ATPnovel Chapter 89 Wang Zhihuan's Background
Chapter 89 Wang Zhihuan's Background
On the second day of his night clinic, Wang Zhihuan got up just as dawn was breaking.
Having been in this world for more than half a year, he is now completely different from his former self—not just in his thinking, but also in his behavior and habits.
Perhaps the reason why humans can become the protagonists of this world is precisely because of this unparalleled ability to adapt.
Among the many changes, the most obvious is that he gave up his old habit of staying up late.
Now he works at sunrise and rests at sunset, and has become accustomed to this life without cell phones and with little entertainment.
He was curled up on the kitchen threshold, holding a bowl of millet porridge in his hands. A round egg lay nestled in the rising steam.
Ah Huang lay on the threshold, its tail idly sweeping the dust off the ground, but its eyes were fixed on the bowl in his hand.
"Stop looking." Wang Zhi took a big gulp of porridge, rice water dripping from the corner of his mouth. "You didn't steal this egg. It was laid by our own chicken, and I cooked it myself."
Ah Huang tilted his head, looking both resentful and reluctant, and finally snorted as a reluctant response.
—This Ah Huang, it eats everything and leaves nothing, it's useless at everything, but it's number one at causing trouble.
Apart from it, the other three were all well-behaved and never caused Wang Zhi any trouble.
Grey leaped lightly off the stone table and strolled to Wang Zhihuan's feet, rubbing its furry body against his ankle and making a satisfied gurgling sound in its throat.
Wang Zhi also broke off half a steamed bun, soaked it in the porridge until soft, and threw it into the cat's bowl. Huihui lowered its head and ate a few mouthfuls, then looked up at him, its amber eyes narrowing into slits in the morning light.
The courtyard was so quiet that only the shouts of tenant farmers cracking their whips and urging their cattle on the distant field ridges could be heard, one long and one short, tearing at the lingering morning mist.
After Wang Zhi finished his porridge, he put the bowl on the stone table and was about to get up to go to the kitchen to clean up when three soft knocks came from the courtyard gate.
You could tell at a glance that this was not the kind of reckless noise that the Cheng brothers would make, as if they wanted to smash the door, nor was it like Sizi's childish and excited "Pretty buddy, open the door."
The voice was very soft, yet exceptionally well-behaved.
Three knocks, spaced neither too long nor too short, with neither too much nor too little force, as if the person knocking had carefully considered how much force to use.
It was clearly a habit that had been taught since childhood and had long been ingrained in one's behavior.
Wang Zhi glanced at Ah Huang by the threshold, knowing full well that this useless fellow was of no use.
If Xiao Hei were here, he would have issued a warning by now.
Unfortunately, Little Black has its own problems; it always disappears early in the morning, probably having slipped away to the back mountain again.
Wang Zhi put down his bowl, slipped on his shoes, and went to open the door.
Standing outside the door was a man in his early thirties, dressed in a gray cloth short jacket. His face was tanned dark, and he had a bulging cowhide satchel slung over his shoulder. He looked travel-worn, and there were mud spots on his trouser legs.
When he met Wang Zhihuan, he first cupped his hands and bowed deeply, a very proper greeting. Then, he carefully took out two letters from his satchel, held them out with both hands, and presented them to Wang Zhihuan.
"Young Master Wang, I am a messenger from the Wang family of Taiyuan. I am here on the orders of the First Master and the Third Master to deliver a message to you."
Wang Zhihuan took the letter, his fingertips touching the cold paper, and said, "Thank you for your hard work."
The messenger's lips moved, his Adam's apple bobbed twice, as if he was holding back something to say, but he swallowed it back in the end. He bowed again, turned around, and strode away.
Wang Zhi still stood at the courtyard gate, clutching the two thin letters in his hand, watching the messenger's back disappear into the shadows of the mulberry grove until he vanished completely.
The Wang family of Taiyuan.
These four words, when they reached my ears, didn't create ripples like a pebble thrown into a lake, but rather sounded like a boulder crashing into a dry well, leaving only a deep, muffled thud.
Sure enough, he had been removed from the household register. The servants now addressed him by his surname.
However, this is no longer a major concern, as it was already within my expectations. This is for the best; it relieves me of some inner worries. From now on, I will act with fewer ties to my blood relatives.
He looked down and flipped through the letters. The first one had neat and gentle handwriting on the cover, with rich ink, as if it had been dipped in ink three times before it was finished.
The signature, "Uncle Huanshou Su," is written with restraint in every stroke.
The second letter had strong, bold strokes on the cover, with the brushstrokes so sharp they seemed to burst through the paper.
The inscription at the end reads, "Written by Uncle Luo."
He turned the two letters over and over, then turned and went back to the courtyard. Gray jumped onto the stone table, squatted down next to the two letters, and tilted its head to examine them.
He sat down on the stone bench, not in a hurry to open the letter, but first picked up the teapot, poured half a bowl of cold tea, and slowly sipped it.
The slightly bitter tea slid down my throat, leaving a faint aftertaste of sweetness.
He has never mentioned a word about what happened six months ago to anyone.
But now, holding these two letters, those long-buried memories began to surface like well water.
When he first transmigrated, the original owner was lying under the old locust tree in a secluded courtyard in Taiyuan City, so thin that he was just skin and bones, barely breathing.
To be precise, the original owner's soul was about to dissipate, and he had long since lost all hope. He took over this body thanks to the power of the Great Fortune.
It was early autumn of the eighth year of the Zhenguan era, more than half a year after the original owner's parents died suddenly.
His parents died without warning. The night before, the family had sat down for dinner, and his father had asked him a few questions about his studies, while his mother had put several bites of food in his bowl.
The next morning, the father did not wake up, and the mother collapsed at the kitchen door. The fire in the stove had long since gone out, and her body was already cold.
There were no wounds, no struggle; the coroner examined the patient and said it was a sudden illness.
Sudden illness. Two healthy people died suddenly overnight. This might fool outsiders, but anyone with a brain wouldn't believe it.
The original owner didn't believe it. He found several letters among his parents' old belongings.
He recognized the handwriting on the letter, though the original text was fragmented. But the name at the end was unfamiliar to him.
But he could roughly understand the contents of the letter—his father seemed to be investigating something? That was the only clue.
He carefully put the letter away and went to find an elder in his clan, intending to submit the clues he had found and ask the clan to investigate thoroughly.
After hearing his words, the elders' expressions were neither astonishment nor anger, but a silence that he couldn't understand at the time.
Then the old man at the head of the group waved his hand, as if shooing away flies: "What do you know, you little kid? Your parents died of illness, stop making a scene."
Hearing the elder's words, he knew that there would be no result from pleading any further, but he was unwilling to give up.
He then went to see his uncle, Wang Huan. His uncle was his father's elder brother, and had watched him grow up. He thought his uncle would be on his side.
But after listening to him finish speaking, his uncle remained silent for a long time. In the end, he just sighed, took the letters from his hands, and said, "I'll keep these for you."
"Don't ask about your father anymore. Asking too much won't do anyone any good."