"This is the path to disaster. What should we do?" Zhang Hu pressed softly.
Zhang Liao's face was full of bitterness. "The turmoil in the capital has nothing to do with us. We only need to do our own duty. Since ancient times, civil officials die remonstrating and generals die fighting. Perhaps Nanyang is where father and son alike are destined to end up. Cough, cough."
"Father, should we leave ourselves a way out?" Zhang Hu asked meaningfully.
Zhang Liao snapped, "I received the late Emperor's great favor. How could you harbor divided loyalties? Cough, cough."
"Please calm your anger, Father. Your son merely spoke without thinking." Zhang Hu hurriedly apologized.
Exhausted and enraged, Zhang Liao went to bed without dinner. The next day, he continued on the road in low spirits. Once he returned to Wan City, he fell ill and never rose again, his condition worsening by the day.
As death drew near, Zhang Liao summoned Zhang Hu to his bedside to settle his final affairs.
Zhang Hu guessed that Zhang Liao had damaged his very foundation in his battle against Lan Ji. After weeping for a while, he thumped his chest and promised Zhang Liao, "Rest easy, Father. Your son will personally behead Lan Ji and avenge you."
Zhang Liao gently shook his head and stroked Zhang Hu's brow. "Let alone you—there is no one in all the State of Wei who is his match. Lan Zhongling will sooner or later grow into another Marquis of Wen; in the future, none under heaven will be able to defeat him. Your father's time has simply come. I bear no grudge against anyone. Do not go making enemies recklessly."
"Oh..." Zhang Hu wept like a child again.
"Do not cry, and do not grieve. Every person must die eventually.