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Chapter Text

Introducing : Veiled Desire.

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The bridge was quiet that morning, though the air hung heavy with something sharp, metallic, and unspoken. Chi Cheng, six years old and too small to understand the weight of the world, clutched his mother’s hand as if it were the only thing keeping him from vanishing into the river below. The wooden planks beneath his feet trembled slightly with the rhythm of the current, or perhaps it was his own pulse, hammering in his chest like a drum that could not stop.

He had never been afraid of the river before, for its glassy surface reflected the clouds and the sunlight, silver and blue, a mirror to a world he had always thought gentle. But today, it held terror in its quiet depths, and his mother—eyes widened and pale, lips pressed into a line that trembled—made the water seem alive with threat.

“Cheng’er,” she said, her voice a whisper that carried in the morning air, “if they do not listen… if they do not see the truth… then I will take you with me.”

Chi Cheng, small and rigid, did not know what she meant; he only understood that her hand was shaking in his, that the promise of falling into that water made his stomach curl and tighten. Behind them, his uncle’s voice cracked with panic, and his father—oh, his father—stood frozen, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, hands trembling as if the mere act of breathing had betrayed him.

The moment stretched thin, fragile as glass. Chi Cheng’s mother tipped forward, ever so slightly, and the world lurched. The sound of wood scraping against water, the gasp of his uncle, and then—relief, sharp and urgent—Chi Cheng’s small body was swept into safety. His uncle had lunged with all the power of a man who would protect a child above the world itself, holding him close to his chest as though he could shield him from everything, even grief.

But Chi Cheng’s father did not reach for him. He turned instead toward his son, hands trembling but determined, eyes wild with accusation. “It’s your fault! All of this! Do you see what you’ve done? Do you understand?”

The shaking began then. His father’s hands closed around his small frame, and Chi Cheng felt himself lifted, wrenched violently, the words burning into him like fire: It is all your fault. You caused her death.

He screamed, muffled into his uncle’s chest, and the uncle’s arms tightened around him, fighting against the brutality of a man he could no longer recognise as his brother. Chi Cheng’s mother was gone, the water swallowing her promise, her life, her voice, and the sun seemed dimmer after that, though it did not cease to rise.

He did not understand what had happened. He did not understand why the world had turned cruel in a single instant. Only the trembling of his father’s hands, the smell of wet wood, and the sound of his own heartbeat against his uncle’s chest remained certain.

The days afterwards were filled with echoes: of voices he could not answer, of doors closed, of whispers and silence. The house was full of grief, but also of blame. Chi Cheng grew up believing he was a danger to everything he touched. He would kill everyone he loved, not physically, but by plaguing their mind with the emotional turmoil that corrupted his brain, as if it were a disease. 

He had developed ‘Obsessive-compulsive disorder.’ But, in his and others’ eyes, it was a curse; they called it quietly, as if speaking louder might make it true. And somewhere in the centre of that grief and confusion, Chi Cheng learned to be small, to be careful, to make himself nothing at all.

Years passed. His father’s anger became memory, his mother’s face a shadow he avoided. He lived with his uncle, who did everything possible to shelter him from the cruelty of a world that already seemed intent on crushing him. Yet some things could not be shielded: the knowledge that he had survived, and the certainty that others had not, haunted him relentlessly.

By the time he was old enough to hold a sword, to aim with precision, to step onto the battlefield, Chi Cheng had learned that the world obeyed force. That the hand that touched could kill, the fingers that held could destroy, the skin that brushed could wound. And so he believed: it was safer not to touch.

But duty did not care for beliefs. He was the general’s son, heir to honour and prestige, and in the unforgiving world of war, that made him both a weapon and a target.

This belief did not prevent him from becoming one of the best fighters on the battlefield, whether it was shooting from afar or engaging with his enemy, because, in that case, his belief was true; he was killing each and every enemy he touched. He became known for his skill, for his deadly accuracy, for the coldness in his gaze. No one could say why he fought so fiercely, why he struck with such precision, why he seemed to glide across the battlefield untouched by fear, yet carrying a weight heavier than mountains.

And still, at night, when the sun set behind the city and the river reflected nothing but darkness, Chi Cheng would close his eyes and remember the bridge, the trembling hands, the world tilting into water, the echoing voice of a man he once called father. 

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The streets of Shanghai stretched below Chi Cheng’s window like a living tapestry, an endless flow of sound and motion that seemed almost alien in its vitality. Carriages clattered over cobblestones, wheels spun with rhythmic precision, and the chatter of vendors rose and fell in waves, punctuated by the occasional shout or the tolling of a distant temple bell. From this height, Chi Cheng observed it all with the detachment of a man accustomed to living behind walls both physical and invisible, the world passing beneath him as if he were a shadow rather than a participant.

He perched on the window ledge of his study, one knee drawn up against his chest while the other hung lazily over the edge. The morning light spilt across the room, falling in warm golden rectangles on polished floorboards and illuminating the spines of books lined with meticulous care along the shelves. In his hands rested the reports he had been reviewing: letters from merchants requesting favours, petitions from soldiers seeking supplies, and correspondence detailing matters of family estate and reputation. He read each one with unwavering focus, his mind efficient, precise, yet somehow distant from the weight of the words themselves. His military jacket had been set aside with care, folded neatly atop a side table, leaving him in a crisp white shirt and pressed slacks—the resemblance of normalcy in a life otherwise defined by discipline, detachment, and the ghosts that haunted him still.

The gentle knock at the door was almost inaudible over the city’s hum, polite and measured. “Enter,” he said, his voice steady, betraying none of the tension that always accompanied visitors.

The door opened to reveal his uncle, Li Wei, moving with quiet grace and the ease of a man accustomed to authority tempered by patience. Age had silvered his hair and softened the edges of his face, but his dark eyes retained a sharp attentiveness that seemed to see everything and overlook nothing. He was the only person who entered Chi Cheng’s space without hesitation, the only one whose presence did not provoke vigilance or restraint.

Chi Cheng looked up at him, and for the briefest instant, a small, almost reluctant smile appeared on his lips. “Uncle,” he said simply, the word carrying more warmth than he intended, and felt a flicker of the safety and constancy that Li Wei had always represented.

Li Wei returned the smile, a quiet gesture that held decades of care and understanding, and seated himself across from Chi Cheng, settling into the chair with a grace that spoke of both patience and quiet command. “Your reports, as always, are thorough,” he remarked softly. “Your diligence does you credit, Cheng’er. I would be remiss not to acknowledge it.”

Chi Cheng inclined his head slightly, brushing a lock of dark hair from his forehead, and allowed a few moments of silence to stretch between them, filled only with the soft sounds of their breathing and the muted clamour of Shanghai beyond the window. Silence, after all, had always been a language both he and his uncle spoke fluently.

Finally, Li Wei leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, and regarded him with a deliberate steadiness. “There is news from the city,” he began, voice measured yet carrying the weight of importance. “A family is soon to arrive in Shanghai—respectable, educated, mannered with a quiet dignity. Their presence has been noted, and though they do not seek attention, they leave an impression. Gentle people, though perhaps too gentle for this city, I fear.”

Chi Cheng’s brow creased faintly, though his expression remained otherwise neutral. Gentle people rarely thrived here, and he had learned long ago that softness was a luxury few could afford. His gaze drifted out over the rooftops and the winding streets, letting the sunlight cast warmth across his face and the faint shadows beneath his eyes.

Li Wei’s voice softened, carrying a subtle weight, a timbre that bespoke decades of observing human behaviour and family necessity. “It is customary, given your station and the position you hold within our household, to consider alliances. To maintain the family’s honour, reputation, and influence, there are obligations we must fulfil, even when the heart is indifferent. This is why I raise the matter of a marriage arrangement. In the family is a boy of good character, raised with kindness, the sort who might bring warmth to this house and family again. Younger than you, perhaps four or five years. No noble status, yet many have requested his hand, I heard, merely for his beauty. I understand he has declined them all—yet you, Cheng’er, would be unwise to presume he would do the same for you.”

Chi Cheng allowed a soft, humourless scoff to escape as he set the reports aside, leaning back against the cool window ledge, letting the morning light play across the sharp lines of his face. He gazed outward, over the rooftops and the winding streets, over the river that shimmered like a vein of silver through the city, and the sounds of life below that belonged to everyone else. For a moment, he allowed himself to think not of duty or family name, but of the impossibility of the arrangement, of being measured against another human being, of what it meant to place trust and expectation in a stranger’s hands.

