Chapter 366 Defecting?!

Chapter 366: Defection?!

Her footsteps faltered, and the last of her strength gave out. Like a collapsing tower, she crumpled into the snow.

Her face pressed against the icy snow, her lips trembling, almost instinctively repeating broken murmurs.

"Save the young master... danger... save the young master..."

………

Inside the Great Zhou camp, the charcoal brazier burned fiercely, warding off some of the northern chill.

Han Zhen sat alone behind the desk, holding a newly forged spear, its shaft gleaming with the cold, distinctive gleam of iron.

He took a soft piece of chamois leather and slowly wiped the spear shaft inch by inch.

When he reached the middle section, his fingers hesitated. Two small characters were freshly carved there: Han Meng.

His rough fingertips slowly traced the small characters, and a rare tenderness softened his stern face.

Outside the tent, amidst the howling wind and snow, an unusual commotion could be heard—arguments and hurried footsteps growing closer.

Han Zhen furrowed his brows slightly and was about to set down the spear and rise to check what was happening—

"Swish!" The heavy tent flap was thrown open violently, letting in a blast of biting cold wind and snow as a figure swept in like a whirlwind of fury!

The newcomer was a very young commander, still in armor, face covered in dust and frost, eyes bloodshot.

In his hand was an unsheathed saber, its tip pointing directly at Han Zhen!

"Han Zhen! You old bastard!" the young commander roared hoarsely, lunging the blade straight at Han Zhen's chest!

Han Zhen's pupils contracted sharply. At the last instant, the two personal guards who had followed reacted swiftly—one immediately whipped out his blade to parry.

A piercing clang of metal rang out, sparks flying, barely deflecting the deadly blow.

The other guard lunged forward, grappling the young commander around the waist and dragging him backward.

"How dare you!"

"Enough!"

In an instant, the tent exploded into chaos. Han Zhen's face turned ashen. He rose abruptly, slamming the spear butt on the ground with a thud that made the inkstone and brushes on the desk jump.

He stared at the young commander, who was still struggling wildly like a caged beast despite being restrained by the guards, and bellowed:

"Zhang Yun! What madness has seized you?! Drawing a blade and storming the tent, attacking a superior—do you know what punishment you're facing?!"

This Zhang Yun was a brave deputy general under Cui Ji's command. Though usually fiery-tempered, he had always respected his superiors and followed orders. Today, he'd gone completely mad!

"What madness has seized me?!" Zhang Yun, arms pinned behind his back, still stuck his chin out defiantly, bloodshot eyes shooting daggers at Han Zhen.

The hatred and grief in his gaze threatened to spill over. He roared hoarsely, spraying spittle.

"Han Zhen! You've raised quite a son! Refusing to be a decent man, choosing to be a motherfucking beast instead! Worse than a beast!"

"You—!" The moment Han Zhen heard this, his head spun, hot blood rushing to his temples.

He ran a tight ship and was even harsher on his only son Han Meng. But no matter what, that was his son—his own flesh and blood! He could yell at him and hit him himself, but he would never tolerate others insulting and cursing him so viciously to his face!

"You damn fool!" Han Zhen's veins bulged in his temples as he slammed his palm heavily on the desk, making the new spear jump. "Speak clearly! What happened to Han Meng? Say one more word of filth, and you'll face military justice!"

Zhang Yun panted heavily, chest heaving. At those words, he let out several bitter, hollow laughs.

"Military justice? Hahaha... That beast Han Meng doesn't deserve military justice!"

His throat seemed choked with grief and fury, and for a moment he couldn't get the words out.

He just stared hard at Han Zhen, tears rolling down his face, mixing with the grime.

The tent fell deathly silent, leaving only the crackling of the charcoal fire and Zhang Yun's ragged, pained breaths.

Several commanders who had rushed over upon hearing the commotion stood blocking the entrance, looking at Han Zhen with mixed expressions.

Han Zhen's heart sank, inch by inch.

He knew Zhang Yun well—if this were something ordinary, he would never lose his composure like this.

A cold sense of dread crept up his spine.

Suppressing his surging emotions and growing unease, he stepped forward, his voice cold and terrifying, every word like ice: "Speak. What did Han Meng do?"

Zhang Yun raised his tear-streaked and bloodied face, looking at Han Zhen. The hatred in his eyes gradually gave way to despair.

His lips trembled as he forced the words out through clenched teeth, yet they hit Han Zhen like thunder: "Han Meng has defected!"

Han Meng has defected!

Those four words hit Han Zhen like four ice daggers, piercing straight to his heart!

