Chapter 346 Reluctance

Chapter 346: Unwilling

Cheng Ge's fingertips lingered on that ferocious old scar, the rough, uneven texture unmistakable under his fingers.

He didn't raise his head, his gaze lowered, resting on the clean white bandages wrapped in neat, fresh layers.

His voice was very soft, almost swallowed by the crackling of the candle flame: "Afraid?"

The question came out of nowhere, yet Cui Ji understood immediately.

He wasn't asking about this moment, but about the inevitable sea of corpses and blood that lay ahead—the final destination of dying on the battlefield.

After a moment of silence, Cui Ji's voice sounded from above, calm and flat, as if stating a long-settled fact.

"The Cui family has guarded the border for generations. In the end, we're destined to be buried right here."

That was the Cui family's fate—bound to this blood-soaked land from birth to death.

Cheng Ge kept his head lowered, saying nothing. Now the Northern Di had amassed troops at the border, watching hungrily, and war was on the verge of breaking out.

To die on the battlefield, to defend the homeland—this was a duty etched into the Cui family's very blood and bones, one from which there was no escape.

A heavy, sorrowful understanding weighed on his chest.

Suddenly, a warm palm gently landed on the back of his head. Cui Ji reached out and pulled him fully into his arms.

Cheng Ge didn't resist. He leaned in without protest, his cheek pressing against the cool fabric of Cui Ji's chest, where he could hear the steady, powerful heartbeat beneath.

Then, a feather-light kiss landed on his trembling eyelids.

The touch came and went in an instant, yet it carried an indescribable comfort.

"Stay with me and sleep a while longer." Cui Ji's voice was low, murmured at his ear.

The wind outside seemed to recede, and the camp's noise faded into the background.

Cheng Ge closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His nose filled with Cui Ji's scent—a mixture of medicine and a hint of that sharp, cold edge that was uniquely his.

He lifted his arm and wrapped it around Cui Ji's waist in return.

Nuzzling deeper into the crook of Cui Ji's neck, he mumbled a low "Mm."

At some point, Cui Ji waved a hand and snuffed out the candle, plunging the tent into darkness, with only their mingled breaths and body heat filling the dark.

On the other side, Han Meng had just finished his night patrol and was heading back with heavy footsteps.

Night cloaked his angular face, his expression unreadable and conflicted.

He turned his head and asked the personal guard following beside him: "I hear that guy hasn't shown up at the training grounds these past few days?"

The guard's stride hitched, instantly catching on who he meant, and shook his head.

"No. I heard... the General himself asked for leave on Instructor Cheng's behalf, claiming he was under the weather and needed to rest."

Han Meng let out a barely audible snort.

"A waste of space! Women are nothing but trouble—dead weight on the battlefield."

He paused, then as if remembering something, pressed on: "Where's the General now?"

The guard hesitated, glancing at Han Meng's face, before replying cautiously:

"The General... these past few days, whenever he has a spare moment, he stays in the main tent holed up with Instructor Cheng."

These words were like gasoline on a fire. The muscles in Han Meng's face twitched.

His already dark expression soured further, a mix of simmering rage and something unnameable.

He asked no more questions. He abruptly shoved aside the tent's heavy flap and ducked inside.

Inside, the candle flame guttered in the draft he brought in, light flickering wildly.

Han Zhen sat sideways on a rough camp cot, bare-chested.

A young medicine boy was carefully dressing a wound on his back.

A long gash ran from below his left shoulder blade, slashing diagonally down to his lower right abdomen, the flesh gaping open in a gruesome mess.

Maybe it was his age—his body just didn't heal like it used to.

The wound wasn't healing—yellow fluid kept weeping from it, and the edges were starting to fester.

The medicine boy had already scraped away most of the black, rotting flesh with a silver knife, leaving raw red tissue underneath.

Against the web of old scars crisscrossing his back, it looked even worse.

Hearing the noise, Han Zhen looked up: "Back already? All done?"

Han Meng grunted a low "Mm" in reply.

He walked over, brow furrowing deeper, eyes lingering on the wound for a moment.

Without a word, he took the medicine bowl and gauze from the boy.

Han Meng dabbed the brown paste onto the festering wound on Han Zhen's back.

The ointment hit the raw flesh, sending a sting through Han Zhen that made his muscles lock up.

