Chapter 151: Heroic Lament 3

At 1 a. m., in the Yang manor, the kerosene lamp in the West Wing had burned out, its dim yellow light wrapped in cold, pressing the mother and son's shadows against the mottled earthen wall, like an old painting soaked with tears. Xie Baozhen held seven‑year‑old Yang Zhengzhong, her fingertips trembling badly, repeatedly feeling the stitches on his cotton coat—stitches she had sewn through the night, threading all her worries into the fine thread. Tears struck the back of the child's neck, icy and bone‑piercing; she dared not speak, only buried her face in his hair, inhaling his youthful breath as if to carve the scent into her bones.

"Zhengzhong, listen to Mother," she whispered, her voice pressed down to a low murmur, a harsh, choking sob, each word like a knife cutting her throat. "In a moment an uncle will come and take you to a safe place. From now on, don't think of your parents, don't mention your father, forget the Yang family, forget Xi'an; consider yourself a rootless child, just live, living is enough."

Yang Zhengzhong lifted his face, tears clinging to his lashes, his small hand gripping his mother's hem so tightly his knuckles turned white. He didn't understand what "rootless" meant, nor why he should forget his parents; he only felt his chest constricted, as if a block of ice pressed there. "Mother, I won't go," his voice was soft and childlike yet stubborn, "I want to stay with you and Father, and wait for big brother to return; our family cannot be split."

The big brother he mentioned, Yang Zhengmin, was still stationed at the Seventeenth Route Army garrison outside the city. Yang Hucheng dared not let him return; he feared that this parting would be a divide between life and death, that his eldest son, seeing his younger brother taken away, might act impulsively and ruin himself.

Xie Baozhen held her son tighter, as if trying to embed him into her own flesh and blood. Tears surged, soaking his cotton coat and the Silver Lock she kept beside her pillow. The lock had been forged by an old silversmith after she ran three streets when Yang Zhengzhong was born; the front bore the inscription "Longevity, Hundred Years," the back a tiny "Zheng." She trembled as she placed the Silver Lock on his neck, the cold metal pressed to his skin like a mother's final touch. "Wear it," her voice shattered, "and consider it Mother staying with you, day and night."

Yang Hucheng sat at the table, the cigarette he held burning down to the filter, yet he didn't notice. He turned his face away, staring at the darkness outside the window, his eyes blood‑shot. He was a general who roared across Xibei, able to command on the battlefield and shelter the people from wind and rain, yet now he could not even protect his own son. He longed to shield the child behind him, to tell him "Father is here, fear nothing," but he could not— the slaughter knives of Jinling already pressed at his throat, tens of thousands of comrades in the Seventeenth Route Army still awaited a way out, and he could not even hold his own life, let alone give his child a stable future.

At the hour of the Rat, the clang of a drum from the alley mouth rang, tightening people's nerves. Three light knocks came from the manor's back door, short and rhythmic, as if striking the hearts of Yang Hucheng and his wife.

Yang Hucheng inhaled deeply, rose, and with a heavy step walked to the bedside, his rough large hand stroking his son's head. The hair was soft and fluffy, just as he had felt countless times in his own childhood, yet in an instant the child would leave him, disappear under a new name, his fate unknown. "Zhengzhong," his voice rasped like sandpaper on wood, "go with the uncle, remember Mother's words, live well, no matter what happens, you must live."

Xie Baozhen could no longer cry out, only biting her lip hard as she watched her husband hand her son's hand to the men outside the door. Two men in coarse cotton coats stood there, their faces bearing the simple honesty of peasants, yet their eyes were wary; they were veteran soldiers under Li Yuxuan. The cold they exuded seeped in, dropping the temperature in the West Wing a few more degrees.

"General Yang, is everything ready?" the veteran asked softly, his voice carrying a hint of respect.

Yang Hucheng nodded, a thousand words stuck in his throat, finally reduced to a single "Please." He dared not look into his son's eyes, fearing he might break his resolve, fearing he might, against everything, keep the child.

