Han Zhi flicked out the remaining bit of powder from under his fingernails, speaking with a casual indifference that was terrifyingly cruel: “You see, weren’t these sneaky tricks taught to me by you? How is it that in the end, you yourself had no guard up at all?”
When he was young, Han Zhengqing hadn’t taught him much of what normal children should learn. His first lesson was how to guard against people putting things on him, that he couldn’t casually accept things given by others. These habits later seeped into his very bones, not daring to forget them for a moment. Yet while he dared not forget, Han Zhengqing had forgotten.
It was just like how he once regarded Madam Fan and the Prince of Dongping as people to protect, but in the end, these two people had delivered the most vicious stab to him. That feeling really wasn’t pleasant at all.
Therefore, Han Zhi very much didn’t want to make Han Zhengqing happy. He stretched out his foot and kicked aside the limp Han Zhengqing, squatting condescendingly as he looked down at him. Only after staring until Han Zhengqing’s heart felt uneasy did he pull out a knife from his sleeve.
Han Zhengqing wanted to move, but his limbs had no strength at all. Thinking of how Han Zhi had deliberately nearly thrust his hand into his nasal cavity earlier, he knew he’d been tricked. Seeing Han Zhi pull out the knife, his heart somehow gave a heavy lurch, and his gaze finally showed panic: “What are you doing?!”
Han Zhi had once asked himself countless times—if there came a day when he could see Han Zhengqing again, what would he do to him?
Han Zhengqing had given him life, but his entire lifetime had essentially been ruined by his hands. Thinking it over, he really couldn’t offset merits against faults, nor could he be indifferent about it. Long ago, he had already decided what to do.
Just like with the Fan family, he wanted their lives, and he couldn’t let them die too easily. On this point, he had always been experienced—he had never been a person with compassion.
The knife had long been sharpened to extreme sharpness. He had waited for this day for a very, very long time. He made some gestures, then viciously slashed Han Zhengqing’s forehead.
This sudden intense pain left Han Zhengqing somewhat dazed. Blood quickly flowed into his eyes, but he didn’t even have the strength to raise his hand to wipe it away. Very soon, he could barely see anything clearly.
Han Zhi reached out again and slashed his throat. This cut was extremely light and measured. Han Zhengqing could feel the sound of skin and flesh separating, could also hear the muffled sound of the sharp blade cutting through skin and flesh, and could perceive even more clearly the hot flow gushing out in waves.
Han Zhi actually had already lost some restraint. He not only wanted Han Zhengqing’s life—he also wanted Han Zhengqing to suffer a fate worse than death. But he so desperately wanted Han Zhengqing to die later and suffer more that, even with his rich experience, for a moment he didn’t know exactly what to do to make Han Zhengqing’s pain increase further.
The commotion outside grew increasingly severe. Faintly, people could be heard crying out that there was a fire, that there was a fire. Han Zhi turned a deaf ear, also seemingly unable to see the panic and struggle on Han Zhengqing’s face. After a good while, he lowered his eyes and saw Han Zhengqing’s eyes—blurred with blood and tears intermingling. He sneered: “Oh, you heard about the fire too?” His voice was very light yet especially mocking: “But don’t worry, this has nothing to do with you. From the moment I appeared in Xibei, you should have known your death was approaching. All of this was arranged by me.” His tone carried several parts pride and several parts satisfaction: “It was all done by me. I only wanted to kill you.”
Knowing he would die, then being forced to helplessly wait as his blood drained away bit by bit—that feeling was truly terrible. Han Zhengqing swallowed, his throat seeming to be blocked by a lump of phlegm. Han Zhi telling him he only wanted his life—no matter what, he couldn’t understand.
Outside, firelight faintly appeared. Even through the thick tent, he could feel the scorching heat from outside. He’d heard that when the Prince of Zhennan and Marquis Dingyuan dealt with Wu Qianli, they had used fire, burning Wu Qianli’s grain storage tents completely clean, causing him severe losses. There was also the time fighting Yecha—they had also set fires, forcing Yecha to remain without a trace even now.
Guan Shan burst in, interrupting Han Zhi’s actions, his tone revealing no particular urgency as he told Han Zhi: “Young Master, they’ve broken through.”
Han Zhi laughed. In the past, he would have desperately wished for Cui Shaoting and the Prince of Zhennan to die, but unexpectedly, there was actually a time when he was actively helping them. Thinking this, the movements of his hands became even faster. Han Zhengqing was like a tattered rag doll, lifted up by Han Zhi.
Han Zhi heavily slammed him back down on the ground and told him many things.
He spoke of how much he used to hate Lady Fan, how much he wanted to distance himself from her, how good he was to Madam Fan, how much Lady Fan yielded to Madam Fan.
Then he began speaking of how Madam Fan had Han Yue’heng go to Japan as an accompanying bride for a marriage alliance, how she schemed against him, how she wanted him dead, how she wanted Lady Fan to suffer a fate worse than death.
These old matters that had happened before but were now long past were brought up again, yet the resentment in his heart had not decreased in the slightest with time. Not only had it not decreased, it had instead become even deeper.
He looked at Han Zhengqing, his gaze complex and meaning unclear: “Since you didn’t like my mother, why did you marry her? Since you didn’t want children, why did you have us?”
Actually, Han Zhi knew why. Having them was naturally to use them as tools. He could be the Prince of Dongping’s dog, and Han Yue’heng also had many uses.
But this feeling of having one’s course arranged by others, of being only someone else’s appendage for one’s entire life, of being born when others wanted you born and dying when they wanted you dead—that feeling was truly too stifling.
He smiled as he lifted the knife. The blood of Han Zhengqing still stained it. He made a few more gestures, then reached out and heavily plunged the knife into Han Zhengqing’s left eye.
The previous pain had all been neither light nor heavy. However severe, it could still be endured—it was just mentally unbearable. But this time was genuine, solid pain. Han Zhengqing’s entire body convulsed with pain, twitching incessantly on the ground, his whole person curling up.
Guan Shan watched expressionlessly, never once going forward to offer a word of persuasion.
The suffering he and Han Zhengqing had endured in Fujian was far more severe than this. Even if Han Zhengqing were skinned and eaten alive, he wouldn’t blink an eye—let alone for Han Zhi, who was Han Zhengqing’s son.
Han Zhi had played enough and stopped playing. Without caring whether Han Zhengqing could actually hear what he was saying, he stepped on Han Zhengqing’s chest, bent down, and told him: “This is just the beginning. You won’t die. We’ll watch from outside and won’t let anyone come in to kill you. Your trusted aides will be here soon too. From now on, you still have many good days ahead of you. Don’t be anxious at all.”
Having finished speaking, without any lingering attachment, he led Guan Shan as he turned and walked away. Exiting the tent, he skillfully wound left and right, then turned into another tent, asking Sun Ergou, who had hastily stood up: “Is it ready?”