The tent was dead silent—even the crackling of the charcoal seemed to freeze.

Han Zhen stood there as if turned to stone, completely motionless.

The color visibly drained from his face, turning pale as snow—even more lifeless than the snowfield outside the tent.

His pupils contracted sharply, then suddenly dilated, a storm raging within.

First, utter shock. Then, towering rage. Finally, ending in a bottomless abyss of fear.

"You... what did you just say?" Han Zhen's voice was as dry as sandpaper, every word painfully difficult to utter.

He tilted his head slightly, as if he hadn't heard right, or couldn't believe his ears.

"Han Meng! He's colluded with the enemy and betrayed the state! He's defected to the Northern Di!"

Zhang Yun, arms still pinned behind him, strained against the hold and roared with all his might, every word like a poison-tipped arrow shooting at Han Zhen.

"That fine son of yours! Not only did he sell out our brothers' lives—he, he—"

Zhang Yun trembled all over with rage, face flushed crimson, veins bulging at his temples, eyes so bloodshot they looked ready to bleed.

"He went so far as to collude with the enemy and lure the Grand General into a trap!

Now the General is gravely wounded and unconscious, and the General's wife is gone without a trace! All of it is that beast Han Meng's doing!"

"BOOM—!!!" If defection was an ice dagger piercing his heart, then these words threw Han Zhen into a boiling cauldron of oil, then instantly dragged him into an eternal frozen abyss!

Cui Ji was gravely wounded! The General's Wife was missing! And all of this was caused by none other than Han Zhen's own son?!

"You... you're spouting nonsense!!" Han Zhen lunged forward a step, but he stumbled, as if an invisible heavy hammer had struck him square in the chest.

He reached out to grab hold of something, but his hand closed on empty air, his fingertips trembling and cold.

"Meng'er... impossible... General Cui... absolutely impossible!!!"

His words came out incoherent, his mind in utter chaos. How could Han Meng... how could he have done this?!

Zhang Yun was pinned down by others, still struggling and cursing, his eyes bloodshot and wild.

Just as the chaos was about to spiral out of control—

"Swish!" The heavy tent curtain was thrown open again, cold wind rushed in, carrying snowflakes with it. A tall, imposing figure stepped through first.

Zhao Cheng, still wearing his light armor, his gaze sharp, was followed by four personal guards.

The tent fell quiet, even Zhang Yun's curses dying in his throat, leaving only Han Zhen's heavy, pained breathing.

Zhao Cheng's gaze first fell on the restrained Zhang Yun, then shifted to the pale-faced Han Zhen.

He didn't speak at once, merely raised a hand and gave a slight wave behind him.

The four guards understood at once and began searching Han Zhen's tent quickly and thoroughly.

Han Zhen watched Zhao Cheng's men search his tent as if it were unoccupied territory.

A cold mix of offended anger and a deeper, ominous foreboding gripped his heart.

Han Zhen's voice came out dry and trembling, carrying a last thread of desperate hope as he looked at Zhao Cheng.

"General Zhao... tell me... those rumors outside... saying Meng'er... betrayed us... is someone framing him? Is it... a misunderstanding?"

At that, Zhao Cheng slowly turned his gaze back to Han Zhen.

His gaze was complicated—sharp, yet beneath it lurked a barely perceptible reluctance.

The Han Zhen before him seemed to have aged years in that instant, his hair grayer still.

The fierce scar on his temple—earned years ago saving a comrade in arms—stood out starkly in the flickering firelight.

Zhao Cheng was a few years older than Cui Ji, but he too had been looked after by Han Zhen growing up.

Though Han Zhen was usually stern, he had often offered guidance and looked out for him.

But the Han Zhen before him now was no longer that commanding old general—he was a father whose spine had been ripped out.

Zhao Cheng's Adam's apple bobbed as he looked away from the faint yet stubborn glimmer of hope in Han Zhen's eyes.

He didn't answer right away, simply waiting in silence.

Soon, the two guards searching the tent stopped, and one shook his head at Zhao Cheng.

Zhao Cheng's gaze returned to Han Zhen's face, and he stepped forward.

"General Han, we recovered secret correspondence with the Northern Di royal court from Han Meng's personal tent.

The handwriting, the seal, the coded language—all have been preliminarily verified. There is no doubt."

Han Zhen opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Each of Zhao Cheng's words was like a red-hot brand searing his very soul.

That last spark of hope was doused by the ice-cold water of irrefutable evidence, not even a wisp of smoke left behind.

"Hngh..." A strange, strangled sound escaped his throat. His vision went black, the world spinning around him.

