin—carefree and foolish, like a man with no worries in the world.

Now there was no expression on it at all.

The man glanced at him once, then lowered his eyes to Li Shimin lying unconscious on the ground.

Then he turned and walked toward the inner room.

Without saying a single word.

Cheng Yaojin froze for a moment.

But this time he recovered quickly. He bent down, lifted Li Shimin out of the mud, and staggered after him.

Behind him, the wind shoved the door so it creaked and swayed, never fully closing.

The house was dark. The only light came from the lamp in the man’s hand. Cheng Yaojin followed that faint glow inward, stepping on something soft beneath his feet—grass maybe, or bedding, he couldn’t tell.

The inner room was slightly brighter, lit by another oil lamp.

The man set the lamp on the table and pointed at the kang bed.

Cheng Yaojin laid Li Shimin on it.

The man leaned over and touched Li Shimin’s forehead, the back of his hand resting there for a moment.

Then he placed two fingers against Li Shimin’s wrist, closed his eyes, and remained perfectly still.

Standing nearby, Cheng Yaojin hardly dared to breathe.

He stared at the man’s hands.

Those hands—he knew them.

Years ago, those very hands had dragged him back from the gates of hell.

They were still the same hands.

But the man no longer seemed like the same man.

The man opened his eyes and released Li Shimin’s wrist.

He stood and walked to a wooden cabinet in the corner.

The cabinet was old, darkened with age.

Opening it, he rummaged around before taking out a small cloth bundle.

Inside were several dark medicinal pills.

He returned to the bedside, pried open Li Shimin’s mouth, and pushed the pills in one by one.

Afterward, he lifted Li Shimin’s neck slightly so his head tilted back, waiting for him to swallow.

Li Shimin’s throat moved once.

The man lowered him back onto the kang and pulled a blanket over him.

Then he stood and turned around.

Cheng Yaojin was staring at him.

Their eyes met.

Cheng Yaojin opened his mouth, wanting to speak.

He wanted to ask where the man had gone these past years, why he was here, what those pills were, whether Shimin would survive—he had ten thousand questions.

But something in the man’s eyes stopped every single one of them.

Still, there was one thing Cheng Yaojin already knew the answer to.

Any brother treated by this man had survived.

Not one had ever died under his care.

And if they failed to recover in the end, it was because they refused to follow his instructions.

Everyone in Wagang had known that back then.

The kid had a strange temper and endless rules. If anyone dared interrupt him while he was treating a patient, he would throw everything down and walk away on the spot.

The man looked at him once more, then walked past him and left the inner room.

The sound of his footsteps gradually faded away.

Left alone, Cheng Yaojin stood there listening to the rain outside, to his own heartbeat, to those footsteps disappearing somewhere beyond.

Suddenly, he felt the house was too quiet.

Unnaturally quiet.

That kid used to talk nonstop. While stitching wounds, while fighting battles, while drinking—his mouth never rested. He could curse out your ancestors for eight generations while sewing you up, then sling an arm around your shoulders and drag you off for drinks afterward.

When had anyone ever heard him stay silent?

Never.

Not once.

Cheng Yaojin lowered his head and looked at Li Shimin on the kang. His face was deathly pale, but his breathing seemed steadier now.

Then he looked back toward the doorway. It was pitch black there, nothing visible at all.

He scratched his head.

“That brat…” he muttered softly, then swallowed the rest of the words.

Outside, the rain still poured.

Inside, the silence remained.

Standing there, Cheng Yaojin suddenly had no idea what he was supposed to do.