“Who would love a strange man like me, uncle?” he asked quietly, shaking his head, a faint, ironic smile brushing his lips. The words felt heavier than he intended, carrying the weight of years spent believing himself a danger to all who surrounded him, a man defined by discipline and grief alike.

Li Wei regarded him with quiet understanding, his dark eyes softening as they followed the arc of the city outside, the shimmer of sunlight across the river, the patterns of life that carried on oblivious to their conversation. He leaned back slightly, letting the silence stretch between them, acknowledging the truth of the boy he had raised into a man: disciplined, precise, and yet undeniably fragile beneath the armour of control he had built. Words would have been insufficient—too clumsy, too blunt—to move past the distance between past trauma and present expectation, and so he spoke none, allowing the moment to linger in the warmth and quiet of the room.

Chi Cheng remained there, poised between memory and obligation, between the past that had shaped him and the future that awaited him, whether he desired it or not. Somewhere beneath the weight of duty, beneath the lingering shadows of loss and grief, a subtle flicker of curiosity stirred, unbidden yet persistent—a question of what it might mean to allow warmth, to allow connection, to allow life itself to touch him in ways he had long thought forbidden.

Chapter Text

The morning they departed, the air carried the faint scent of coal and the sweetness of damp soil — the smell of departure, of lives being folded and tucked away like old letters no one dared reread. The Wu family had spent days preparing for this moment, and now, as the first train whistle tore through the haze of dawn, their luggage stood stacked in orderly rows like obedient soldiers. The sky was still grey, though sunlight strained at its edges, a weak promise of warmth.

Wu Suowei stood near the train carriage, the faintest tremor of anticipation fluttering beneath the calm curve of his expression. His hands were neatly folded before him, and the coat around his shoulders was buttoned to perfection, though a few strands of hair had escaped his careful grooming to fall softly across his forehead. His cousin, Xiaoshuai, stood beside him, grinning as if the city were a dream he could already taste.

“Can you believe it, Suowei?” Xiaoshuai said, his voice brimming with a youthful excitement that carried easily above the hiss of steam and chatter. “We’re finally leaving! No more endless fields, no more nosy neighbours watching us from their porches like hawks. Just the city—loud, alive, beautiful Shanghai.”

Suowei’s lips curved into a small, controlled smile as he looked at his cousin. “You speak as if the countryside was a prison, Xiaoshuai.”

“Wasn’t it?” Xiaoshuai shot back, eyes sparkling as he lifted one of the smaller trunks into the carriage. “Here, it was like everyone was watching our every move. And, people were seriously so unjustifiable! They found it completely normal for a 40-year-old to try and court you! At least in the city, you can breathe without everyone knowing what you had for breakfast. You’ll see — people there live differently. They dream differently.”

Suowei tilted his head, the faint amusement in his eyes softening his otherwise composed face. “And what dream are you chasing this time?”

“The usual one,” Xiaoshuai replied breezily. “Freedom. Love. Maybe even a handsome husband who can afford silk instead of mud.”

Suowei blinked, caught between surprise and laughter. The delicate pink of embarrassment crept into his cheeks, but it was fleeting, almost graceful. “So that’s why you’re so eager to move,” he teased quietly, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve as they boarded their train carriage.

His cousin grinned, unabashed. “And maybe you’ll find someone too. There are plenty of hardworking men in the city. Soldiers, officers… men with ambition…and men in uniform!” He laughed softly after his shameless comment.

Suowei turned to the window as if to hide the small smile tugging at his lips. Outside, the platform was alive — vendors calling (who grew their own fresh fruit in the fields), passengers shouting last goodbyes, the metallic scent of steam curling through the air. “I’m not looking for anyone,” he said softly, his tone even but his gaze distant.

“Then maybe someone will find you,” Xiaoshuai said, shrugging as he sank into the seat beside him.

Suowei didn’t answer. He only carried on looking out at the horizon, where the last traces of their home disappeared behind the veil of morning mist. The train jolted forward with a heavy shudder, and soon the countryside began to stretch and bend, fading into an endless blur of golden fields and thin, winding rivers.

The hours passed in quiet rhythm — the sound of wheels on rails, the occasional murmur of strangers, the rustle of newspaper pages. Suowei sat still, his thoughts unfolding like petals under sunlight. He wondered how different the city would be, how quickly he would have to learn its ways. The countryside had been steady, familiar, and kind in its simplicity. Shanghai, he suspected, would not be so gentle.

When the train finally slowed, the air outside was warmer, thicker. The city came into view like an awakening — streets spilling over with people, carriages clattering against cobblestones, red banners fluttering in the wind. The skyline shimmered with ambition, a place that refused to stay still.

Shanghai.

It was undoubtedly a name that carried weight, the sort of name that clung to your tongue and left traces of wonder even after you spoke it. The name that left people asking questions, eager to know more about the place.

Their new home stood on a quieter street not far from the heart of the city — a wide, elegant house of pale stone with carved wooden beams and arched windows framed by climbing vines. The garden was smaller than the one they’d left behind, the air filled not with the smell of wet grass but of lilacs and city smoke. It didn’t possess the pureness of the countryside, but it was beautiful in its own restrained way.

A man stood waiting at the entrance, his posture impeccable, his expression kind but measured. He wore a dark suit that fit him perfectly, the faint glint of a pocket watch peeking from his vest. “Welcome,” he greeted with a polite bow. “I’m Li Wei. I’ve been overseeing the house preparations for your family’s arrival.”

Wu Pa — Suowei’s father — stepped forward to shake his hand, his tone formal but cordial. “You’ve gone through great trouble, Mr Li. The house is beautiful.”

Li Wei smiled, his gaze lingering for a moment too long. “It’s my honour, truly. Shanghai is fortunate to receive such a respectable family.”

The conversation continued, their voices soft and practised, but Suowei had already begun to drift away, his curiosity leading him down the hall. He lifted his suitcase in both hands, strolling aimlessly through the corridors that smelled faintly of sandalwood and new paint.

When he reached his room, he stopped in quiet awe.

Sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains, bathing the space in a muted gold. The walls were a pale cream, and the floor was polished wood. A writing desk stood near the window, beside a small vase filled with fresh chrysanthemums — white, delicate, almost translucent. It felt like a new beginning, wearing the clothes of an old life.

He placed his luggage on the bed and began to unpack, folding shirts and stacking books in neat piles. Each movement felt intentional, almost ceremonial, as though in the careful act of arranging his belongings, he might also arrange the chaos and curiosity inside himself.

The sound of knuckles against wood after some minutes startled him.

“Come in,” Suowei said softly and quietly. However, when the boy turned around and saw that it was Li Wei, he immediately bowed.

Li Wei entered with the same effortless charm, his smile polite yet practised. “I trust your journey went well?”

Suowei nodded. “Yes, thank you for inquiring. It was long, but pleasant.”

“Good,” Li Wei’s gaze swept the room, lingering briefly on the open suitcase. “The house suits you, I think. Simple, elegant. You’ll come to love it here.”

“I hope so,” Suowei murmured as he looked down, portraying his slightly shy personality around those significantly older than him.

“There’s much to see in Shanghai,” Li Wei continued, leaning lightly against the doorframe. “Once you’ve settled in, you should take a walk. There’s a place I think you’d enjoy — the Garden of Eternal Grace. It was named and decorated in memory of the general’s late wife. A magnificent place, really. Filled with magnolias and stone lanterns, and a temple at its heart where people go to pray. You can almost feel her presence there, still watching over the city like she always did.”

Suowei’s eyes softened yet glistened simultaneously, curiosity flickering in their depths. “It sounds beautiful.”

“It is,” Li Wei said with a faint smile. “And peaceful. I think, or dare I say I know, you would enjoy visiting it.”

And that was exactly what Suowei did.

Later that evening, when the house had grown quiet and the last traces of sunset melted into the skyline, Suowei found himself slipping out the front gate. The city was a pulse around him — carriages clattering over the cobblestones, laughter spilling from open tea houses, the glow of lanterns painting the streets in warm hues of gold and crimson.

He walked without a destination, drawn by the hum of life and the scent of unfamiliar flowers. And somehow, without meaning to, he found himself standing before the gates of the Garden of Eternal Grace.

