HNYWEF -Chapter 6 The Prince of Qin’s Guilt

The door was only half-closed.

When Cheng Yaojin pushed it open, the light inside dimmed for a moment before brightening again.

Then he froze.

Li Shimin was standing at the entrance to the inner room.

Standing.

The Li Shimin from last night—the one half-dead, blood at the corners of his mouth, looking more corpse than man—was now standing there. One hand braced against the doorframe, the other arm supported by Lady Changsun. His face was still pale, his lips bloodless, but his eyes were open.

Wide open.

He looked toward the doorway.

Looked at Cheng Yaojin.

Looked at Fang Xuanling and Du Ruhui following behind him.

Then his gaze stopped.

Stopped on one person.

That man stood beside Cheng Yaojin, still holding the wooden box under one arm.

Their eyes met.

The room was so quiet they could hear the wind outside.

Li Shimin parted his lips, but no sound came out.

The man looked back at him without a trace of expression.

Li Shimin recognized that face.

Nine years ago, at Tongqi Formation, he had seen it before.

Back then, that face had been smiling, holding a baby that had only just learned to crawl, showing him off to everyone and boasting that his son could already call him “Father.” The child sounded more like a mewling cat than anything else, but it was still calling for him.

Later—

Later, that face stopped smiling.

Later, that man left carrying the child and never appeared again.

Later, Li Shimin searched for him. Sent people to search.

One year. Two years. Three years.

They never found him.

Eventually, he thought he would never see him again in this lifetime.

And now that face stood right before him.

Older. Darker. Empty in the eyes.

But it was him.

Li Shimin’s eyes suddenly reddened.

The man looked at him for a long while.

Then his gaze shifted away, pausing briefly on Fang Xuanling’s face, then on Du Ruhui’s.

Before returning again.

Landing on Li Shimin.

“Go back.”

His voice was still as hoarse as before, as though he had not spoken in years.

Everyone in the room froze.

The man continued, speaking slowly and clearly:

“Go do what you want to do.”

After saying that, he lowered his head and walked past Li Shimin, lifting the curtain and entering the inner room.

The curtain fell back into place, swaying lightly before becoming still.

The room fell into dead silence.

Li Shimin stood there motionless.

Lady Changsun, supporting him, could feel him trembling.

Cheng Yaojin stood at the doorway, unsure what to say.

Fang Xuanling’s gaze left the curtain and settled on Li Shimin’s face.

He studied him for a long time.

There was too much written there—shock, guilt, pain, and something else he could not quite describe.

Like a stone being pried open just enough to reveal the soil buried underneath.

Fang Xuanling coughed softly.

Li Shimin snapped back to himself and looked at him.

“Prince of Qin,” Fang Xuanling said quietly, “that man… you know him?”

Li Shimin did not answer.

He simply stood there, staring at the curtain.

Fang Xuanling waited.

Du Ruhui waited.

Cheng Yaojin scratched his head and waited too.

After a very long time, Li Shimin finally spoke.

“His name is Zhou Xiong.”

His voice was low—so low it was nearly impossible to hear.

Fang Xuanling waited for more.

But Li Shimin fell silent again.

He stared at the curtain as though he could see the person behind it.

“He could have chosen not to save me.”

Fang Xuanling’s brows twitched slightly.

He looked at the curtain, then at Li Shimin. His lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but in the end, he stayed silent.

Du Ruhui stood nearby, his gaze heavy, both hands tucked into his sleeves, eyes lowered in thought.

At the doorway, Cheng Yaojin suddenly remembered something. He pulled out the gourd from his robes and placed it on the table.

The gourd made a soft thump against the wooden surface.

He glanced toward the curtain and muttered gruffly:

“Returning your wine.”

No response came from behind the curtain.

Cheng Yaojin waited a breath, scratched his head again, then turned and walked out.

The room quieted once more.

Li Shimin closed his eyes.

He remembered the figure from nine years ago, walking away with a child in his arms.

Back then, he had wanted to chase after him. Wanted to explain. Wanted to say something.

But he had not moved.

He had simply stood there, watching that figure walk farther and farther away—into the rain, into the fog, into nine years of complete silence.

And now that figure had returned.

Standing right in front of him.

Saying only: “Go back. Do what you want to do.”

Then leaving again.

Li Shimin opened his eyes.

He stared at the curtain.

He wanted to go inside.

He wanted to say something.

He wanted—

But he did not move.

He simply stood there, staring at the curtain.

After a long while, he finally turned around.

“Let’s go.”

Fang Xuanling blinked. “Prince of Qin?”

“Back.”

Li Shimin’s voice had steadied, as though he had forcibly suppressed something inside himself.

He looked at Lady Changsun and lightly patted the hand supporting him.

Her eyes were red, but she said nothing, only nodded.

Cheng Yaojin opened his mouth as if to speak, then swallowed the words back down.

He looked at the curtain, then at Li Shimin, scratching his head again.

Li Shimin walked outside.

At the doorway, he paused briefly.

Without turning back, he said: “Tomorrow, I’ll come again.”

Then he stepped out.

The sunlight outside was blindingly bright, painful to the eyes.

Fang Xuanling and Du Ruhui followed him.

Cheng Yaojin lagged behind at the very end.

Standing in the doorway, he looked back once at the curtain.

It did not move at all.

Suddenly, Cheng Yaojin felt like saying something.

He opened his mouth, but in the end only cursed: “That brat.”

Then he stepped outside as well.

The door swayed behind him, left slightly ajar.

The house became quiet.

After a long time, the curtain stirred.

The man stepped out from the inner room and stood alone in the empty hall.

He looked at the door left not quite shut, at the strip of light filtering through the crack.

Outside was bright.

He stood in the shadows.

He simply stood there, unmoving.

Until a pair of small hands wrapped around his waist from behind.

“Dad.”

The man’s body stiffened slightly.

He lowered his head and saw those small hands clasped together over his stomach—thin hands, with two tiny cuts across the fingers, probably from rough play.

“Dad,” the muffled voice behind him asked, “have they gone?”

The man said nothing.

The owner of those little hands pressed his face against his father’s back and rubbed against him gently.

“Dad,” he murmured, “your hands are cold.”

The man lowered his head and looked at his own hands.

They really were cold.

He did not know how long he had been standing there by the door.

Slowly, he lifted one hand and covered the child’s smaller one.

Without saying a word.

The room was very quiet.