Song Yuzhang: Chapter 179 - An Old Acquaintance
Liu Chu had already removed his disguise. He looked completely different now—so thin he was little more than skin and bones, yet his eyes shone with a startling brightness. From the side, his face from forehead to chin was a mass of twisted scars, trailing down his neck and disappearing beneath his clothes. One could only imagine how many unseen scars covered the rest of his body.
“Second Master Meng.”
Even his voice had become rougher and hoarser than before.
“That day I accompanied the bank president to the docks by car. On the way, we were suddenly ambushed by bandits hiding in the woods. We exchanged fire. Men from the Twenty-Third Division rushed into the forest. I stayed in the car guarding the president. Later, the bandits came out of the woods, but after they emerged, another group gunned them down. Our men were all killed by that same group as well.
“I tried to get out of the car to negotiate with them. As I opened the door, someone shot me.” Liu Chu pointed to his left chest. “I was born different from other people—my heart isn’t on this side. So I didn’t die.”
That shot had been aimed straight at his heart. The shooter must have been confident he was dead, because he didn’t come forward to finish him off.
Still, the bullet knocked Liu Chu unconscious on the spot.
The shooter had been very close. The bullet passed cleanly through his left chest and, ironically, did not cause a fatal wound. He collapsed inside the car. The explosion from the vehicle behind jolted him awake, and the burning-hot car door pinned half his body.
At that point Liu Chu felt no pain—only a blazing heat rising from bone to blood. Almost by instinct, he clawed his way out in a desperate struggle to live. The ground was a mountain of corpses and a sea of blood. Driven by sheer will to survive, he crawled into another stretch of forest.
Ever since losing his parents, Liu Chu had lived like a stray dog, surviving in the cracks of the world. He had once been beaten half to death by Shen Chengduo and still survived. He had only just begun to live a few good days—how could he be willing to die?
Perhaps fate truly wasn’t finished with him. In that forest, there happened to be a patch of medicinal herbs that could stop bleeding.
Liu Chu chewed the herbs and packed them onto his wound, forcing himself to endure.
He crawled in that forest for a full day and night before finally dragging himself out and collapsing by a small river.
Later, he was rescued by a passing merchant ship. The captain was a kind man. Seeing how badly he was injured, he put him ashore at Shankang and sent him to a hospital.
Liu Chu stayed in the hospital for only one day before slipping away.
He felt nowhere was safe. Wherever there were people, there was danger.
“There must have been a traitor by the president’s side!”
Liu Chu’s expression was ruthless, thick with hatred. “When they opened fire, they deliberately avoided the president’s car. They clearly intended to capture him alive. How could the president have died in that car?”
Meng Tingjing had always believed Song Yuzhang was still alive—but that belief had been nothing more than his own thoughts, deductions, guesses, instincts… without a shred of solid proof. He simply clung to the conviction that Song Yuzhang must be alive.
When a person can rely only on something so intangible, it already means something has gone terribly wrong.
Now, hearing Liu Chu’s clear and certain testimony that Song Yuzhang had absolutely not died, Meng Tingjing felt his whole body loosen. He slowly sat down in his chair, the fingers of his left hand twitching spasmodically. “Good. Very good.” He took a deep breath. “That other group—do you have any leads?”
“The one who gave the order,” Liu Chu said, “was probably someone the president knew from long ago.”
“Someone from the past?”
“After he fired, I vaguely heard him greet the president—something like ‘Long time no see’… Then I lost consciousness.”
After leaving the hospital, Liu Chu wandered on foot toward Haizhou. Several times along the way he hovered on the brink of death, but he survived. After months of walking, he reached the outskirts of Haizhou and lingered there. He didn’t dare enter the city—afraid of alerting the enemy, afraid of an ambush.
Haizhou was no longer safe. It wasn’t merely unsafe—it was fraught with danger.
Until he was certain he could survive, Liu Chu would not gamble with his life again. As long as he lived, there was still hope that Song Yuzhang lived too.
He had to wait for the right moment.
The appearance of Liu Chuanzong finally allowed Liu Chu to let down his guard.
If Old Liu wanted his life, then so be it.
With that thought, Liu Chu collapsed unconscious before Liu Chuanzong.
