HNYWEF -Chapter 210 Finale – Living Ordinary Days

Twenty-seventh day of the second month, in the sixth year of Zhenguan.

It was still before dawn when every lantern in the Marquis’s residence was lit.

Dim yellow light seeped through door cracks and window seams, making the blue stone pavement of the alley glisten.

Old Chen stood at the entrance. He was wearing newly made clothes, his hair neatly combed without a single strand out of place. In his hand he tightly held a red envelope—something Zhou Yi had pressed into his hand that morning. He had been holding onto it all morning and couldn’t bring himself to put it away.

When the wedding procession set out from the residence, the sun had just begun to rise in the east.

Zhou Yi rode on horseback, wearing a bright red groom’s ceremonial robe, a red silk sash across his chest, his hair tied perfectly in place.

He sat very straight in the saddle, gripping the reins, his body stiff like a post driven into the horse’s back.

Cheng Yaojin led the procession. His voice was so loud it seemed it could shake tiles off both sides of the street.

“Make way! Make way! The imperial son-in-law is going to fetch his bride—idle people step aside!”

After shouting, he grinned and said to the people beside him, “I just love doing this job.”

The procession turned out of the alley and onto the main street. Music and drums filled the air—suona horns, gongs, drums, firecrackers—blending into a deafening roar that made the locust tree leaves along the roadside tremble.

Zhou Yi rode on, the noise filling his ears, yet he heard nothing at all. He only knew he was heading toward the imperial city—toward the place where she was.

The ceremonial procedures were so complicated they made one’s scalp tingle.

From the palace gate to the hall gate, from the hall gate to the courtyard, from the courtyard to the steps—every movement had rules, every bow had protocol.

Officials from the Ministry of Rites stood nearby, calling out step by step until their voices went hoarse.

Zhou Yi knelt and stood, stood and knelt again and again. His knees struck the stone floor with dull thuds, but he felt no pain.

His eyes were constantly searching for her.

She wore a bright red wedding dress, a red veil covering her head, standing quietly there with two maidservants supporting her.

He could not see her face, but he knew she was smiling beneath the veil.

He had seen her smile before—eyes curved like crescents, lips curling upward in a way she could never hide. He couldn’t see it now, but he knew.

After the ceremony was completed, the marriage was official. Zhou Yi held the red silk ribbon—one end in his hand, the other in hers.

They walked one after the other out of the hall, across the square, and out of the palace gates.

Her hand gripped the silk tightly, leaving faint creases in it. He felt it and slowed his steps slightly so she could keep up.

A carriage waited outside the palace gates.

She got into the carriage. He mounted his horse. The procession turned around and headed back toward the Marquis’s residence.

It had been morning when they came. By the time they returned, it was already afternoon.

The sun had shifted from east to west, stretching everyone’s shadows long across the ground.

The banquet at the residence lasted from afternoon until the lamps were lit.

Courtyard, main hall, corridors—tables were everywhere, people everywhere.

The old brothers from the Wagang stronghold sat at several tables. Cheng Yaojin’s table was the rowdiest, cups clinking loudly in chaos.

Qin Qiong sat beside him, holding a cup of wine. He didn’t drink much, but there was a smile on his face.

Li Ji sat opposite, squinting—no one knew if he was drunk or simply thinking.

Yuchi Gong drank in silence, bowl after bowl. Whoever toasted him, he drank. After finishing, he said nothing, just slammed the bowl down and waited for the next.

Zhou Yi went from table to table, raising his cup in toast. He had drunk quite a lot; his face was flushed, but his steps remained steady.

When he reached Cheng Yaojin’s table, Cheng grabbed his sleeve and pulled him forward, sizing him up. Then he slapped his shoulder hard, nearly making him stumble.

“Good boy. You’ve grown up.”

Cheng Yaojin’s voice was lower than usual—so low only Zhou Yi could hear.

He released his grip, lifted his bowl, clinked it against Zhou Yi’s, and drained it in one gulp. Zhou Yi did the same. The liquor went down his throat and burned all the way to his stomach.

He didn’t cough. He set the bowl down, smiled at Cheng Yaojin, then turned to the next table.

Qin Qiong watched Zhou Yi’s retreating back for a long moment, then lifted his cup and took a sip. He set it down.

Li Ji said something beside him, but Qin Qiong didn’t hear—and didn’t ask.

Zhou Hong sat at another table, holding his child in his arms, his wife beside him.

He hadn’t drunk much, but his face was still red. He grinned foolishly the whole time. His wife kicked him under the table several times, but he didn’t stop smiling.

The maternal grandparents sat at the head seat. They wore new clothes—fabric specially selected from the finest cloth shop in Chang’an, arranged by Li Lizhi.

The old woman’s eyes were red. Since the banquet began, she had been crying the entire time—sometimes looking at Zhou Yi, sometimes at the unopened bridal room, sometimes lowering her head to wipe her eyes with her sleeve.

The old man sat beside her, his hand resting gently over hers, saying nothing.

Zhou Xiong sat at the main table with a wine bowl in front of him, half empty.

He didn’t speak much. When someone toasted him, he lifted his bowl. When no one did, he simply sat there watching the courtyard.

His gaze moved from Cheng Yaojin to Qin Qiong, from Qin Qiong to Li Ji, from Li Ji to Yuchi Gong, from Yuchi Gong to Niu Jinda, and over the unnamed old brothers—finally settling on the closed room.