It was even more breathtaking than Li Wei had described. Suowei thought that Li Wei had definitely underexaggerated how lavish and beautiful it truly was. Rows of magnolia trees lined the entrance, their pale blossoms glowing under the moonlight. The air was heavy with the scent of incense, and from somewhere within, the faint notes of a guqin drifted like a sigh.

Suowei wandered through slowly, his fingertips brushing over the carved stone railings, his gaze falling upon a marble grave adorned with delicate offerings — a framed photograph of a woman and her family, three faces frozen in another time. He lingered for a moment, a quiet reverence filling his chest, before moving further in.

A small building stood tucked away at the edge of the garden — modest, secluded, its wooden doors half-open as if waiting for him. Curiosity guided him forward, of course. He stepped inside, and the air shifted, cooler here, scented faintly with old books and candle wax.

It was a study where shelves lined the walls, filled with hundreds of books — philosophy, military strategy, poetry — their spines worn smooth by years of touch. A desk stood near the window, scattered with papers, and a cushioned seat by the windowsill, where light pooled like honey.

Suowei’s breath caught. He ran his fingers along the spines, pausing when one title drew his eye — The Art of Enduring Hearts. He tilted his head slightly and pulled it free with a small smile, flipping through the pages, drawn into its words.

Suowei was pulled out of his admiration for the book when he heard the back door creak.

He froze.

And filling the silence were the faint echoes of footsteps approaching, slow, deliberate. The boy swiftly set the book down, but not where it belonged, and turned to leave. Yet when he rounded the corner of the bookshelf, he stopped abruptly.

Standing in the golden half-light was a man — tall, broad-shouldered, his uniform perfectly pressed, his dark hair slightly dishevelled from the wind. His face was striking in the cruellest sense of the word: beautiful but cold, carved from discipline and silence. His eyes — sharp, unreadable — locked on Suowei, narrowing in confusion.

Chi Cheng’s duty was to patrol Shanghai, which is why he liked to believe he knew most–if not all–of the faces living here. However, no matter how much he looked or tried, he couldn’t find any familiarity in the boy standing before him.

The taller one didn’t speak at first. Instead, his gaze flickered, assessing, as if searching for recognition in the stranger’s face again and again. “Who are you?” his tone wasn’t harsh, but it carried authority, like the kind of voice that didn’t need to be raised to command attention.

Suowei’s throat tightened. “I— I was just—”

The lump stuck in his throat prevented him from being able to finish his words. Instead, he turned hastily, his heart beating erratically as he fled down the aisle, through the door, out into the cold breath of the evening.

Chi Cheng watched the boy disappear beyond the garden gate, brows furrowing slightly, not in anger, but in confusion. Then, his gaze fell upon the book left out of place. He lifted it, reading the title, his expression unreadable, the faintest shadow of intrigue crossing his face.

And when Li Wei entered moments later, the sound of hurried footsteps still echoing faintly outside, he saw the scene — the open door, the missing presence, the small string of confusion tugging at his nephew’s eyes — and something in his eyes gleamed with quiet amusement at the thought that his nephew had possibly interacted with the man he’s planning to promise him to.

Chapter Text

The morning sunlight spilt across the polished floors of the Chi household, falling in golden shafts that lit the carved edges of the antique screens and glimmered against the silver inkwells resting on the desk. In the quiet intimacy of the dining room, Chi Cheng’s uncle, Master Li, spoke softly to his wife, the words carrying a weight that seemed almost ceremonial in their precision. “The city will watch us tonight,” he said, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead. “After all these months, after the battles, it’s time for the family to be seen again and make a statement in public.”

His wife, graceful and attentive, nodded, her hands folded in her lap. “And Chi Cheng?” she asked, a soft concern threading her voice. “Will he participate?”

He smiled faintly, a shadow crossing his face. “He will. I’ve seen how he moves among men and soldiers, how the city’s gaze follows him even now. Tonight, he will finally be observed as a man of the family, as the general’s son, as the heir to our honour.”

Across the city, in the Wu household, the atmosphere was decidedly lighter, though tinged with anticipation. Suowei sat at the breakfast table with Xiaoshuai, the soft clinking of porcelain punctuating their conversation. 

It was the maid, a quiet presence in the household who rarely drew attention, who disrupted the morning with a soft tap at the doorway. “Invitation, sirs, madam,” she said, holding an elegant envelope, the seal of Li Wei glinting in the morning light.

Mr Wu’s hands trembled in anticipation as he took it, breaking the seal with meticulous care. His eyes scanned the page, and then he read aloud, his voice gaining momentum with excitement: “You are cordially invited to a ball hosted by the esteemed Chi household, to celebrate their presence in Shanghai following Young Master Chi Cheng’s distinguished return from the battlefield.”

Suowei’s mother clapped delicately, her smile radiant. “A ball! How marvellous, and so timely too. This city has been too quiet since we’ve arrived.”

Xiaoshuai nudged Suowei gently, whispering, “Finally, you’ll see what city life truly looks like. And who knows—perhaps you’ll meet someone of note… or at least someone terrifyingly handsome.”

Suowei’s cheeks warmed at the remark, and he muttered, “Terrifyingly handsome, you say? Is finding someone to love all you think about, Xiaoshuai? I’m not sure whether to be wary or intrigued.”

The breakfast conversation danced from polite excitement to subtle strategy. Mr Wu’s eyes gleamed as he considered the significance of the event. “Such gatherings are not merely entertainment,” he said gravely, placing his cup down. “Opportunities abound. Connections, alliances… perhaps even a fortuitous match for our young Suowei.”

Suowei sighed, exhausted from hearing this over and over again.

Xiaoshuai rolled his eyes teasingly, whispering, “Consider it practice. Practice in charm, in poise… in survival.”

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The afternoon was consumed with preparations. Suowei inspected his outfit obsessively, adjusting cuffs, straightening collars, and smoothing stray threads. Xiaoshuai, meanwhile, moved around with a light-hearted ease, teasing him relentlessly. “You look like a prince,” he said, laughter in his voice, “though one who worries far too much over a ribbon or a seam.”

“Better that than appear careless,” Suowei replied softly, his voice precise, betraying a nervousness he could not hide.

By the time the Wu family arrived at the venue, the evening was in full bloom. Silk lanterns hung from intricately carved beams, casting golden pools of light across the polished floors. The scent of sandalwood and delicate floral perfumes mingled in the air, while the faint strains of guzheng and pipa music drifted from the ballroom. Every guest moved with careful composure, their conversations a low, harmonious murmur against the soft clinking of glassware.

Suowei’s eyes widened at the spectacle. Soldiers bowed respectfully as they passed, and he returned each bow with equal grace. His movements drew glances from the gathered attendees, admiration flickering in the eyes of some, curiosity in others. Xiaoshuai leaned close, whispering, “You do have a way with appearances, little cousin. It seems you’ve already bewitched half the room.”

Suowei’s attention drifted across the crowd, and then he saw him—Chi Cheng. Standing near the centre, speaking with officers yet entirely detached from them, Chi Cheng’s tall, commanding presence seemed to still the air around him. His uniform was immaculate, but it was the way he carried himself—the subtle authority, the quiet gravity—that made him seem larger than life.

Suowei’s breath caught. He remembered the fleeting encounter in the study, the recognition, the unspoken acknowledgement that had lingered in the back of his mind since. His pulse quickened, and a flush warmed his cheeks. “Xiaoshuai,” he whispered, voice barely audible, “that’s him… the man from the study… I didn’t know he was the general’s son.”

Xiaoshuai’s grin was mischievous. “Perhaps he is shy, or simply does not favour commoners,” he teased. Suowei’s mind spun. Commoners? he thought. Does he truly see me as insignificant?

Before he could dwell further, Chi Cheng’s uncle approached, his expression composed, his voice low but deliberate. “Mr Wu, it is my pleasure to introduce you to my nephew,” he said, nodding politely. “Wu Suowei, Jiang Xiaoshuai, may I present General Chi Cheng.”

Master Li stepped back, and Chi Cheng stepped back from behind him, hands folded behind his back.

He forced himself to straighten his spine, to swallow down the familiar rush of nerves that tightened his throat. His voice, when it came, was calm and measured, though his pulse throbbed beneath the stillness.