“Shen Chengduo is definitely not clean,” Liu Chu said through clenched teeth, each word brimming with fury. Though it was speculation, unlike Meng Tingjing’s calm reasoning, Liu Chu spoke with stubborn, almost childlike certainty. “And Zhang Changshan—there’s something wrong with him too!”
“You and I have reached the same conclusion,” Meng Tingjing said steadily.
The only question was that “old acquaintance”—the person who had said “long time no see” to Song Yuzhang. Who could it be?
Liu Chu and Liu Chuanzong had entered in disguise. Both looked battered and exhausted. Meng Tingjing ordered servants to take the father and son to rest and summoned the household doctor to treat Liu Chu’s injuries.
Liu Chu was helped away.
Liu Chuanzong, however, remained.
“Is there something else you wish to say?” Meng Tingjing asked.
Liu Chuanzong had been silent the whole time. Now he suddenly dropped to his knees.
Meng Tingjing frowned. “Old Liu, what is this?”
With his head lowered, Liu Chuanzong said woodenly, “Xiao Chu is my life. I beg Second Master to protect him.”
“Nonsense!” Meng Tingjing snapped. “You and Liu Chu both belong to Yuzhang. Would I not look after you?”
Liu Chuanzong kowtowed once, then rose and left.
Watching his departing back, Meng Tingjing felt both gratified and resentful. Song Yuzhang had been missing for so long, yet Liu Chuanzong thought only of this son who wasn’t even his by blood.
Liu Chu was Liu Chuanzong’s life. But Song Yuzhang… he had no parents, no true brothers. Suddenly, Meng Tingjing felt that Song Yuzhang was pitiful—pitiful like a child no one truly cherished. Everyone found him lovable, but if he disappeared, he simply disappeared. Who would regard Song Yuzhang as their very life?
The twitching in Meng Tingjing’s left fingers spread to his chest. He pressed a hand there, grief stealing his breath. The sorrow came after the anger—too late, and therefore all the more overwhelming.
He clenched his left hand against his chest. Song Yuzhang’s warmth, scent, and voice lingered constantly around him. On every sleepless night, it felt as though he still lay beneath the earth, clutching in his hands an invisible Song Yuzhang whose fate—life or death—was unknown.
Meng Tingjing boarded a plane to Nancheng—an aircraft arranged by Liao Tiandong. Liao came to see him off at the airport. Meng noticed that he seemed as though he had something to say, and suppressed his impatience. “Thank you for the trouble, Director Liao.”
Liao Tiandong glanced at him, tongue turning awkwardly in his mouth. “No trouble, no trouble.”
As the plane took off, Liao Tiandong was blown backward by the wind. A chill crept into his heart, as though he himself had been hooked onto the plane and was now flying wildly through the murky clouds.
The letter had come from East City.
The sender had been entirely unexpected to Liao Tiandong—It was Xiao Yuxian.
At the beginning, he even signed himself “Xiaotian.” Liao Tiandong wondered who Xiaotian was. Reading on, Li Xiaotian cautiously added a line, saying he was afraid Song Yuzhang might not remember his real name—he was Xiao Yuxian.
Liao Tiandong thought: Xiao Yuxian wrote to Song Yuzhang. Oh—Xiao Yuxian had returned to his hometown of Yeyang. He must not know that Song Yuzhang was already dead.
Liao Tiandong felt not the slightest guilt about reading someone else’s letter. Quite naturally, he continued.
But what followed nearly made him tear the letter apart in shock.
Xiao Yuxian wrote to thank Song Yuzhang’s caravan for rescuing their group on the road. Although Song Yuzhang himself had not shown his face, Xiao Yuxian had heard his voice and felt deeply grateful. Because he had concealed his past of performing opera in Haizhou, it was inconvenient to thank him in person, so he could only write to express his thanks, ask after Song Yuzhang’s well-being, and then offer some blessings.
After finishing the letter, Liao Tiandong’s heartbeat and blood pressure nearly spiraled out of control. He hurried home, clutching the thin sheet of paper like a man possessed.
He knew Xiao Yuxian’s abilities well. Though he did not love performing opera, in terms of talent he was truly exceptional—his voice and his ear were both unparalleled. He would never mistake a voice.
If Xiao Yuxian said the person in the car was Song Yuzhang, then it had to be Song Yuzhang. There was no way he was wrong.
Judging from the date on the letter, it had happened just a month or two ago.
But Song Yuzhang had been dead for over four months—almost five!
