Chapter 369 Filicide

Chapter 369: Killing His Son

His eyes began to lose focus, and as the madness faded, only a childlike bewilderment and deep confusion were left.

He seemed to search his father's eyes for answers, to understand why it had all come to this, but in the end, he only saw his own reflection slowly fading.

Han Zhen's grip on Han Meng's left arm finally went slack.

He staggered back a step, the curved blade in his right chest slipping out a little with the motion, triggering another violent spasm and sending more blood gushing out.

His left hand clutched the spear that ran through his son, holding up his own unsteady frame.

Han Meng, with no support left, slid slowly down the spear shaft, finally thudding to his knees in the snow, then pitching forward to sprawl at Han Zhen's feet.

The spear through his body pinned him to the ground, its shaft still quivering.

He twitched a few final times, then went completely still, his eyes wide open, staring at the blood-soaked snow—he died without ever closing them.

Han Zhen stood there, looking down at his son's body at his feet, at the spear that had bound father and son together in such a tragic way, staring for a long, long time.

The wind and snow howled, churning up the heavy stench of blood and lashing against his graying beard and hair.

Finally, with agonizing slowness, as if summoning the last shred of strength he had, he bent down.

He reached out with his trembling, blood-caked left hand and, with the utmost gentleness, covered Han Meng's eyes—those eyes that had lost all light yet still stared wide open.

What his fingertips met was the final cold. He paused, then slowly swept his palm across, closing those eyes.

Then he straightened, and with his left hand, slowly pulled the spear that had run through his son out of the body.

He didn't look at the body again, nor did he glance back at the city wall.

He just gripped the spear, stained with both father's and son's blood, his fingertips tracing the two small characters carved into the shaft.

Step by step, trudging through the blood-soaked snow, he staggered toward the open city gate.

His desolate figure, like a withered tree, slowly dissolved into the boundless wind, snow, and blood-red haze, finally vanishing into the deep shadow of the city gate.

………

The flames of war briefly subsided, leaving only the sobbing of the wind and snow, and a stench of blood too thick to fade.

Zhao Cheng stepped into the Chief Commander's tent, where the atmosphere was heavy. The blood on his armor was still half-congealed, not yet wiped clean.

His face showed not just exhaustion, but a numbness seared over and over by war and tragedy.

"General Cui... any improvement?" Zhao Cheng's voice came out hoarse and dry.

The army physician standing nearby slowly shook his head, his face just as grim: "His pulse remains faint and erratic. Acupuncture and medicine can only keep this faint thread of life going. When he'll wake... hard to say."

Zhao Cheng shut his eyes, drew a deep breath, and walked over to the table. His gaze fell on the map spread out before him—the Northern Di, the Western Rong, the southern frontier... war beacons everywhere, urgent reports from all sides.

He picked up a bowl of coarse tea that had long gone cold, tipped his head back, and gulped down a few mouthfuls.

"Send word—have Commandant Wang and Assistant General Li and the others come for a meeting right away."

He set the bowl down and, almost without thinking, blurted out a question to the attendant beside him.

"General Han... how's he doing? Has the physician seen him?"

The attendant opened his mouth to answer—

"General Zhao—urgent report!" A figure stumbled into the tent—a personal guard posted outside Han Zhen's temporary quarters.

"General Zhao! Old General Han... Old General Han... he's gone!"

Zhao Cheng's whole body jolted. The tea bowl slipped from his hand with a clatter onto the table, splashing the leftover cold tea over a corner of the map.

He snapped his head up, glaring at the guard: "What did you say?! Where's the physician?! Why didn't they save him?!"

The guard dropped to his knees with a thud, pressing his forehead to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably: "After General Han got back to his tent... he sent everyone away.

When I sensed something was wrong and forced my way in... the General... had already stopped breathing... There was a letter by his pillow..."

Trembling, the guard held up a letter soaked in dark red blood over most of its surface.

The blood had long since dried and blackened, blending into the paper itself—stark and heavy.

Zhao Cheng's hands trembled slightly as he took the letter, his fingertips feeling the rough paper and the ridges left by the dried blood.

He unfolded it slowly. The familiar handwriting came into view—Han Zhen's bold strokes, a little rushed from pain or agitation:

"To General Zhao:

Zhen's sins are so grave that a hundred deaths could not atone for them.

I failed to raise my son properly, and from that failure came the traitor Han Meng, who led General Cui into a deadly trap and left him at death's door. I dragged my fellow soldiers into this, soaked the battlefield in blood, shamed my ancestors' loyal name, and defiled the Great Zhou's military banner. This is my first sin.

As a commander, I failed to see the truth, letting my traitorous son collude with the enemy right under my nose, leading to today's catastrophe—shaking the state's very foundation and endangering the border city. This is my second sin.