Suowei bowed, extending his hand with careful formality. “It is an honour to make your acquaintance, Master Chi Cheng. I’m Wu Suowei.”

The face seemed to stir something—an imperceptible flicker across Chi Cheng’s expression, so brief that anyone else might have missed it. But Suowei saw it. The recognition. The faint narrowing of the general’s eyes, as though the pieces of memory were quietly rearranging themselves behind that composed exterior.

For a suspended moment, neither of them moved.

Chi Cheng’s gaze lingered on the offered hand, then rose to meet Suowei’s eyes. The taller did not take his hand. There was no disdain in it—only the smallest shadow of hesitation, the kind born of habit rather than arrogance. He inclined his head in acknowledgement instead, the movement slow, deliberate.

Suowei blinked, confusion swirling in his chest. He must think I am too lowly, too unimportant, he thought, frustration and curiosity entwined in equal measure.

Undeterred, Suowei drew a quiet breath and forced a polite smile back onto his face. The silence between them was taut, heavy, as though every word he might say had to push through the thick air of expectation.

He clasped his hands together to hide the faint tremor in his fingers. “Your uniform,” he began, his tone light, conversational, “it’s… remarkable craftsmanship. I imagine every thread tells a story.”

Chi Cheng’s gaze lowered briefly to the fabric across his shoulder, then returned to Suowei with a restrained nod. “It serves its purpose,” he said simply, his voice quiet but precise.

Suowei’s lips curved faintly. “And those medals,” he continued, gesturing to the subtle gleam along Chi Cheng’s chest. “You must have seen many things—Shanghai speaks of your victories as if they were legends.”

A pause. Then Chi Cheng’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile but close. “Stories grow larger with distance,” he replied. “Reality is rarely so poetic.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Suowei said, tilting his head, eyes lingering on the sharp angle of Chi Cheng’s jaw before quickly averting them. “But still, it must take someone extraordinary to make the world exaggerate on his behalf.”

The faintest breath of amusement passed through Chi Cheng’s expression, gone before it could settle. “Flattery doesn’t suit you, Mr Wu.”

“Then I must be out of practice,” Suowei answered, a quiet yet nervous laugh escaping him before he could stop it. “It’s been some time since I’ve spoken to someone who makes conversation feel like a duel.”

The older’s gaze flickered again—just a fraction of something human, uncertain—before he looked away toward the crowd. “I’ve been told I’m not… easy company,” he said, his tone softer now, nearly reluctant.

Suowei studied him carefully, the way his shoulders remained rigid, how his fingers seemed to hover rather than rest fully against his glass. “Perhaps,” he said gently, “you just prefer silence over noise.”

That made Chi Cheng’s eyes lift back to his. There it was again—that subtle glimmer of recognition, the silent exchange of a memory neither had mentioned but both still carried.

For a moment, the music in the background dulled, and the laughter of guests became distant.

Xiaoshuai, observing quietly, leaned in with a whisper, “You’re utterly captivated,” and Suowei could not deny it.

The evening unfolded in layers of light, scent, and sound. Guests glided through the rooms, candles flickering against carved walls, their light reflecting on polished wood and crystal. Tea service moved like clockwork, the delicate clinking of porcelain accompanied by murmured compliments. Music floated across the room, a soft accompaniment to the mingling voices and laughter that filled every corner.

Yet, Suowei found that his gaze repeatedly went to Chi Cheng, and though the man seemed detached, there were moments—the slight narrowing of his eyes, the tilt of his head—where he observed Suowei with a subtle intensity. Each time, Suowei’s heart leapt and sank simultaneously, caught between fascination and frustration.

Xiaoshuai had only just slipped away from Suowei’s side, claiming he was getting another drink, when someone beside the refreshments table spoke before he could reach for a glass.

“Careful,” the man said, smiling easily. “That one’s stronger than it looks. Last week, an officer drank two and spent the rest of the night declaring his undying love to a chandelier.”

Xiaoshuai turned, half a laugh already on his lips. The man was striking in a different way from the soldiers that crowded the room—less severe, more alive. His smile came easily, his posture loose and unguarded, a spark of humour dancing in his eyes.

“I’ll take my chances,” Xiaoshuai replied, raising a brow. “If I start serenading the decorations, you’ll know who to blame.”

The man chuckled, extending his hand. “Guo Chengyu. Assistant to the young master, Chi Cheng. Though I promise I’m far less intimidating than that sounds.”

“Jiang Xiaoshuai,” he replied, shaking his hand with a playful tilt of his head. “Relative of the Wu family, and apparently a magnet for charming strangers.”

“Charming? I like you already.” Chengyu grinned, taking a sip of his drink. “Your friend—Wu Suowei, isn’t it?—he’s the one who caught the master’s attention earlier.”

Xiaoshuai leaned in slightly, smirking. “You mean the General’s son. I noticed that too. Though I couldn’t tell if he wanted to talk to Suowei or strangle him to get out of that conversation.”

Chengyu laughed, nearly spilling his drink. “That sounds about right. The General’s son isn’t exactly… expressive. But if he’s looking at someone twice, that’s saying something.”

“You sound like you know him well.”

“Well enough to tell when he’s uncomfortable,” Chengyu said, his tone softening. “He’s not the kind to mingle easily. Tonight must feel like walking through fire for him.”

Xiaoshuai’s teasing expression faltered for a moment. “Fire, hm? I’d have said ice. But maybe you’re right.”

Chengyu only smiled again, light returning to his voice. “You’ll see for yourself soon enough. The General’s son always surprises people. Though I’m much easier company, if you ask me.”

“Oh, I can tell,” Xiaoshuai said with a grin. “Let’s see if you stay that way after your third drink.”

___________________________

Later that evening, the murmur of laughter and the delicate chime of porcelain faded into the distance as two men stepped away from the crowded ballroom. The air on the terrace was cooler, perfumed with jasmine and the faint tang of the river that ran not far from the estate. Lantern light spilt softly across the marble floor, casting restless shadows as if even the night itself strained to overhear.

Mr Wu adjusted the cuffs of his coat, his face still flushed from wine and the heavy pride that had burned in him all evening. “You must understand,” he began, his voice low but insistent, the tone of a man who had rehearsed this conversation countless times. “My family did not uproot everything for the sake of novelty. We came to Shanghai for opportunity—and more importantly, for my son’s future. This man will not be just any son-in-law. His name, his station, his very presence will secure our family’s place in this city. I cannot afford oversight.”

Chi Cheng’s uncle—Li Wei—listened without interruption. The years had carved patience into him, smoothing out the sharp edges that ambition once gave. His gaze drifted over the ballroom through the open doors, where the flicker of candles illuminated fleeting glimpses of youth and fortune. When he finally spoke, his tone carried the slow certainty of someone accustomed to command, yet softened by caution.

“You speak of alliances and titles,” he said, his voice threaded with gentleness, “but such things are fragile if built on haste. You wish for your son to wed my nephew, I understand that—and truthfully, I do not find your desire unreasonable. Your son seems gentle, respectable, and far brighter than most of the men his age. But if we are to bind two lives together, it must be done carefully.”

Mr Wu’s brow furrowed. “Carefully? Or never at all?” There was a hint of frustration beneath his courtesy, the sort of tension that came from balancing hope with fear. “You’ve seen how this city moves, Sir. A man without the right connections is a man forgotten. My son—he deserves more than obscurity. And if your nephew is indeed to inherit the title of Main General, then such a union would elevate us both. Surely you can see that.”

Li Wei regarded him with the quiet patience of a man who had once seen entire empires rise and crumble over pride. “I wish for you not to get frustrated, Mr Wu, for I am doing you a favour by even proposing this marriage, seeing as your son is of no noble status compared to my nephew.” The man sighed slightly, “I see,” he murmured, “a father who loves his son deeply, but who forgets that affection cannot be bartered like a coin.”

Mr Wu exhaled sharply, as if struck. “Affection does not feed a family,” he replied, though the heat in his tone faltered. “I have no wish to sell my son, Sir. But I must think of his security. Of the name he will bear.”

The older man nodded once, eyes glinting beneath the lantern light. “And I must think of my nephew’s peace. He is not… easily understood, as I’m sure you’ll come to see. His life has not been one of ease or ordinary temperament.” He paused, a faint sigh escaping him. “Let them meet as strangers first. Let the boy see the man he will wed not as a title, but as a person. Only then will the union have the respect it deserves.”

