Chapter 357 Estrangement

Chapter 357: Estrangement

Cui Ji returned from duty and, without even taking off his black armor, asked, "Where is Instructor Cheng?"

The soldier guarding the tent hesitated, as if wanting to say something, then pointed toward the training ground: "He's... playing chess with General Han."

When Cui Ji turned the corner of the tent, he was met with quite a sight in the twilight.

Cheng Ge had his bare right foot propped up on a stone stool, the white piece he held between his fingers practically poking Han Zhen in the nose: "Act your age, old man! Even a dog would shake its head at that move!"

Han Zhen clutched his black piece, his beard trembling with fury: "You snot-nosed kid! You took back your move three times in a row and I didn't say a thing!"

"My hand slipped!" Cheng Ge reached for his opponent's piece container, "Don't think I didn't see you stashing pieces!"

Cui Ji stood at a distance, watching the two of them tear into each other.

He saw bits of grass stuck to Cheng Ge's bare foot resting on the stool, Han Zhen's collar twisted askew, and half a piece of jerky lying at the edge of the chessboard.

"A soft cough." The two bickering men froze mid-argument.

Cheng Ge's foot shot back into his shoe, and Han Zhen frantically tried to straighten the knocked-over chessboard.

Cui Ji strolled over, his eyes sweeping over the scattered pieces on the ground.

Han Zhen was the camp's notorious chess patzer, having inherited Old Prince Zhenbei's "earth-shattering" chess skills.

Other than the Old Prince himself, no one in the whole army could even finish a second game against him.

Now that he'd run into Cheng Ge, it was like two peas in a pod.

Cheng Ge's face lit up when she saw Cui Ji: "What are you doing here?"

"Just finished work." Cui Ji's eyes briefly swept over her grass-flecked ankle, then he casually laid his cloak over the stone stool.

Han Zhen snapped to attention: "General."

"How's your injury?" Cui Ji asked, looking at him.

Han Zhen smiled bitterly and patted his chest: "Afraid it's beyond saving. Does the General think the kitchen could use an extra hand? Find me a spot."

"I appreciate your service."

"It's my duty." Han Zhen grinned broadly, his face etched with wrinkles from the frontier winds and sand.

Cui Ji paused, his fingers absently rubbing the silver clasp of his cloak: "The cavalry battalion still needs a spear instructor. General Han, when you have time, come by and show them a thing or two."

Han Zhen stood rooted to the spot. Since his last severe injury, even holding a spear steady had become a struggle.

The army doesn't keep dead weight, and he'd already resigned himself to chopping wood in the kitchen.

"General..." Han Zhen's voice was hoarse, "I might not be able to..."

"Just teach the new recruits proper grip and technique." Cui Ji said flatly, but the words struck home, "Your experience is worth more than brute strength."

Cheng Ge, crouched on the ground picking up pieces, snuck a glance at Cui Ji at those words.

Cui Ji was about to leave with Cheng Ge when Han Zhen suddenly called out: "Instructor Cheng, please hold on."

Cheng Ge turned around just as the spear that had served Han Zhen for half his life came flying toward him.

She caught it on reflex, the solid weight making her palm tingle.

Cheng Ge: "???"

Cheng Ge stared at the dense notches carved into the spear shaft, each one marking a brutal battle.

"It's wasted on me." Han Zhen smiled, magnanimous. "Better it goes to you."

Cheng Ge's eyes lit up, but her mouth still made a show of refusing: "Oh, I couldn't possibly..." Then she excitedly thumped Han Zhen on the chest as thanks.

"Cough!" Han Zhen's face went white, and he stumbled back half a step—that punch had hit his old wound dead-on, nearly killing him on the spot.

Just then, Han Meng strode up. The moment he saw the spear on Cheng Ge's shoulder, his face darkened.

But with Cui Ji there, he still saluted with clasped fists: "General."

Cheng Ge nonchalantly shifted the spear to her other shoulder, the silver tip and red tassel blazing in the twilight.

Han Meng watched the two of them walk off side by side until they vanished around the tent.

He spun around, his voice barely containing his rage: "Father! What's the meaning of this? Why give the spear to that woman!"

Han Zhen slowly straightened, the smile completely gone from his face.

He fixed his son with a piercing stare: "That's the General's Wife. Mind your tongue."