His legs felt like jelly; only by bracing his palms against the cold table edge did he keep from collapsing on the spot.

His nails scraped harshly against the hard wood.

You unfilial son...

How dare you...

How dare you do this!!!

Han Zhen's chest heaved violently as he seized Zhao Cheng's arm with astonishing strength.

"Where is the General now? Take me to him! I have to see him!"

Zhao Cheng's brows knit tightly as he looked at Han Zhen, a tangle of emotions churning in his chest.

"General Cui's injuries are too severe. Now is not the time—"

"Urgent report—!!!" A sharp, urgent shout tore through the tent's heavy air like a clap of thunder.

A messenger burst in, his face panicked, his voice shrill with alarm.

"General Zhao! Urgent dispatch! The Northern Di army is attacking the North Gate!"

Zhao Cheng's face changed drastically as he shook off Han Zhen's hand. The Northern Di were attacking the city?! At a time like this?!

This was clearly a coordinated attack from within and without—to take the city while the army's top commander lay gravely wounded and morale was in shambles!

Han Zhen was a seasoned general, yes, but he was also the father of the traitor Han Meng!

With a powerful enemy at the gates and morale wavering inside, even the slightest instability could be the crack that breaks the dam.

Though a fleeting thought of the old general's innocence crossed Zhao Cheng's mind, reason and duty instantly crushed any personal sentiment.

"General Han! This is urgent—I must head to the North Gate at once to take command. You will stay in the rear camp for now!"

Without even glancing at Han Zhen, he whipped around to the two guards beside him and barked out orders.

"You two, stay here and guard General Han! No one enters or leaves this tent without my direct order. Any slip-up—you'll face military discipline!"

It was framed as protection, but in truth it was confinement—trust had already been lost.

"Yes, sir!" The two guards obeyed without hesitation, saluting with clasped fists.

"Order all units to assemble immediately! Crossbowmen to the walls! Logs, boulders, and fire oil in position! Move!"

At the front, the din of battle shook heaven and earth, while the rear camp was wrapped in a different kind of suffocating stillness and frantic activity.

Inside the Chief Commander's tent, the atmosphere was leaden.

The air was thick with the sharp stench of blood, the bitter smell of medicinal herbs, and the salty reek of sweat.

Several army physicians surrounded Cui Ji's cot, all pale-faced, their eyes like taut bowstrings fixed on his nearly lifeless body. This was no longer just about saving one man's life—it was about holding up the backbone of the Great Zhou's northern defense, and the very lifeline of an empire teetering on the brink!

If Cui Ji were to die right now, not only would the northern gate be left wide open and the court thrown into turmoil, but the powerful enemies lurking on all sides would swarm in like jackals that smell blood!

"Change the dressing! Quick! Blood is seeping through again!" a military doctor growled, his trembling hands peeling back the layers of linen soaked dark red on Cui Ji's chest.

Beneath it was a gruesome wound, flesh peeled back and bone visible deep inside, the surrounding flesh an ominous blackish-blue.

"Ginseng broth! Use that century-old ginseng! If we can't sustain his vital energy, we're in trouble!" another white-haired senior physician nearly roared, personally forcing the ginseng broth down Cui Ji's throat.

Most of it spilled from the corners of his mouth, with only a small fraction being swallowed.

"Needle him again! Protect the heart meridian!" a third physician, forehead veins bulging, swiftly drove hair-thin silver needles into key acupoints on Cui Ji's head and chest.

With each needle, Cui Ji's body gave an imperceptible twitch, yet his ashen face showed no sign of waking.

Basin after basin of blood was carried out, bowl after bowl of medicine sent in, but with little effect.

Sweat rolled down the physicians' temples, soaking their collars. They worked almost nonstop, taking turns.

They exhausted every last-resort technique and treasured herb, each left with sunken eyes, nearly spent from the rescue effort.

Finally, after another round of desperate treatment, Cui Ji's faint breath, which had seemed on the verge of stopping at any moment, barely steadied slightly.

The senior physician collapsed onto a low stool nearby, roughly wiping sweat from his face with his sleeve, his voice hoarse as a cracked gong.

"For now... for now, we've barely sustained his breath..."

He looked up at the equally haggard Deputy Generals and the captain of the personal guards in the tent.

"We... have done all we could. Whether he can pull through this critical juncture and when he might wake—that's up to heaven's will now."

The tent fell into dead silence, broken only by Cui Ji's faint breathing and the bubbling of the medicine pot.

An iceberg weighed on everyone's heart; Cui Ji lying unconscious was like the pillar of heaven suddenly tilting.