Either Xiao Yuxian had seen a ghost in broad daylight, or… Song Yuzhang was still alive!
Liao Tiandong’s chest pounded wildly. His eyes went blank; his tongue nearly numb.
If Song Yuzhang was still alive—and even leading a caravan—then… Liao Tiandong thought about how he and Zhang Changshan had been circling the vault, how Liu Chuanzong had suddenly disappeared, and all the schemes Song Yuzhang had employed in the past. A sudden suspicion seized him: could Song Yuzhang have faked his death on purpose, planning yet another move?
The more he thought, the more his imagination spiraled.
By the time he had turned Song Yuzhang into some near-demonic mastermind in his mind, Liao Tiandong was afraid.
The letter had become a burning coal in his hand. He didn’t know whom to consult.
Zhang Changshan? Liao Tiandong could already imagine Zhang Changshan flying into a rage. Zhang Changshan’s temper was unpredictable to begin with, and he had never treated Liao courteously—indeed, he had grown increasingly rude. Liao Tiandong was already considering how to grab a sum of money and cut ties with him. No, better not tell Zhang Changshan.
Meng Tingjing? But Meng Tingjing didn’t have a good temper either! And he seemed to be growing more unhinged by the day—only a respectable shell remained.
Liao Tiandong gazed into the distance. In all of Haizhou, he could not find a single figure as dignified, refined, and perceptive as himself. Tragic, lamentable—the loneliness of a hero.
When Fu Mian entered the courtyard, Song Yuzhang was teaching Xiao Fengxian how to read. Xiao Fengxian was no longer as frightened of Fu Mian as a mouse before a cat. When he saw him, he merely edged back a little.
Fu Mian reached out and picked up the book from Song Yuzhang’s knee, smiling faintly. “Is it a good read?”
“Not bad.”
Fu Mian put the book back. Song Yuzhang caught it. Sitting with one leg crossed, he looked like a leisurely recluse—like a scholar in seclusion. Interesting.
“Just now Meng Tingjing came,” Fu Mian said.
Song Yuzhang lifted his eyes.
“Right outside the gate,” Fu Mian continued. “Just as he was about to enter, someone from his household arrived and called him back.”
“What a pity. If he had been just a little later—if he had stepped through that door—” Fu Mian drew a gun from his sleeve and tilted the barrel upward. “You were right. He’s tough—hard to kill.”
Song Yuzhang held the book and said calmly, “The neighbors cooked crabs today. They smelled wonderful. I want some too.”
Fu Mian stared at him without blinking. Then he suddenly smiled. “Greedy as ever.”
He turned and ordered someone to buy crabs—the biggest and fattest ones.
Xiao Fengxian crouched beside Song Yuzhang and noticed that his fingers were gripping the book so tightly that they had pressed a dent into the page. He tugged at Song Yuzhang’s sleeve.
Song Yuzhang loosened his hand and glanced back at him with a smile. “We’re having crabs tonight.”
By evening, Meng Tingjing arrived in Nancheng.
He rarely came to Nancheng. He had always kept his distance from politics—it was a devouring vortex. Whoever became entangled in it rarely met a good end.
If a politician managed to retire intact and unscathed, then either he was a failed politician—or an incompetent one.
In Nancheng, Meng Tingjing had befriended only one politician. They did not meet often, and their relationship was not deep, but it was sincere. Years ago, while studying in Britain, Meng Tingjing had once helped the man by chance. In truth, he had not meant to help at all—he had merely disliked a few Englishmen who mocked him for being thin.
Meng Tingjing had beaten those Englishmen until they were searching for their teeth on the ground. The middle-aged man he had inadvertently rescued was awestruck and invited him to enlist in the army.
Meng Tingjing refused outright—and privately thought that if the man said one more word of nonsense, he would beat him as well.
The man said nothing further, only leaving his name and saying they would meet again if fate allowed.
Their connection was slight. After returning to the country, they had met only twice. When Meng Huanzhang died, the man had sent a telegram of condolence.
“Xiao Meng—” Li Zifeng greeted his old friend with a beaming smile.
Meng Tingjing gave a slight bow. “Commander Li.”
“Ah, don’t be so formal.” Li Zifeng patted him on the shoulder. “Come on—the hotel’s already booked. I’m hosting a banquet to welcome you!”
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