"The General's Wife?" Han Meng sneered, his fists clenched so tight they turned white. "I've begged you for years, and you wouldn't even let me touch it!

And now you just hand it to an outsider? This was a personal gift from Old Prince Zhenbei!"

"Exactly because of that," Han Zhen said, his voice low and grave, "it must not be left to gather dust."

Han Meng's chest rose and fell violently, his eyes bloodshot: "How is it gathering dust! My spear skills are just fine!

Since ancient times, parents who truly love their children make plans for their future. But you—you don't care about your own flesh and blood, always favoring outsiders! If Mother were still here, she'd say you'd lost your mind!"

Han Zhen's face turned grim as he pushed himself up with the spear: "It's exactly because you're my son that I can't spoil you!

This spear was earned through military merit, not passed down from ancestors! Want it? Go earn it yourself!"

"What's meant to be yours will come to you; what isn't, you can't force. If you're truly a hopeless waste, even if I passed the spear to you, you couldn't hold onto it!"

"Hopeless?" Han Meng slammed his saber to the ground, the scabbard shattering with a crack. "Last year when I led three hundred brothers to cover the retreat in the snowy night rescue, why didn't you call me hopeless then?"

"That's what you were supposed to do!" Han Zhen pointed a trembling finger at the quiver at his waist, "Look at the soldiers you lead! Arrowheads rusted and unsharpened, bowstrings loose and untightened—these are the fine troops you've trained!"

Han Meng ripped off his saber and hurled it to the ground: "The camp's weapons have been in short supply for half a month! I gave my own share of arrows to the new recruits! While you lay in the medical tent recovering, did you know I had them drilling with wooden arrows?"

"Nonsense!" Han Zhen grabbed the rusted arrow and hurled it back, "Back in the day at Wild Fox Valley, I could kill three Di people with a tree branch! Equipment's lacking, so you just stop training? That's your excuse?"

Han Meng suddenly went quiet. He stared hard at his father, his eyes shifting from rage to a cold, bitter disappointment.

"So in your heart, everything I do is just an excuse."

"Have you ever praised me once since I was a child?" Han Meng's voice was eerily calm. "The first time I killed an enemy, you said 'don't get cocky'; when I was promoted to captain, you said 'not good enough'; and now..."

His gaze swept over the spear his father gripped tightly, and he forced a bitter smile: "Now you'd rather give that spear to an outsider than admit your son is worthy of it."

Han Zhen opened his mouth, the words "I did it for your own good" stuck in his throat.

He saw something in his son's eyes go out, like the last ember of a dying campfire.

Han Meng suddenly laughed. He bent down to pick up his saber, casually brushing the dust off the scabbard. "In that case, I'll take my leave, Father."

He turned and walked toward the training ground, the sun squashing his shadow into a tight black blob. As he passed the spear mark, his boot heel crunched over the scattered chess pieces.

Han Zhen instinctively wanted to call him back, but saw Han Meng suddenly turn his head. In the harsh sunlight, there was a strange, mocking glint in his eyes:

"Father, tell me... if the Beidi people were to attack, would that trick of yours—killing enemies with tree branches—actually work, or would real iron arrows do the job better?"

The question came out of nowhere, and before Han Zhen could even process it, Han Meng had already strode away.

The blazing sun made his old wound throb, and a weird unease crept over the old general.

Sure enough, Cheng Ge had caught a chill. By nightfall, he suddenly developed a high fever, curled up in his army blanket, shivering all over.

His hair was soaked with cold sweat, sticking to his pale cheeks, and his lips were chapped and peeling.

"Cold..." He instinctively burrowed into Cui Ji's arms, his icy fingers tightly clutching the other's lapels.

Cui Ji bundled him up in his own cloak and threw another quilt on top.

But within half an hour, Cheng Ge began kicking wildly again: "Hot... so hot..."

The quilt was kicked to the foot of the bed, and his undergarment was pulled loose, revealing skin flushed with an unnatural redness. Cui Ji felt his forehead—it burned to the touch.

The military doctor came, applied acupuncture, and administered medicine, but could only shake his head: "Instructor Cheng's constitution was already weak, and this chill has struck too fiercely... If the fever doesn't break before dawn, it will be dangerous."

Outside the tent, the north wind howled. Cui Ji sat by the bed, repeatedly wiping Cheng Ge's scorching forehead with a cloth soaked in cold water.