Mr Wu stood silently for a moment, his jaw tight. In his heart, he knew the General’s brother was right—that rushing would only draw suspicion, that subtlety would secure far more than boldness ever could. And yet, the thought of delay gnawed at him, feeding the anxiety that had haunted him since their arrival.

Finally, he gave a reluctant nod, the motion small but deliberate. “Very well. I will hold my tongue for now. But mark my words, Sir—my son will not refuse such a match like he has done with others. Once they meet properly, he will see the sense of it.”

Li Wei smiled faintly, a gesture tinged with both amusement and weariness. “Then let fate have its say first,” he replied. “It has a way of arranging meetings far better than any of us could.”

Mr Wu grumbled something under his breath—half complaint, half surrender—and the two men turned back toward the golden light of the ballroom, the sound of violins and conversation swallowing the rest of their words.

___________________________

By the end of the night, Wu Suowei sat on the chair in front of his vanity, exhausted yet still dressed in his formal attire, though his collar hung loose and his hair had fallen messily from its place. His reflection stared back from the mirror—cheeks flushed from wine, lips parted as if mid-thought. The faint echo of the evening still pressed upon him, restless and insistent, as though some part of him had been left behind in that crowded, glittering ballroom.

He could not stop replaying the moment.

The hum of conversation dimmed when Chi Cheng entered.

The way every head had turned toward him—how his mere presence seemed to command the air itself. The poise of a man accustomed to war, to attention, to reverence. And yet, when Suowei had extended his hand, when he had tried—so sincerely—to bridge that distance, Chi Cheng had not taken it.

He had simply bowed his head. Nothing more.

The gesture had been polite, yes. But cold. Distant.

And in that second, Suowei had felt the air between them shift into something sharp and impossible. He had laughed it off at first, brushing it aside with that same smile he offered anyone who made him feel small. But later—comfortable in his room, stripped of the noise and flattery and perfume—he could no longer lie to himself. It had stung.

“He couldn’t even touch me,” he whispered into the stillness, half in disbelief, half in wounded pride. His fingers brushed over his palm as if he could still feel the absence of another’s hand. “As though I’m beneath him.”

Xiaoshuai, lounging across the couch near the window, had already heard the complaint several times that evening and was grinning faintly, arms folded behind his head. “Perhaps he’s shy,” he teased, voice thick with drowsy amusement. “Or perhaps he simply didn’t wish to offend you with rough soldier’s hands.”

Suowei turned to him sharply. “Shy? You didn’t see him. He carries himself like he owns the air in the room. That’s not shyness — that’s arrogance.” He stood, pacing before the window where moonlight spilt like water onto the floor. “The entire hall watched him walk in, and no one dared to speak first. And why? Because he’s a general’s son? Because he thinks the rest of us are beneath him?”

Xiaoshuai chuckled softly. “Then he’s arrogant. You’ve decided this already, haven’t you?” When Xiaoshuai saw a tinge of crimson on his cousin’s cheeks, he nodded. “Ah,” he mused, playing with a ribbon. “So that’s it. The great Wu Suowei has met his equal — and he doesn’t like it.”

Suowei shot him a glare. “Equal? Don’t be absurd. I have no quarrel with him. I simply dislike men who mistake silence for superiority.”

“You’re sure it wasn’t nerves? Maybe he’s not used to people.”

Suowei scoffed. “If he didn’t wish to be around people, he shouldn’t have attended a ball hosted by his own family.” 

For a long moment, silence stretched between them. The rain had begun to fall—soft, steady drops tapping against the windows. Xiaoshuai’s teasing smile faded into something gentler as he glanced toward his cousin.

“You jump to assumptions too quickly and think too much,” he murmured. “He’s just a man.”

Suowei exhaled slowly. “Yes. Just a man,” he repeated, though the words felt hollow.

“Forget him. The man probably just doesn’t like touching people. You’d do well not to take it personally,” Xiaoshuai reassured before bidding the latter goodnight and making his way to his own room.

Later, when the lamp dimmed and everyone in the house’s breathing evened into sleep, Suowei lay awake beneath the gauze canopy of his bed. His thoughts refused to quiet. He could still see the faint tremor in Chi Cheng’s hands, the careful control in his movements, the strange, almost fragile restraint hidden beneath his composure.

“Arrogant,” Suowei whispered again, though the word no longer sounded certain.

The flame in the lamp wavered, its light brushing across his face like a confession he could not speak aloud. He shut his eyes and tried to sleep, but the memory followed him—Chi Cheng’s silence, the weight of his gaze, the inexplicable ache that came with both.

Outside, the rain thickened, swallowing the city in silver. Somewhere across the river, in another quiet room, another sleepless soul might have been staring into the dark, wondering the same thing—why a single interaction could leave such an echo.

Chapter Text

The study of Li Wei’s estate was quiet, though the morning sun pierced the tall windows in scattered shards of gold, illuminating the dust motes that floated lazily through the air. Li Wei sat behind the carved mahogany desk, hands steepled, brow furrowed with thought, while Chengyu perched on the edge of a low chair, spinning a thin stick between his fingers. The air between them buzzed with quiet anticipation—this was not a trivial matter.

“If you will allow me,” Chengyu began, voice warm and precise, “I will bring him closer to the boy, Wu Suowei. Not forcefully, not abruptly, but enough that he becomes familiar with the boy’s presence and habits. I can test the waters without raising suspicions.”

Li Wei’s dark eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating. “You must be careful, Chengyu. Chi Cheng is not a boy who responds well to interference. He is patient when he chooses to be, but insincere subtlety—or premature manipulation—will frustrate him. You know this better than anyone.”

Chengyu grinned, a flash of mischief lighting his face. “I am aware, sir. But you know me. I can be discreet when necessary. And besides,” he leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “the boy is… interesting. Curious. He doesn’t yet understand who he’s dealing with, and that, I assure you, will make my task far easier.”

Li Wei inclined his head, letting a small crease of approval show. “Generously, I have decided to employ Mrs Wu in the kitchen of the temple inside the Garden of Eternal Grace. The kitchen is the heart of the temple for various events. Not only will it allow her to remain visible, but it ensures the Wu family remains close to us and relevant. Suowei will witness the environment here—how the estate is managed, the reverence given to tradition—and he will learn where his own family stands in the grand design.”

Chengyu’s eyes sparkled with understanding. “So, in essence, you want him close enough to observe but not close enough to interfere. A subtle initiation.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Very well. I shall ensure he is exposed gradually, in increments. And of course, I shall report back to you.”

Li Wei leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers once more. “Good. Remember, Chengyu: subtlety is not only a matter of protocol, it is also a matter of patience. One misstep and Chi Cheng will retreat further, and this arrangement—this potential union—will be imperilled before it even begins.”

___________________________

The next morning, Suowei trailed behind his mother into the sunlit temple kitchen, the air thick with the warmth of ovens and the scent of honey and baking dough. The women in aprons moved gracefully, demonstrating measurements and techniques, their hands a blur of precision. Each tray, each pastry, was a lesson in patience and attention to detail.

Suowei perched on a stool in the corner, fascinated and slightly restless, like a boy given too much freedom in a library. He watched as Wu Ma worked, shaping pastries with practiced fingers, filling them with dates, nuts, and delicate pastes.

Soon, a golden tray was assembled with pastries, fruits, dates, and a small porcelain cup of tea. A worker reached to take it, when the door opened and Chengyu appeared. The worker immediately set the tray down and bowed slightly.

“They said the food must be taken to Young Master Chi Cheng,” Chengyu said, his voice smooth and confident, “and Mrs Wu’s son, Suowei, is to prepare the tray and deliver it himself.”

Suowei furrowed his brows, exchanging a glance with his mother. Her nod was subtle but firm, encouraging. Taking a deep breath, he straightened his shoulders and lifted the tray, whispering to himself, Compose yourself. A new start. Don’t let old frustrations cloud this meeting. He cast a last glance at his mother and stepped out into the garden with the tray in his hands.

The garden spread before him like a painting brought to life: paths lined with fragrant jasmine, manicured shrubs, and the centerpiece fountain, empty and silent. There, Chi Cheng stood, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the dry basin. His presence was commanding, his posture almost military, and the sunlight caught the lines of his face.

Setting the tray on the table behind Chi Cheng, Suowei began to retreat, hoping to leave unnoticed. But a voice stopped him in his tracks.