Today, before the troops, I killed my own son. It may uphold the law and family discipline, but father killing son is a breach of ethics that heaven and earth cannot forgive. My hands are stained with my own child's blood; I have no face left to live. This is my third sin.

With these three sins, even a thousand deaths cannot absolve me. Now I take my own life with this ruined body—it's what I deserve, and I won't defile the law further.

No coffin for my body—just burn it to ashes and scatter them in the border winds and snow, so they might atone for a fraction of my sins.

I am shameless to ask two more things, but I earnestly beg the General to grant them:

First, Zhen and my late wife had only this one son. Now the Han bloodline is severed, with no heir to continue the family line.

On my late wife's death anniversary each year, I beg the General to burn some spirit money for me, to comfort her in the afterlife. I have failed her.

Second, my traitorous son Han Meng deserves a thousand deaths—leaving his body to rot in the wild wouldn't be too much.

However... at the root of it, my failure to raise him right is the main cause.

I beg the General, since he was once someone's son, to send men to wrap his body in a straw mat and bury him in some out-of-the-way place, so wild dogs don't tear him apart and he doesn't become a wandering ghost.

This is my last selfish wish. I know I have no right to ask, but... in the end, I can't help it.

Zhen kowtows in respect. The guilty general, Han Zhen, writing in final farewell."

At the end of the letter, the handwriting grew more and more erratic and faint. The two characters "final farewell" were almost written in blood, pressing deep into the paper.

Zhao Cheng's knuckles went white as he gripped the letter, the paper trembling in his hand.

Through those hasty, blood-stained strokes, he could almost see Han Zhen's final moments—torn by endless pain, remorse, self-blame, and a last flicker of a father's instinct.

The tent went dead silent, broken only by the occasional crackle of charcoal and the endless wail of wind and snow outside.

For a long moment, Zhao Cheng slowly and heavily folded the letter, then tucked it into his robes against his chest.

He raised his eyes, bloodshot from exhaustion, yet he forced a spark of a commander's resolve into them.

"Do as Old General Han instructed." His voice was hoarse, but carried a weight that brooked no argument.

Zhao Cheng turned his gaze back to the map. The tea-stained corner had smudged the ink, like a bloodstain that wouldn't fade.

He pressed his brow hard, trying to suppress the cold churning in his chest.

Cui Ji unconscious, Han Zhen took his own life, Han Meng executed for treason—the spirit of the Great Zhou's northern frontier seemed to have crumbled in a single day.

………

It had been thirteen days since Cui Ji was ambushed and gravely wounded, and the Northern Di clearly had no intention of giving the Great Zhou a moment's respite.

They seemed to have forged a tighter, more coordinated alliance with the Western Rong and the Southern Kingdom. The attacks abruptly escalated, no longer fought piecemeal.

The Northern Di's main force still hammered the northern border cities, launching relentless assaults around the clock, sapping the defenders' last strength and will.

Meanwhile, the Western Rong cavalry broke through several weakly defended passes on the western line at an alarming pace, driving deep into the Great Zhou's northern heartland and threatening to catch the defenders in a pincer between north and south.

The vassal states in the south also abandoned their previous hit-and-run tactics, massing their troops for their biggest offensive in years, pinning down the Great Zhou's southern legions so they couldn't move north.

Three kingdoms attacking in unison, war raging on all fronts—the Great Zhou's northern frontier was suddenly plunged into an unprecedented crisis!

Zhao Cheng barely slept, holding on desperately against the Northern Di's storm of assaults.

---

In the capital, urgent reports from the north flew into the Privy Council like snowflakes, swiftly laid before the throne.

Cui Ji gravely wounded and unconscious, Han Zhen's suicide, Han Meng's treason and execution, the three-pronged siege by the Northern Di, Western Rong, and Southern Kingdom...

A cascade of calamities threw the entire court into great shock and panic.

Seated on the dragon throne, Zhou Mingqi's face was somber as he listened to the reports in silence.

In the hall, civil and military officials—some pale-faced, some passionately voicing their views, others bowing their heads in silence—created an atmosphere heavy with the oppressive weight of an impending storm.

"If the north falls, the gates will be flung open. The Western Rong could march straight to the Central Plains, and the Southern Kingdom would be emboldened! The nation would cease to be a nation!" an old minister spoke up.

"Send reinforcements at once! Mobilize the whole army if we have to to hold the north!" a pro-war general immediately shouted.

The pro-war general's roar still echoed through the hall, drawing more voices of assent.

Just then, a voice tinged with deliberate composure cut through the one-sided clamor for war.

"Your Majesty, the crisis in the north indeed requires a capable general to rush to the rescue. But Prince Zhenbei is gravely wounded, General Zhao Cheng is in a dire situation, and the northern army's morale is shattered. This can't be solved by reinforcements and supplies alone.

