Han Zhi pressed his fingers, making a series of cracking sounds that echoed eerily through the silent night. He had once been filled with resentment, and even now, he remained full of resentment. He had long stopped regarding Han Zhengqing as his father, but what Han Zhengqing owed him must definitely be repaid.
Han Zhengqing retreated several steps before suddenly lunging forward, pressing both hands on Han Zhi’s shoulders. For some reason, with his head feeling muddled, the first question that came out of his mouth was: “What did you do to Dongping?”
His mind was already unclear, only remembering the matters he’d obsessively worried about. From his youth until now, what he’d obsessively thought about his entire life—besides Madam Fan and later the Prince of Dongping—there was nothing else.
Han Zhi lifted his foot and kicked Han Zhengqing in the stomach with a bang. Watching Han Zhengqing fly backward like a kite with its string cut, crashing into a chair that toppled backward with a clattering noise, he sneered coldly and pressed forward menacingly.
Speaking of it, it really left one’s heart too unbalanced. He had always thought about taking revenge on Han Zhengqing, yet in Han Zhengqing’s eyes, whether it was his resurrection or his purpose, they couldn’t even compare to the importance of those four words “Prince of Dongping.”
He squatted down and lifted his hand to grip Han Zhengqing’s chin, forcefully and desperately clamping down and lifting upward, squeezing until his chin seemed dislocated. Only then did he look at him with interest, a sinister light flashing in his eyes: “Dongping?” He looked at Han Zhengqing’s anxious expression with amusement, his leisurely manner tinged with an indescribable melancholy and hatred: “You mean my cousin? What could I do to him? Haven’t you and Mother always taught me to treat him well since childhood?”
Outside, a trusted aide stumbled in, his voice carrying panicked sobs: “This is terrible, my lord! Cui Shaoting is attacking the city!” He wept bitterly, unable to control himself: “And he’s attacking from our weakest point—the west gate. Marquis Dingyuan is personally leading the assault and brought firearms. We can’t hold them off…”
The time it took to go from triumph to destruction seemed as brief as an instant. Han Zhengqing didn’t react, staring blankly at Han Zhi. After a long while, he finally opened his mouth: “You did this too?”
Through tear-blurred eyes, the aide followed his gaze and was shocked to see what appeared to be the young Han Zhengqing. He couldn’t help but feel he’d seen a ghost. He rubbed his eyes again and again. After a moment, he belatedly realized—this wasn’t the young Han Zhengqing at all, this was clearly Han Zhi! His young master Han Zhi! He widened his eyes as if he’d seen a ghost, unable to even speak. He crawled and tumbled toward Han Zhengqing, his teeth chattering as he asked: “M-M-My lord, who is this?!”
Han Zhi was in a good mood. He smiled and called out “Uncle,” but his gaze was fixed on Han Zhengqing, completely devoid of mirth, cold and stern: “If you think I did it, then I did it.”
The aide belatedly came to his senses. He looked at Han Zhi, then at Han Zhengqing, feeling all the hair on his body stand on end.
Han Zhi was clearly in a good mood, even having the leisure to look them up and down, smiling as he jerked his chin toward the aide: “You get out.”
The aide stammered “I-I-I” for a long time, trying to crawl away with hands and feet but finding himself unable to move. On the verge of tears and feeling cold inside, Han Zhi kicked him in the rear.
Then, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, he moved several steps closer to Han Zhengqing, raising his chin toward him: “Let’s settle our accounts.”
His tone when speaking was frighteningly cold. Han Zhengqing’s features were dark and gloomy, showing no clear emotion for the moment. After a long while, he finally let out a cold laugh.
It was a genuine cold laugh that spilled from his throat. He had already recovered his senses, suppressing the tumultuous waves in his heart as he coldly brushed his sleeves: “No matter why you’re still alive, and no matter who you’re doing this for, I am your father.”
Never having fulfilled much of his responsibility as a father, yet when things came to a head, he could righteously say those four words “I am your father.” Han Zhi’s expression darkened somewhat. He thought that sometimes when his mother cursed at him, she wasn’t wrong—he indeed shared the same blood as Han Zhengqing, equally base and selfish, equally cold and heartless.
Unlike other sons who would accuse their fathers of being unkind, he clapped his hands and laughed: “You’re my father? Whose father are you?” He reminded him: “Han Zhi is already dead, have you forgotten? He died at the Tianjin docks, his body completely burned. Didn’t the court send people to identify the corpse? Since your son is already dead, how can you come claiming a son now?”
Seeing Han Zhengqing’s increasingly ugly expression, he felt greatly encouraged: “Now you’re claiming out of nowhere that I’m your son—have you no shame?”
Han Zhengqing’s face turned iron-blue as he listened. Finally, he shouted in rebuke: “Shut up!”
“Shut up?” Han Zhi found it laughable. With a violent aura, he suddenly lunged forward, actually knocking Han Zhengqing to the ground, fiercely pressing down on his shoulders, resentment overflowing in his eyes: “You dare do it but fear others speaking of it?”
Han Zhengqing felt his throat terribly dry. Enduring his somewhat painful joints and worrying about the situation outside, he momentarily couldn’t attend to Han Zhi. After struggling several times without breaking free, he grew anxious. He rolled forcefully to the side, switching positions with Han Zhi, and viciously slapped him across the face: “I am your father! Look at what nonsense you’re saying to me!”
Han Zhi didn’t think what he said was nonsense. He stared into Han Zhengqing’s eyes, almost unblinking, then suddenly burst into laughter—a triumphant laugh that made one’s heart feel uneasy: “What I said is nonsense? What I said is the truth.” After finishing this sentence, seeing Han Zhengqing ordering people to come in, he sneered coldly at him: “No one will heed you. The surrounding counties have all been taken by Cui Shaoting. Now there’s only this city left, and this city can’t be held either. Isn’t your west gate the weakest in defense? They all know about it.”
That one sentence—”They all know about it”—made Han Zhengqing’s hair stand on end. He suddenly recalled what Han Zhi had said earlier about why Prince Gong had withdrawn his troops. He glared at Han Zhi through gritted teeth, unable to articulate exactly what he felt, asking superfluously: “You actually did things for the court!”
His son—one Prince of Dongping who refused to acknowledge him and desperately clung to the court’s coattails, another son who went to great lengths to sabotage his plans and conspired with outsiders to scheme against him. This gave him a sense of being betrayed, a feeling of disgust. He was extremely angry.
But Han Zhi had never been the type to care whether others were angry or not. Breathing roughly, he looked at Han Zhengqing and asked: “What’s wrong with me helping the court? Aren’t treasonous rebels like you supposed to be condemned by all?”
Indeed, they were to be condemned by all. Han Zhengqing’s mind was terribly muddled. He felt his eyelids fighting each other, as if he were about to fall asleep. How come he seemed to have no strength at all? No—something seemed wrong.