The bridal room door was shut. Warm candlelight glowed through the paper window.

From today onward, his son would no longer live in the Marquis’s residence.

The imperial residence had already been prepared. Tomorrow morning, the two of them would move there.

He had known this all along. When officials from the Ministry of Rites came to confirm the ceremony, they had said it clearly: after marriage, the imperial son-in-law must reside in the princess’s residence. That was the rule. He had said nothing then, only nodded.

Now the banquet was nearing its end. The drunken old brothers were still playing drinking games, still clinking bowls, still cursing and laughing loudly.

He sat there, watching the people, watching the courtyard that was lively beyond reason, and suddenly felt a little cold.

He stood up and slipped away from the table. No one noticed him.

Cheng Yaojin was pulling Li Ji into a drinking contest, Qin Qiong had his head lowered, lost in thought, and Yuchi Gong was already drunk and slumped over the table.

He walked through the corridor and into the back courtyard, stopping beneath the locust tree.

The moon hung overhead—round and bright, just like it had been on last year’s Mid-Autumn Festival.

He looked at it and stood there for a long time. The noise from the front yard drifted over, muffled, as if separated by a layer of something—unclear, indistinct.

He was thinking about something.

From today on, the figure who used to practice martial arts every morning in the courtyard was gone.

The figure who used to squat by the door, scratching patterns on the ground with a branch, was gone.

The figure who sat across from him at meals, occasionally looking up at him, was gone.

That voice that had called him “Father” for sixteen years would no longer echo in his ears every day.

There was only him left in the manor.

Not entirely alone.

There was still Old Chen, there was Zhou Hong, and Zhou Hong’s whole family.

But it wasn’t the same.

He stood under the locust tree. The wind came in, cool and thin, rustling the leaves above him.

He didn’t move. He just stood there, looking at the moon.

The moon was bright, shining on the eaves, on the dry old well in the courtyard, and on him. His shadow lay on the ground—dark, thin, and solitary.

Only him.

Suddenly, he remembered the year he had carried Zhou Yi out of the rain.

The child had only been a few months old, wrapped in swaddling cloth, lying quietly in his arms, eyes wide open, watching him without crying.

He had walked a long way—out of the rain, into the fog, out of the fog, into dawn—until he reached that broken little hut.

Back then, he thought that was all his life would ever be.

Just him, and a child, taking one day at a time.

But the child grew up—learned to call him “Father,” learned to walk, to swing a hammer, to recite poetry, to argue with him.

Later they moved to Chang’an. They had the manor, the Ministry of Works, and all those noisy old comrades.

Later Zhou Yi got engaged, and later—

“Hey, Bear!”

A hand landed heavily on his shoulder, reeking of alcohol.

Zhou Xiong’s thoughts snapped.

He turned his head.

Cheng Yaojin stood behind him, face red as Guan Yu’s, reeking of liquor so strongly it stung the eyes.

He stared at Zhou Xiong, mouth open, breath heavy with alcohol.

“What the hell are you doing standing here alone?”

Zhou Xiong said nothing.

Cheng Yaojin glanced at him, then followed his gaze toward the distance.

Then, unexpectedly, he stopped asking. Instead, he threw an arm around Zhou Xiong’s shoulders—tight, like an iron clamp, painful in its strength.

“Come on, drink!”

Zhou Xiong didn’t move. Cheng Yaojin tightened his grip and pulled him out from under the locust tree.

“What’s wrong with you? Your son’s getting married and you’re standing here staring at the moon alone? Are you out of your mind? Come on, the front’s lively. That old Li bastard’s trying to outdrink me—you help me take him down!”

He dragged Zhou Xiong back.

Zhou Xiong stumbled along, pulled forward against his will.

After a few steps, he turned his head and looked back at the locust tree—and at the moon.

The moon was still there, round and bright.

He turned away and followed Cheng Yaojin.

The sounds from the front grew closer, louder—shouting, clinking bowls, curses, laughter all tangled together like a boiling pot of porridge.

Cheng Yaojin lifted the curtain and shoved him inside.

Heat rushed at him—smell of wine, food, and people all mixed together, stinging his eyes.

Cheng Yaojin pressed him into a seat and shoved a bowl of wine into his hands.

“Drink!”

Zhou Xiong looked down at the bowl. It was full, reflecting candlelight, shimmering. He raised it and took a sip. The wine burned all the way down.

He drank again.

Cheng Yaojin sat beside him, clinked bowls with him—“clang”—wine splashing onto the table.

He took a swig and wiped his mouth.

Then he smiled, eyes narrowing.

Zhou Xiong looked at that smile, at the old comrades drunkenly sprawled across the table, at the room steaming like a furnace—and suddenly, it didn’t feel so cold anymore.

He raised his bowl again and drank.

Living life—how could it ever be smooth sailing? And how could it ever be entirely unsatisfactory?

Outside, another round of firecrackers went off, crackling and bursting in the night sky like a shower of tiny meteors.

In the new bridal room, two shadows leaned close together on the window paper—very close, very close.

The moon hung overhead, round and bright, illuminating the roofs of the manor, the old locust tree, and the blue stone slabs at the end of the alley. Wind came from the mountains, cool and carrying the scent of osmanthus.

At the end of the alley, the blacksmith shop was closed. Its signboard faintly glowed in the moonlight.

“Zhou Family Iron Shop.”

Four characters—cast in iron, engraved stroke by stroke, neat and steady.

(The End)