The urgent priority is to send a senior minister who can command the respect of all forces, oversee the overall situation, and bear the imperial seal to rally the troops and restore order."

All eyes turned to see Shen Lan, an official aligned with the Second Prince's faction, standing at the front of the civil officials' ranks.

He spoke calmly, seemingly for the greater good, but many old foxes in the hall instantly caught the hidden agenda.

Sure enough, before Shen Lan had even finished, several officials stepped forward to back him up:

"Lord Shen speaks well! The military command in the north can't be left vacant for even a day. A senior court minister must be sent to take personal command!"

"The Cui Family Army is the pillar of the state. With its commander unconscious and its deputy generals fallen, if no one can swiftly unify command, internal strife could break out. Before the Northern Di even breaks through the walls, our own forces could collapse!"

"I recommend Yang Tao, Right Vice Minister of War and heir to the Marquisate of Jing'an! Vice Minister Yang is well-versed in military affairs, fair-minded, and holds considerable prestige. If he bears the imperial seal and goes north, he'll surely steady the army's morale, coordinate the various forces, and repel the invaders!"

"I second that motion! Vice Minister Yang is indeed the right choice!"

Yang Tao, the recommended Right Vice Minister of War, was married to the Chen family's eldest daughter and a loyal supporter of the Second Prince.

The intent was unmistakable—this was an attempt to wrest control of the Cui Family Army by installing their own man during the power vacuum in the north.

Some old ministers loyal to Cui Ji, or those who disapproved of the Second Prince's faction exploiting the crisis, immediately changed their expressions.

"Outrageous!" An old minister with white hair and beard, wearing a robe embroidered with qilins, stepped forward forcefully.

"The north is in the thick of bloody battle! What we need is a fierce general who can don armor, wield weapons, and share life and death with the troops!

Not a vice minister who has read a few military manuals and punched a clock at the Ministry of War! Has Yang Tao ever faced battle? Has he personally killed an enemy commander? Sending him to the north now—would he be commanding, or just making a mess?!"

"You're wrong!" Shen Lan replied, his expression unchanged, refuting with composure. "In extraordinary times, how can we cling to mere personal bravery?

What the north needs now is a commander who can oversee the big picture, mediate between generals, secure logistics, and fortify the defense lines!

Vice Minister Yang has spent years in the Ministry of War—coordinating operations, managing supplies, coordinating the various armies—all of which he knows thoroughly. This is exactly what the north urgently needs!

Do we have to send a reckless brute who only knows how to charge into battle to be considered suitable?"

"Hmph!" Wu Zhongzi let out a cold snort, showing no quarter. "The soldiers in the north are fighting for their very lives! Prince Zhenbei lies gravely wounded and unconscious, General Zhao is fighting for dear life against the enemy!

Instead of urgently dispatching elite troops and capable generals to break the siege, you sit here debating a change of command and fighting over military power—what are you playing at?! Do you think the whole court is blind and deaf?!"

These words were extremely harsh, practically accusing the Second Prince's faction of exploiting a national crisis to seize power.

The atmosphere in the hall instantly turned tense and hostile. Officials of the Second Prince's faction wore ugly expressions, firing back with rebuttals, accusing their opponents of alarmism, shortsightedness, and obstructing the court's selection of worthy talent.

The old nobles and meritorious officials, in turn, denounced the other side for harboring treacherous intentions and ruining the state and its military.

Both sides cited precedents and hurled accusations at each other, arguing fiercely until it seemed they might soon come to actual blows.

On the dragon throne, Zhou Mingqi's face grew darker, a cold glint flashing in his eyes.

Only when the shouting threatened to blow the roof off did he slowly raise his hand.

The clamor in the hall died down instantly. All eyes turned back to the emperor, awaiting his decision.

Zhou Mingqi's gaze swept slowly over Shen Lan and Yang Tao, his face unreadable.

The emperor's eyes then turned to the back rows of the military officials, where several aging generals who had spent recent years in honorary or idle posts in the capital were standing. His gaze came to rest on one of them.

After a long pause, he spoke, his voice calm but carrying an unspoken weight: "Liu Ben."

The old general named gave a start, as if in disbelief, then strode forward with long strides.

He was around fifty, with graying hair and beard, a dark complexion, and a prominent scar on his forehead. But his back remained ramrod straight.

"Your servant is here!" His voice boomed, full of vigor.

Many in the hall recognized him. Liu Ben, who had once followed the Old Prince Zhenbei in guarding the frontier, was known for his fierce courage and iron discipline.

He had once held a solitary city for three months without retreat, earning the Old Prince Zhenbei's praise as "Iron Courage."

Later, as age caught up with him and an old leg wound from battle flared up, limiting his mobility, he retired from active duty five years ago. He held only the nominal title of Associate Commander of the Central Military Command, living in honor in the capital. In recent years, his voice had rarely been heard at court.