The veteran wrapped a thick cotton robe around Yang Zhengzhong, covering the Silver Lock on his neck and his small figure. "Young master, come with us; we'll take you to good food," the veteran said gently.

Yang Zhengzhong glanced back; his parents stood inside the doorway, illuminated by the dim yellow light, their silhouettes vague and distant. His mother covered her mouth with a handkerchief, her shoulders trembling like dry leaves in the wind; his father faced away, his hunched back seeming a decade older in an instant. He wanted to call out "Father," to call out "Mother," but his throat felt blocked, no sound came. The veteran gently pressed his shoulder, and he could only be led, step by step, into the darkness.

The back door slammed shut with a "creak," cutting off the room's light and the last glimpse he had of his parents.

The mule cart in the alley had long been prepared; its canopy was layered with dry straw and blankets, yet it could not warm the chill in his heart. Yang Zhengzhong peered through a seam in the canopy, watching the manor's lights grow dimmer until they vanished completely into the night. He clutched the Silver Lock on his neck, the cold metal digging into his palm, and finally tears could no longer be held back, falling onto the straw silently. He didn't know where he was going, nor whether his parents would come for him; he only remembered his mother's words "live," his father's hunched silhouette, and that dim yellow lamp.

The mule cart trudged slowly toward the outskirts, its hooves crunching on the packed snow, producing a "creak‑creak" that rang sharply in the silent night. At each checkpoint, guards who saw the "Li" character waist badge in the veteran's hand let them pass without question, no one interrogating or staring. Yang Zhengzhong curled up in the blanket, listening to the wind's wail, sounding like someone crying. He didn't know that, as the road stretched on, he would never return to the home with his parents, never see the parents who loved and cared for him again.

At a farm on the outskirts, Li Yuxuan stood in the courtyard doorway, the cold wind swirling snowflakes that struck his face, numbing with pain. He watched the mule cart inch forward, watched the veteran lift Yang Zhengzhong from the cart. The child's eyes were red, tears still streaking his face, his hands clenched around something, his gaze full of wariness and bewilderment, like a startled fawn.

Li Yuxuan's heart twitched inexplicably. He recalled the loneliness of having been thrust into this era, the hardships of struggling to survive in a chaotic world, and the tears Yang Hucheng shed in the hidden room. He had come to carry out a mission, to eliminate future trouble for the Young Master, yet now, facing this tiny child, the last remnants of his conscience warmed faintly in the cold wind.

"From now on, you will be called Yang Xi," he said gently, a rare softness for his age, "this is your uncle's home; from now on you will study and eat here, don't ask about the past, just live well, that's enough."

Yang Zhengzhong stared at the man in the general's uniform; his gaze was cold yet carried a barely perceptible warmth. He nodded half‑understood, clutching the Silver Lock even tighter. He did not know that the name Yang Xi would follow him for life, that this night's parting meant a final farewell to his birth parents, nor that Li Yuxuan's words "live well" were the heaviest promise in a chaotic era, the only lingering warmth in the tragedy of Yang Hucheng's family.

The farm's owner led Yang Zhengzhong inside, bringing steaming millet porridge and mantou. He was hungry but had no appetite, taking small bites while his eyes stayed fixed on the darkness outside the window. That direction was toward Xi'an City, where his parents were, but he could never return.

Li Yuxuan stood outside the courtyard, watching the light inside, his heart a swirl of emotions. He had saved one of Yang Hucheng's sons, yet could not save Yang Hucheng himself, nor the countless families like the Yangs trembling in this storm‑tossed era. The cold wind still bit, rattling his military coat. He turned and walked toward Xi'an City, where countless military and political matters awaited his handling, and a destined tragedy awaited his eyewitness. Yet the sight of the child clutching the Silver Lock, the silent tears, was like a needle gently pricking his heart, reminding him that in this blood‑soaked chaotic world, a sliver of humanity's warmth still lingered, not wholly erased.