“The water doesn’t flow,” Chi Cheng said, flat, but with an edge that carried authority.

Suowei froze, swallowing hard. “Is it possible to call a fountain a fountain if there is no water?” the older asked, speaking in riddles it seemed.

“Perhaps someday the water will flow,” Suowei replied, and Chi Cheng still had his back to Suowei.

“And if not?” Chi Cheng asked before he turned slowly, finally locking eyes with the younger man. His gaze was sharp, almost interrogative, and Suowei pressed his lips into a thin line, hands clasped tightly before him.

Chi Cheng’s eyes flicked toward the tray, the pastries specifically. “Made with olive oil?”

Suowei nodded, words failing him for a moment, an unusual occurrence.

“Mm,” Chi Cheng murmured, studying him. “That’s good. You can also eat them cold.” He gestured toward the rest of the garden with a slight tilt of his head. “Come with me. You can look where the waters meet.”

Suowei followed, careful to remain a step behind. They ascended the stone steps toward Mrs Chi’s grave, and when Chi Cheng stopped, Suowei stopped as well.

“Is this your mother?” he asked, quietly, unsure of the boundaries of conversation.

Chi Cheng remained silent, the quiet between them stretching thin, taut like the pull of a bowstring. His stillness carried weight—an unspoken acknowledgement that Suowei’s question had not needed an answer.

Suowei lowered his gaze, understanding without being told. Slowly, he brought his hands together, the soft sound of his palms meeting breaking the hush of the garden. He closed his eyes and began praying for Mrs Chi.

His lips moved in near silence, forming words that wove somewhere between reverence and apology. He prayed not only for the soul that lay beneath the earth, but also for the man standing beside him—this stranger who carried grief like a mantle, who spoke in riddles but whose eyes had told stories Suowei could not yet understand.

The faint rustle of leaves above them stirred, as though the garden itself leaned closer to listen.

Chi Cheng’s gaze never left the shorter. His expression remained impassive, but something in the air shifted—an imperceptible tremor beneath the calm. His eyes, sharp and restrained, followed the slow movement of Suowei’s lips, the trembling of his fingers clasped tightly together, the way his shoulders dipped ever so slightly as if bowing not only to the departed but to the gravity of a life he did not yet know.

There was something unbearably human about it—this stranger praying before a grave that was not of one of his own family members, offering a prayer to a woman he had never met.

When Suowei’s voice finally faded, he opened his eyes again. For a heartbeat, their gazes met—Chi Cheng’s cool and steady, Suowei’s uncertain but sincere. In that brief moment, the world seemed to still completely, as if even the wind held its breath.

Chi Cheng looked away first. His eyes lowered to the gravestone, and he exhaled quietly, almost as though the sound itself could wake ghosts.

“One day, you’ll end up here too.”

Suowei’s eyes flicked toward Chi Cheng for an instant, and then he returned his gaze forward.

“And I will be here too,” Chi Cheng said, turning fully to face him. Their eyes met, words unspoken hovering between them, measured, intense, before Chi Cheng clasped his hands behind his back and walked away, back in the direction they came from.

However, Suowei did not follow.

Instead, he crouched down, fingers brushing against the ground, and picked up a slender twig lying near the edge of the path. Its bark flaked beneath his thumb as he leaned forward and drew into the soil—a single circle, smooth and deliberate, like a quiet thought taking form. 

Behind him, Chi Cheng had already walked several paces before realising there were no footsteps following him. The absence of sound struck him first—a silence too heavy, too expectant. He turned, and his brows furrowed faintly as his gaze fell upon Suowei’s crouched figure, still and focused, as though lost in another world.

Usually, his words—his cryptic, sharp-edged way of speaking—were enough to send people scurrying. People feared the weight of his silences, the coldness that followed his questions. But Suowei stayed. Not only did he stay, but he seemed to find something worth studying on the earth he stood upon, as if Chi Cheng’s riddles had not frightened him but rather… intrigued him.

That thought alone unsettled something deep within Chi Cheng.

He took a few slow steps forward until he stood beside the younger man, his shadow falling over the circle drawn in the dirt. “What is this?” He asked, voice calm.

Suowei blinked up at him, startled at first, but then lowered his gaze again, brushing his thumb over the soil as though his drawing needed smoothing. The maths book he had been reading the night before flickered in his memory—the diagrams, the theorems, the talk of symmetry and balance. It had been on his mind since morning, lingering like a whisper he hadn’t yet voiced.

“Semicircle,” he said softly, tracing his finger over half of the imperfect shape. “And this—” He made a small dot in the middle. “—is the centre of the circle.”

Chi Cheng watched him, expression unreadable.

“In the universe,” Suowei continued, his tone quiet but certain, “everything has its own centre. Every man, every soul, even this garden.” He hesitated then, glancing briefly at Chi Cheng before standing, brushing the dust from his knees. His eyes darted toward the fountain in the distance, then back to the grave in front of them. “Perhaps this is your centre,” he said, gesturing faintly toward the soil where the circle lay—toward the place that seemed to hold both memory and silence.

For a long moment, Chi Cheng said nothing. His gaze lingered on Suowei’s face—the hint of thought behind his eyes, the way his voice trembled just slightly with sincerity. It was rare, he realised, to hear words that matched his own rhythm of thought. Most people heard his riddles and recoiled, mistaking them for arrogance. But this boy—this strange, curious boy—had answered with one of his own.

Something in Chi Cheng’s chest shifted, almost imperceptibly, like the faint creak of an old door opening.

But before he could say anything, movement caught his eye—a faint silhouette at the far end of the garden, half-hidden behind the marble archway that led toward the temple. Chengyu.

Chi Cheng’s expression hardened in an instant. His jaw tightened, his fist curling at his side.

Without warning, he stepped forward, crushing the circle Suowei had drawn beneath his heel. The twig snapped in two. “Enough,” he said sharply, his voice cutting through the still air. “Who sent you?”

Suowei froze, startled. He blinked rapidly, unsure what had changed so suddenly in the other’s tone. “I—” His voice faltered. “I was told to bring you food.” His gaze flicked up, then quickly down again, the words tumbling out too softly to sound convincing.

Chi Cheng took a step closer. “What else did you carry and bring with you besides food?” His voice rose—not in anger, but in suspicion, a thinly veiled frustration that burned through his composure.

Suowei’s heartbeat stumbled. The garden that had moments ago felt serene now seemed to close in on him—the air heavier, the scent of the soil too strong. He stepped back instinctively, shaking his head, but words failed him. His throat tightened; his hands trembled.

“I…” He didn’t finish. He couldn’t. Fear clawed up his chest like ivy, and without thinking, he turned.

His steps were uneven at first, then quickened into something close to a run as he made his way toward the gates, his breath catching in his throat. He didn’t dare look back, though he could feel Chi Cheng’s eyes on him, following, weighing, burning.

And Chi Cheng did watch—his expression unreadable, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. He watched until Suowei’s figure vanished beyond the archway, until the only thing left of him was the faint echo of hurried footsteps fading into the air.

The ruined circle at his feet and the tray of food resting upon the table in the distance was the only trace that Suowei had ever been there.

Chengyu moved swiftly through the corridor, his boots clicking against the polished floor, his pulse still elevated from what he had seen. The air inside was cooler than the gardens, perfumed faintly with the sharp scent of ink that always lingered near Li Wei’s study. He slowed before the carved doors, straightening his clothes, schooling his expression into composure before stepping inside.

Li Wei was seated at his desk, a single candle flickering beside him, its light throwing shadows across the papers and scrolls scattered in meticulous chaos. He didn’t look up when Chengyu entered, merely dipped his brush into the inkstone and spoke in that unhurried tone of his. “You return early. Did something happen?”

Chengyu bowed slightly before answering. “Sir,” he said, his voice low but quick with restrained urgency, “the boy stayed longer than I anticipated. He didn’t merely deliver the food—he lingered. Spoke to Chi Cheng.”

That made Li Wei pause. He set the brush down, fingers lightly tapping the edge of the desk. “Spoke?”

“Yes,” Chengyu stepped closer. “Not like a servant would, either. He… drew something in the soil. A circle, and said it represented the universe and its centre.” His brow furrowed as he recalled the scene. “It was almost poetic. He spoke as though he understood something greater than his station. I found it… unusual.”