But he just clenched his jaw, a muffled grunt escaping his throat—he refused to yell.

"Father, you risked everything, nearly got yourself killed—and what did it get you?"

Han Zhen lay propped against the bed, the veins on his forehead bulging from the extra pressure of his son's hands.

But he still gritted the words out, stubborn as an old soldier.

"Nonsense! The provisions concern the lives of the entire army. As long as I can bring them back, never mind this old life of mine—even if it costs several more, it's worth it!

Quit overthinking this! I don't fight wars to get my name on some merit list!"

That tone made the anger and bitterness in Han Meng's chest flare up.

His hand unconsciously pressed harder as he applied the ointment, his voice turning cold and hard.

"Worth it?" Han Meng's voice shot up, as if those two words had lit a fuse.

"You've given everything to the Cui family, to this northern front, fighting your whole life—how many scars do you have to show for it?

And what's it gotten you? After all these years, risking your neck, you're still just an Assistant General!"

"All those who really hold power—aren't they just sitting pretty up high?"

He got more worked up as he talked, his application of the ointment turning rough, almost jamming it into the torn, gaping wound.

"Take Cheng Ge, for instance—just because he's the general's bed warmer, he waltzed in and got a top post the second he showed up. So what's left for the rest of us? We'll never get a shot at moving up!"

Han Zhen, caught off guard, flinched in agony, his whole body jerking as he sucked in a sharp breath, his vision going black for a second, almost pitching him off the bed.

It took him a few breaths to raise his head, his face red as a beet from the pain and rage.

He glared back at Han Meng, his voice shaking but still carrying that iron authority.

"Silence! You fool... Since when is rank the measure of loyalty and guts?!

I joined the army to defend this land, so the folks back home can live in peace! Not for some damn official hat!"

His breathing was ragged, his voice broken by the searing pain, but still rock-solid.

"The Cui Family Army has been good to our Han family! If Old General Cui hadn't taken us under his wing back then, without the general's trust, you and I would've died in some godforsaken corner of some battlefield long ago!

That debt of gratitude for lifting us up is heavier than a mountain! And now... you've got the nerve to say such ungrateful crap!"

Han Meng watched his father's body tremble violently from agitation and pain, watching that awful wound on his back weep pus and blood with every breath.

Hearing these fiery but "old-school" words, the bitter fire in his chest was burning him up inside.

Yet Han Zhen felt it wasn't enough—the rage of disappointment and lingering dread was eating him alive.

He gritted his teeth against the pain, his voice hoarse, but every word hit Han Meng like a sledgehammer.

"I've heard about Instructor Cheng as well! Clearly, you got outclassed and beaten by her—where's the favoritism in that?!

In the army, it's always been survival of the fittest! Instead of looking at your own damn flaws and sharpening your skills, you whine like some bitter old woman, blaming others and shifting fault!

Me, Han Zhen... how the hell did I raise a son like you?!"

Han Meng had never been chewed out so harshly and mercilessly, especially by his own old man, whom he looked up to.

The humiliation of being kicked down moments ago, combined with this scolding, lit a fire under all that pent-up defiance.

With a loud crash, he slammed the medicine bowl he was still holding to the ground, shards flying and brown medicine splashing all over.

"The capable rise?!" Han Meng stuck his neck out, eyes bloodshot, practically screaming, "Oh, real nice! And what about you, Dad?!

Look in the mirror—are you worse than anyone in this army? Less loyal, less gutsy, less committed?!

And what's the result? You've served one master, then another, for decades,

and you're still just a damn Assistant General!

You gotta drag your old bones out to fight the Beidi for scraps! Is that what your precious 'capable' folks get?!"

His words grew more fervent, all his pent-up grievances and bitterness bursting out like a broken dam, without a filter.

"If we really toss all that aside and just talk loyalty and skill, then what about those princes and big shots back in the capital? What the hell can they do?!

They've got wives and concubines coming out their ears, living the high life—how much better off are they than us, who live on the edge of a knife and die wrapped in our own horsehide?!

This Great Zhou—every damn inch of it was won and held by us, by the Cui Family Army!

The Cui family's got hundreds of thousands of troops, running the whole northern frontier—let alone anything else, even if they wanted to take the throne, it'd just be a matter of..."

"Bang!" A dull thud!

Han Meng's words died in his throat as a massive force sent him flying.

