Hot flashes

The smoke and bloodshed of Cangyun Ridge seemed to have been somewhat dispelled by the chilly spring breeze.

The celebratory banquet ended hastily. Xiao Jue, citing his busy military affairs, left early, entrusting all the follow-up matters to generals such as Zhao Ting.

He returned to the central command tent alone, without lighting a lamp or calling for anyone.

As night deepened, the tent was pitch black and silent, with only the strong smell of alcohol wafting through the air with each breath.

After Zhou Heng finished dealing with some miscellaneous tasks, he went to check on the situation of the wounded soldiers' camp. When he returned to the main tent area, he found that Xiao Jue's tent was still dark and unusually quiet.

The guards stood watch outside the tent, their expressions hesitant. When Zhou Heng arrived, they whispered, "Mr. Zhou, after the lord returned, he sent in several jars of wine and ordered that no one be allowed to disturb him."

Zhou Heng nodded, indicating that he understood. He stood outside the tent for a moment, listening for any sounds from inside, before finally gently lifting the tent flap and going in.

A strong smell of alcohol hit me. My eyes, now adjusted to the darkness, could barely make out what was inside the tent by the faint starlight filtering in from outside and the lingering glow of the distant campfire.

Xiao Jue neither sat behind the desk nor lay on the bed.

He sat on the ground, leaning against the main pillar supporting the tent, his black outer robe casually tossed aside, wearing only a thin, dark inner garment with the collar slightly open.

Several empty wine jars lay scattered at his feet, and he was still holding a half-full jar in his hand.

He kept his head down, his loose black hair obscuring most of his face, only occasionally revealing his taut jawline when he tilted his head back to drink.

Hearing footsteps, he slowly raised his head.

In the darkness, those eyes, which were always as sharp as a hawk and as calm as a cold pool, were now veiled with a layer of misty water. Reflecting the dim light, they appeared somewhat unfocused, yet deep within them churned intense emotions that Zhou Heng had never seen before, emotions that were almost painful.

"Who let you in?" His voice was hoarse and low, heavily intoxicated, but strangely, there was no anger, only exhaustion.

Zhou Heng walked up to him and sat down on the ground. He didn't answer his question, but just looked at him quietly, at the empty jar at his feet, and at the edge of the wine jar he was gripping tightly in his hand, his knuckles turning white from the force.

"Too much alcohol is bad for your health." That was all Zhou Heng said in the end.

Xiao Jue chuckled softly, then tilted his head back and took a big gulp of wine, which slid down his sharp jawline and into his slightly open collar.

Zhou Heng remained silent. He knew that what Xiao Jue needed at this moment might not be comforting words.

Xiao Jue slammed the wine jar down beside him, leaned back against the cold pillar, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes.

A long silence fell over the tent, broken only by the two people's uneven breathing.

Just when Zhou Heng thought he was about to fall asleep or wasn't going to speak again, Xiao Jue's voice suddenly rang out, very soft, carrying a slight buzz from the alcohol and a rare hint of confusion, drifting into the darkness:

"Do you think... when I go to the underworld, my father... will he blame me?"

Zhou Heng's heart skipped a beat, and he looked up. Xiao Jue still had his eyes closed, but his brows were tightly furrowed, as if he were enduring great torment.

"He was a loyal minister and general his whole life," Xiao Jue continued, as if asking Zhou Heng, or as if talking to himself, "He was devoted to his duties, loyal to the emperor and serving the country, but his son became a traitor."

His Adam's apple bobbed, and his voice trembled with barely suppressed emotion: "Will he... feel that I have disgraced the Xiao family? Will he... disown me as his son?"

These words have probably been buried in his heart for far too long.

He is usually shrouded in layers of cold rationality, the flames of revenge, and the ambition for hegemony, never seeing the light of day.

Only at this moment, under the influence of alcohol, and after the tragic end of another "loyal subject" with his own hands, did the deep-seated longing and fear for his father's approval erupt like magma.

Zhou Heng looked at his painfully curled knuckles, his tightly furrowed brows, and his slightly trembling eyelashes, and the softest part of his heart was struck hard.

This man, who was shrewd and ruthless on the battlefield, had always harbored deep within him a boy who had lost everything and struggled alone in hatred and loneliness.

He moved closer, reached out, and gently placed his hand on the back of Xiao Jue's clenched fist, which was resting on his knee.

The back of the hand was icy cold and damp with the smell of alcohol, yet it trembled almost imperceptibly the moment it was touched.

"He won't." Zhou Heng's voice was soft, yet exceptionally clear, carrying a comforting power. "General Xiao... if he were alive today, he might be heartbroken to see what you've done, but he would never blame you, much less disown you."

Xiao Jue's eyelashes trembled slightly, but he still didn't open them.

"He can only feel sorry for his child," Zhou Heng continued, his fingertips unconsciously rubbing the cold skin on the back of his hand. "He feels sorry for his child, who became an orphan at such a young age, wandering and struggling to survive in this cannibalistic world."

My heart aches for you, honing yourself into the sharpest blade for revenge, battling the most vicious enemies and navigating the most treacherous hearts in the military camp and on the battlefield, every step you took fraught with danger and bloodshed.

"He will understand that you weren't born wanting to be a 'rebel.' It was that court, that emperor, those parasites who first betrayed loyal ministers, crushed your family, and forced you into a corner, leaving you no choice but to carve out a bloody path for yourself."

Xiao Jue felt the hand covering the back of his hand, warm and firm, trying little by little to melt the ice that had accumulated in his heart over the years.

Xiao Jue finally slowly opened his eyes. His eyes, moistened by alcohol and moisture, shone brightly in the darkness, locking onto Zhou Heng.

Gone is the usual sharpness, leaving only a naked search and dependence.

"Aheng," he suddenly called out, his voice low and hoarse, carrying a hint of intoxication and a strange tenderness.

Zhou Heng was taken aback. This form of address... Xiao Jue rarely called him that.

Before Zhou Heng could react, Xiao Jue spoke again in a low voice, his gaze somewhat unfocused as he looked at Zhou Heng's face, as if he could see something unspeakable through him: "Believe it or not... I always felt that you should have come to my side a long time ago."

These words were nonsensical and even absurd. Zhou Heng blinked, momentarily at a loss for words, his heart skipping a beat: "What are you talking about... You've had too much to drink."

Xiao Jue ignored his reaction and just stared at him intently, his gaze so deep it seemed to draw him in.

After looking at it for a long time, he suddenly sighed very softly.

Then, he loosened his clenched fist, turned his hand over, and gently grasped Zhou Heng's hand that was resting on the back of his hand.

He leaned forward, his warm breath, heavy with the smell of alcohol, brushing against Zhou Heng's neck, and slowly, heavily, pressed his forehead against the crook of Zhou Heng's neck.

This is a posture of complete dependence and vulnerability.

It was as if the iron-blooded general, who had traversed countless mountains and rivers and experienced countless battles, had finally removed all his armor and handed over his most tired and wounded inner self to the person in front of him without reservation.