Li Wei leaned back slightly in his chair, the candlelight catching the sharpness of his cheekbones. “And Chi Cheng?”

“He watched,” Chengyu said. “Silent at first. But when he noticed me—when he realised I was watching—his mood changed. He crushed the circle underfoot, confronted the boy, and demanded to know who sent him.”

“And the boy?”

“He panicked,” Chengyu admitted. “Tried to explain himself, but couldn’t. He left in a hurry.” A small, wry smile touched his lips. “He’s soft-spoken, but not spineless. There was something in him—curiosity, maybe, or defiance. I can’t tell which.”

Li Wei finally looked up. His dark eyes, deep and unreadable, fixed on Chengyu with a quiet kind of authority that made the younger man instinctively bow his head. “And what did you sense from Chi Cheng?”

Chengyu hesitated. “Interest,” he said at last, careful with his words. “Or perhaps irritation. The line between the two is thin with him.”

Li Wei’s lips curved faintly, though the expression never reached his eyes. “You are learning to read him well. Irritation and interest often share the same root—disruption. Something has disturbed his balance.”

Chengyu folded his hands behind his back, curiosity glinting in his gaze. “Do you think the boy could truly unsettle him?”

Li Wei turned the thought over in his mind before replying, voice slow and deliberate. “It is not the boy himself, but what he represents. Naivety can be powerful when placed beside restraint—it tempts honesty out of the guarded. And Chi Cheng has guarded himself for far too long.”

He rose from his chair, moving to the window. 

“Good,” Li Wei said at last. “That is all we need for now. Let the boy remain curious, and let Chi Cheng maintain his distance.” He glanced over his shoulder at Chengyu, a half-smile ghosting across his face. “Patience is a weapon, Chengyu. Use it well.”

Chengyu inclined his head, though a flicker of unease crossed his features. “And if curiosity turns to something else, sir?”

Li Wei’s gaze lingered on the sky. “Then,” he said softly, “we will decide what must be done. But for now—watch them both. Every word, every look. Sometimes the smallest tremor tells you when the ground is about to shift.”

Chengyu bowed once more before stepping back into the hall, the candlelight fading behind him.

And Li Wei, left alone in the quiet of his study, let out a slow breath—his expression as unreadable as the ink drying beneath his brush.

___________________________

Suowei finally reached the kitchen of the temple within the Garden of Eternal Grace, his chest rising and falling quickly, the faint sting of exertion still lingering in his limbs. The sunlight from the high windows caught the flour dust in the air, casting tiny halos around the heads of the women who moved gracefully about the kitchen, measuring, stirring, and sliding trays into ovens that glimmered with warmth.

Wu Ma was there, standing near the worktable, her hands paused mid-motion as she noticed her son’s arrival. Relief washed over her features, and she quickly crossed the small distance between them, cupping his face gently in her hands. “Son,” she breathed, the worry in her voice melting into soft warmth, “how are you? Where have you been all this time?”

Suowei straightened, as if to make himself taller, though fatigue tugged at his shoulders. “I… I took the food to Master Chi Cheng,” he said, his voice quiet but steady, the words carrying the weight of his effort to keep his composure. “Then… I read a prayer in front of his mother’s grave.”

Wu Ma tilted her head, her eyes narrowing slightly with concern. “Are you all right? Did they… say something to you?” Her fingers lingered on his cheek, worry etched into every line of her face.

Shaking his head, Suowei forced a small, polite smile. “No.”

Wu Ma’s lips pressed together briefly before she nodded, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. “Good,” she murmured. “Let’s go home, my son. You’re tired, and you need rest.”

The journey back was quiet, the kind of calm only found when the city outside seemed far away and the soft swish of fabric against skin filled the carriage instead of voices. Upon arriving, Wu Ma unbuttoned her coat and turned to Suowei with a gentle authority. “Go inside and wash your hands. I need to speak with your father,” she instructed, hanging her coat carefully on the coatrack.

Suowei inclined his head while Wu Ma ascended the staircase toward the bedroom she shared with Wu Pa.

In the dimly lit room, Wu Pa was brushing his hair in front of a tall mirror. The sound of the bristles against his thick hair paused as he noticed his wife’s tense expression. His dark eyes narrowed, curiosity quickly replacing the faint smirk he had been wearing. “What’s the matter?” he asked carefully, his voice gentle but probing. “Does your stomach hurt?”

Wu Ma folded her arms, her gaze steady. “Do you want to get Suowei married off? Is that why you brought us to Shanghai?” The words came out more sharply than she had intended, but she did not retract them.

Wu Pa paused mid-stroke, then resumed combing his hair with deliberate slowness. “Yes,” he said, almost softly, “hopefully.” He glanced up at her through the mirror, eyes dark but steady. 

“He’s still young…only twenty-one,” Wu Ma muttered, shaking her head. “Too young to make such a decision.”

“Twenty-one is the perfect age to get married,” Wu Pa countered, his voice calm but insistent. “You got married at that age, did it turn out badly?”

Wu Ma looked away, sighing heavily, the sound carrying the weight of years spent navigating his stubborn logic. “Stop saying those kinds of words,” she said quietly, though the softness in her voice betrayed a mixture of frustration and resignation.

Wu Pa stepped closer, lowering his comb slightly, a small triumphant smile curling at the edges of his mouth. “You had nobody. Then you met me. We got married, then we fell in love. You found peace, didn’t you?” He leaned against the dresser, watching her carefully. “And now, my son will give us peace, a good life, a secure future. Look,” he gestured with one hand, sweeping the room as if to encompass all they had built and all that awaited them, “you have entered the city and the doors of the general’s bloodline. The brother of the general personally insists on this marriage.”

Wu Ma’s head whipped toward him, eyes widening. “Chi Cheng? You’re… going to promise him to Chi Cheng?”

Wu Pa’s smile grew broader, unshaken. “What did you think? Rejoice instead of wearing such a mourning look on your face. These are blessed people. We will find happiness in both worlds. Explain the situation to your son and prepare him.” Without waiting for her reply, he left the room, leaving only the faint scent of his cologne and the lingering weight of his words.

Wu Pa then made his way to Suowei’s room, opening the door quietly. The younger looked up at the sudden intrusion, his eyes alert but calm, and Wu Pa paused at the doorway. “What did you do today, son?”

Suowei recounted the events carefully, “I just watched Ma in the kitchen, and then I delivered food to Master Chi Cheng. After that, I prayed in front of his mother’s grave with him…that’s all,” he concluded, a faint hint of humility in his voice.

Wu Pa’s face brightened, a smile of pride and approval stretching across his features. He approached the bed, sitting on the edge in front of Suowei. “Seriously? Master Chi Cheng, huh?” he said, nodding once with approval. “He is an important man, a blessed man, with a soul larger than most. They invited us to their home, and thanks to them, we live in this house.”

Suowei inclined his head, acknowledging his father’s words with a quiet dignity.

“Listen to him carefully,” Wu Pa continued, reaching out to grasp Suowei’s hands in his own. He studied his son’s expression, reading the thoughts behind the serene facade, and then pressed his thumbs gently against Suowei’s palms. “You are my beloved beauty,” he said softly, almost reverently, “and you will always be like this. Remember it, hold it close.”

A soft smile spread across Suowei’s face, almost imperceptible, but genuine. The room felt lighter, infused with the weight of unspoken love, expectation, and the quiet promise of a future yet to unfold.

Night fell over the Garden of Eternal Grace as Chi Cheng reclined on the marble bench, surrounded by flowers that swayed gently in the warm evening breeze. The stars above stretched across the sky in vast silver arcs, and he lifted a finger to trace the same circle Suowei had drawn earlier in the sky, recalling the boy’s words about centres in the universe.

The quiet of the garden pressed around him. Each flower, each stone, each rustle of leaves felt amplified beneath the sky. He remembered the precision in Suowei’s movements, the delicate bow of his head, the careful selection of words. The boy is intelligent, careful, and yet… his mind moves too quickly for his body to keep up.

He thought of the circle, the dot, and the words that accompanied it, and a small part of him, the part that rarely felt anything at ease, admitted admiration. The boy’s logic mirrored his own, yet was softer, more reflective, and that made him think—made him consider—not just the boy’s actions, but the mind behind them.