He slammed into the flimsy wooden rack in the tent, sending junk clattering everywhere.

A dull, bone-cracking pain exploded in his chest, and he curled up on the spot.

He couldn't even scream—just sucked in sharp, ragged breaths through his open mouth.

"Wretch!!!" This kick from Han Zhen had nearly exhausted all his remaining strength.

The violent motion also tore at his terrible back wound, blood instantly soaking through the gauze and streaming down his side.

His face was deathly pale, cold sweat beading on his forehead, his body swaying—only by gripping the bed's edge did he manage to stay upright.

He pointed at Han Meng, curled on the ground, his finger trembling uncontrollably.

His voice, twisted by extreme fear and rage, was hoarse as a broken gong.

"You... you unfilial brat! A rebellious madman! You... you dare... dare utter words that would annihilate nine generations of our family!

You're condemning the entire Han household to death without burial!

You're betraying the general's loyalty and righteousness, destroying the Cui family's legacy of honor and martyrdom!!"

He trembled all over, his vision darkening, on the verge of fainting.

If his earlier complaints had only angered him, then Han Meng's unfinished reckless words now brought a catastrophic terror.

Such words, if even a whisper reached outside and fell into the wrong hands, would spell utter disaster!

The tent fell into dead silence, broken only by Han Zhen's labored, ragged breathing and Han Meng's suppressed gasps of pain.

The spilled medicine traced a winding path on the ground, like an ugly scar.

Han Zhen looked at his son, curled up and momentarily speechless from pain and shock.

The blazing fury within him was suddenly replaced by a deeper, rust-flavored sorrow.

He crouched down with immense difficulty, gripping the bed's edge, to meet Han Meng's eyes.

This simple action nearly drained all his strength, blood flowing faster down his back.

He didn't roar again; his voice was low and raspy, as if ground by gravel, yet carrying a weight that pierced the heart.

"Meng'er... remember this..." Each word he spoke seemed to cost him life itself.

"Some thoughts, once born, lead to utter ruin...

The Cui family's soldiers are shields protecting the people of Great Zhou, blades hanging over the heads of the Beidi... They were never meant to be spears pointed at our own capital..."

He coughed violently, blood-flecked foam seeping from the corners of his mouth, yet he ignored it, staring intently into his son's eyes.

He spoke sternly, his voice as if ground by sand.

"If you dare entertain such thoughts, let alone the general—I will be the first to show you no mercy!"

Han Meng looked at Han Zhen's bloodshot eyes, his heart giving a violent lurch.

A chill shot up from his spine, racing through his limbs and bones.

He knew his father too well—usually a man of few words.

But once a line was crossed, once he made up his mind, there was no changing it.

The dull ache in his chest sharpened into a clear, piercing pain, and a fierce resentment gnawed at his heart again.

Thoughts of injustice and humiliation churned violently, threatening to shatter the calm he'd forced himself to keep.

Why should he have to swallow this humiliation? Why... He raised his eyes, meeting Han Zhen's merciless stare.

The bright red patch on Han Zhen was spreading, blood trickling down his skin.

Han Meng quickly forced the resentment out of his eyes, lowered his head, and his voice settled back into calm.

"...Your son knows he was wrong," he said, swallowing hard. "Just now... your son misspoke.

It's late, Father. Please get some rest. Your son... will not disturb you further."

With that, he didn't even glance at Han Zhen again, enduring the dull pain in his chest.

He turned quickly, stumbling a little, and parted the tent curtain. He disappeared into the growing darkness.

The tent went quiet again, just the thick smell of blood and medicine hanging in the air.

Han Zhen watched the swaying curtain until it came to a complete stop, then, as if drained of all strength, he let out a heavy breath tinged with bloody froth.

He gripped the bed's edge and, with extreme slowness, sat back down.

His gaze shifted to the small medicine boy in the corner, who was shrinking his shoulders to minimize his presence.

He swallowed back the coppery taste rising in his throat, trying to keep his voice steady.

"Just now... my son was hot-headed and said some foolish things... They were just careless words, not meant to be taken seriously."

"Young soldiers are bound to get hot-blooded and speak without thinking. Words like that are forgotten the moment they're spoken.

But things are unstable at the border right now. If any rumors got out, it wouldn't do him, you, or the stability of this camp any good. You understand that, I'm sure."