HNYWEF -Chapter 202 Why Bring Up What Shouldn’t Be Mentioned

Emperor Taizong’s reign, year five, seventh month, twelfth day.

When dusk slowly crept over the tops of the walls, the alley still held the lingering warmth left behind by the day’s sun. The green stone slabs underfoot were still slightly hot against the soles.

The doors of the Marquis’s residence were half ajar.

Old Chen was squatting under the corridor picking vegetables when he heard footsteps at the mouth of the alley. He looked up, squinting toward the sound.

Three people. The one in front wore a dark robe and walked with steady steps. Behind him followed a tall, sturdy man, and another who seemed calm and restrained.

The vegetable leaves in Old Chen’s hand slipped to the ground. He didn’t bother picking them up—he stood and ran inside instead.

“Marquis! His Majesty is here!”

Zhou Xiong was sitting by the stone table in the courtyard, a bowl of tea in his hand, untouched.

At Old Chen’s shout, his brows furrowed slightly. He set the tea down but didn’t stand.

When Li Shimin walked in, Zhou Xiong was already looking at him.

His gaze followed him from the threshold all the way to the stone table, slowly sizing him up from top to bottom, like he was an uninvited guest.

Cheng Yaojin followed behind. The moment he entered, his eyes swept around the courtyard. He glanced at the bowl of tea on the table, then at Zhou Xiong’s face, his lips twitching slightly—but he said nothing.

Qin Qiong came last. His pace was neither fast nor slow. He stopped in the middle of the courtyard and didn’t step closer.

Li Shimin stood in front of the stone table, looking at Zhou Xiong. Zhou Xiong looked back at him.

Zhou Xiong spoke first.

“Li Er, you damn bastard,” his voice was rough, unhurried, like he was stating something ordinary. “Did you send my son into the court?”

Li Shimin paused for a moment. He glanced at Zhou Xiong, then at Cheng Yaojin.

Cheng Yaojin quickly shook his head, signaling, “Don’t look at me.”

Zhou Xiong didn’t wait for an answer and continued.

His speech wasn’t fast, but every word came out like beans bursting from a stone pot—sharp, loud, relentless.

“I told him to handle his mother’s reburial, asked him to find you for help, and this is how you helped? You went and shoved him straight into the Ministry of Works. You put him in the same place as me—did you even ask me? Did you ask him if he was willing? Did you ask—forget it. You never ask anything. That’s your lifelong habit—deciding everything for everyone.”

He picked up the tea bowl, took a sip, set it down, and wiped his mouth.

“I leave for two months, come back, and my son has become my subordinate. You’re really something, huh? Is the Ministry of Works so short on people? Or do you think you owe me something and are trying to repay it through my son?”

Li Shimin stood there. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again.

He looked at Zhou Xiong’s eyes.

They weren’t hollow. Not dull. They were bright—so clear they could reflect a person.

That tone, that rhythm of speech, that relentless “I” and “you damn bastard” attitude—it was exactly like the man he remembered from the days at Wagang Village, the bear-like madman who could stitch wounds with one hand while cursing with the other.

Suddenly, he felt relieved.

But he didn’t show it on his face. He simply looked at Zhou Xiong and spoke, his voice calm.

“Zhou Yi is capable. If I don’t use him, it is my loss. It has nothing to do with you.”

Zhou Xiong narrowed his eyes. “Nothing to do with me? That’s my son. You say it’s your loss? What exactly did you lose? A Ministry of Works official?”

Cheng Yaojin, standing behind them, twitched at the corner of his mouth.

Li Shimin glanced at him, then turned back to Zhou Xiong.

“Then have him resign?”

Zhou Xiong opened his mouth, then closed it again.

He picked up the tea bowl, took another sip, set it down—and didn’t answer.

The courtyard fell silent for a moment. The wind passed through, rustling the leaves of the locust tree.

Then Li Shimin spoke again, his voice a little lower than before.

“Have you gone to see her new grave?”

Zhou Xiong’s hand paused for a moment.

The tea bowl rested on the table, his fingers still hooked on the rim. He didn’t pull away. He looked at Emperor Taizong of Tang, and then his eyes sharpened.

“Li Er,” his voice wasn’t loud, but every word carried weight, “are you seriously pulling the ‘don’t mention what hurts’ trick on me?”

Li Shimin (李世民) blinked again, momentarily stunned.

Zhou Xiong stood up and walked right up to him, stopping in front of him and pointing straight at his nose.

“I just came back from there. You’re asking me if I’ve been to see it? What the hell do you mean by that? You think I didn’t go? Or do you want to go yourself?”

Li Shimin opened his mouth.

Zhou Xiong didn’t give him the chance to speak.

“Fine. The fifteenth day of the seventh month, the Ghost Festival. You come with me. I’ll show you exactly where I moved her grave, and what I turned it into. You coming or not?”

Li Shimin stood there, looking at Zhou Xiong’s face.

There was no expression on it, but something was burning in those eyes. He understood clearly now—this wasn’t anger talking. He was serious.

He nodded.

“I’ll go. Of course I’ll go.”

Zhou Xiong looked at him for two breaths, then turned around and went back to the stone table, sitting down.

He picked up the tea bowl, took a sip, and set it down again. His face was completely calm, as if the outburst had never happened.

Cheng Yaojin had been watching the whole thing from behind.

His face stayed neutral, but his shoulders were trembling slightly as he held back laughter. He glanced at Qin Qiong.

Qin Qiong stood in the middle of the courtyard, equally expressionless, but his eyes were already curved with amusement—so subtly that you’d miss it if you weren’t looking closely.

Seeing that made Cheng Yaojin shake even harder.

Zhou Xiong didn’t look at them. He just lowered his head and stared into his tea bowl.

Li Shimin stayed where he was for a moment, then turned and sat down on a nearby stone stool.

He didn’t speak, just sat there, looking at the courtyard’s locust tree. The leaves flipped in the wind, revealing their pale gray undersides, flickering like blinking eyes.

Cheng Yaojin finally couldn’t hold it in. He turned away from the stone table, his shoulders bouncing up and down, making a suppressed sound in his throat—like coughing, but not quite.

Qin Qiong glanced at him but said nothing. The curve at the corner of his mouth only grew slightly.

Zhou Xiong looked up and glanced at Cheng Yaojin.

“What the hell are you snorting about?”

Cheng Yaojin quickly shook his head and turned back around. His face was serious again, though the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes hadn’t fully disappeared.

“Nothing, nothing. Just a bit thirsty.”

He walked over, sat down at the stone table, poured himself a bowl of tea, and drank it in one go.

After finishing, he wiped his mouth and grinned at Zhou Xiong.

Zhou Xiong glanced at him and ignored him.

Dusk deepened. The lanterns under the corridor still hadn’t been lit, and the courtyard was dim and gray.

The group sat around the stone table, none of them speaking.

The wind passed through, cool and carrying the scent of locust leaves.

Li Shimin sat there, watching Zhou Xiong’s profile.

It was hard to see clearly in the fading light, but he knew—the man had come back.

Not the one curled up in a corner holding his head. Not the one with empty eyes. Not the one who smashed wine jars at Cheng Yaojin.

This was the one who could curse, glare, and point at him while saying, “Are you seriously pulling that trick on me?”

Somehow, he felt that the trip on the fifteenth of the seventh month wouldn’t be too hard after all.