Chi Cheng’s gaze lingered on the marble below, then returned to the stars. The cool night breeze brushed against his face, and he allowed himself to imagine the boy here again, not as a messenger of pastries or a source of minor irritation, but as someone whose intellect and presence could challenge him, intrigue him, and perhaps, eventually, understand him.

The circle in the soil, the words spoken, the quiet bravery of the boy—they were all imprinted in Chi Cheng’s mind, as enduring as the constellations above.

Chapter Text

The afternoon light crept slowly across the floor of Chi Cheng’s study, golden and hesitant, catching on the sharp corners of polished furniture and gilded frames. The room itself seemed suspended between stillness and breath, every sound swallowed by the weight of its quiet. The scent of sandalwood lingered faintly in the air, weaving through the dust motes that glimmered like ash beneath the sunlight.

Chi Cheng stood before the mirror, a tall, solitary figure framed in its reflection. His eyes, cold and unreadable, regarded himself as though staring into someone else entirely. In his hand, a single white pill gleamed in the light, resting against his palm like something both fragile and dangerous. It was small enough to seem harmless, but Chi Cheng had long learned that the smallest things often carried the deepest ruin.

The pill had been prescribed by a man his uncle insisted was a doctor of the mind, a psychiatrist from the upper district with soft-spoken words and eyes too kind to be believed. It will help calm the rage, Li Wei had said. It will make the nights easier. But Chi Cheng didn’t believe in ease. He didn’t trust peace that came from anything other than control.

His fingers turned the pill over once, then again, as if testing its loyalty. The motion was slow, deliberate. His gaze rose to meet his own reflection—stone-faced, almost regal—and for a fleeting second, he wondered what his mother would have said if she could see him now.

The thought came without warning, and before he could force it away, it uncoiled fully.

A flash of fabric—his mother’s robes, embroidered with silver lilies—her hand gripping his arm tightly as they stood by the bridge. Her voice, trembling but resolute, cutting through the fog. 

The air seemed to thicken with memory, his heart beat growing slower, louder. In the mirror, the reflection shifted, and suddenly the boy he used to be appeared in his place: a smaller, frightened version of himself, eyes wide, lips trembling. The child reached for him through the glass, and for a heartbeat, Chi Cheng almost thought he could feel that touch.

He took a step back, jaw tight, breath unsteady.

The mirror wavered, the ghost vanished, and only his own reflection remained—taller now, harder, a man made of restraint.

He lifted the pill to his lips.

But before he could take it, a knock sounded at the door—soft, polite, but insistent enough to pull him back into the world.

Chi Cheng’s expression didn’t change. He lowered his hand and said, calmly, “Enter.”

The door opened with a quiet creak, and Li Wei stepped inside, his every movement deliberate as though even walking had become a negotiation with time. His hair was streaked with silver, and his right knee stiffened slightly each time he moved, a lingering injury that age had turned into a quiet burden.

“Forgive the interruption,” Li Wei said, closing the door gently behind him.

Chi Cheng turned slightly, slipping the pill into his pocket. “There’s nothing to forgive, Uncle.”

Li Wei’s eyes swept over the study, taking in the subtle disarray—an open book on the table, a faint trail of incense smoke still rising from its stand, the untouched cup of tea gone cold beside it. “You’ve been alone in here for hours,” he noted softly. “Your father used to do the same. He’d lock himself in his study when something troubled him.”

Chi Cheng offered a faint, humourless smile. “Then perhaps it runs in the blood.”

The older man gave a quiet hum, neither agreeing nor denying, before gesturing to the couch near the window. The afternoon light had softened into amber, draping the room in warmth. “May I?”

“Of course,” Chi Cheng replied, crossing the space and sitting opposite his uncle. The two men faced each other, their silence thick but not unfriendly, the kind of silence that carried an unspoken history between them.

“I was going to come see you if you hadn’t,” Chi Cheng said finally, his tone measured.

Li Wei’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Oh? And why is that?”

A shadow of a smile curved Chi Cheng’s lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “What did Chengyu tell you after seeing me in front of the grave? He came to you, didn’t he?”

The older man’s mouth tightened into a line. “I hope I didn’t offend you,” he said quietly after a pause.

Chi Cheng leaned back, his gaze lowering for a moment before he looked up again, almost amused. “No, Uncle. You never offend me. I know you and your intentions well.”

Li Wei’s posture eased slightly, the tension in his shoulders softening. “Then you understand?”

Chi Cheng’s expression grew thoughtful, almost distant. “Childhood is over,” he said finally. “As tradition dictates, it’s time to marry.”

The words caught Li Wei off guard. For a moment, the older man simply stared, uncertain whether his nephew was being sincere or cruel. But then, slowly, a look of relief washed over him. “There is good in this matter,” he said, his tone lifting. “Salvation even. You’ll feel better once the house has life again—once there’s laughter and companionship.”

Chi Cheng said nothing, though the faint glint in his eyes betrayed a different sort of emotion—one far removed from joy.

Li Wei rose to his feet, his joints creaking softly as he straightened his coat. “Trust your uncle, my lion,” he said with a small smile. “From now on, things will go as you wish.”

Chi Cheng followed suit, standing as well, his gaze steady and sharp. “In that case,” he said evenly, “let them decide tonight. They’ll ask Mr Wu’s permission.”

Li Wei froze mid-step, his eyes widening. “Tonight?”

“From now on,” Chi Cheng repeated, voice low, deliberate, “it’s the way I want. Didn’t you just say that?”

There was something in the way he spoke—a finality, an authority that even Li Wei couldn’t challenge. The older man hesitated before inclining his head. “As you wish. I’ll tell Chengyu to begin the preparations.”

He paused, glancing toward his nephew. “Shall I call your father? He should be present. He can just travel here–”

Chi Cheng’s expression hardened immediately, his jaw clenching as his eyes cut sharply toward him. “No,” he said flatly.

The single word was heavy enough to silence any further questions.

Li Wei nodded slowly, understanding the boundary. “Then so be it. The Wu family will come. Everything else will be resolved.”

Chi Cheng’s eyes lowered to the ground. “You know best, Uncle,” he murmured, though his tone carried no deference. “As they please.”

After a pause, Chi Cheng added, “Invite Wang Shuo.”

Li Wei blinked, surprised. “Wang Shuo?”

Chi Cheng’s gaze drifted toward the window, where sunlight was beginning to fade into evening hues. “He’s known me since childhood,” he said calmly. “It would be rude not to.”

Li Wei hesitated, recognising the name’s weight. They both knew Wang Shuo’s admiration for Chi Cheng ran deeper than friendship, but Chi Cheng’s tone left no room for speculation.

“As I said,” he continued quietly, “invite him.”

Li Wei gave a short nod, sensing there was more to the decision than his nephew was willing to explain. “Very well.”

When the door finally clicked shut behind his uncle, Chi Cheng exhaled slowly, his posture softening for the first time since he began speaking to his uncle. He leaned back against the edge of the desk, staring out the window at the city’s fading light. His reflection ghosted faintly against the glass, older, wearier, and impossibly distant from the boy who once stood by the bridge.

He took the pill from his pocket again, looked at it in his palm for a long moment, and swallowed it dry.

___________________________

The aroma of warm butter and sugar filled the kitchen, thick and golden, curling through the air like perfume. Pots simmered on the stove, copper gleaming in the glow of the afternoon light that spilt through the tall windows. Servants moved quietly across the tiled floor, their hands busy, their chatter soft as the sound of distant birds.

Wang Shuo pushed open the door with a cheerful stride, already knowing who he’d find inside. And there she was—Madam Lian (Li Wei’s wife and Chi Cheng’s auntie)—seated comfortably by the window, a porcelain plate of pastries before her and a cup of tea steaming gently at her elbow. She was elegantly dressed, her hair pinned in place with jade combs that glimmered faintly in the light. But despite her grace, there was a hint of mischief in the way she picked at the pastries, taking small bites and pretending it was for quality control.

He grinned. “Greetings, Madam,” he chimed brightly.

She turned, smiling at the sound of his voice. “Ah, my son,” she said warmly, brushing her hands together as if caught doing something she shouldn’t.

Of course, Wang Shuo was not her biological son—everyone in the Li household knew that—but her tone carried enough affection to make it easy to forget. He had been a fixture in the estate since boyhood, always lingering around the kitchens, always near Chi Cheng. Always near her, too, because Madam Lian’s kindness was the kind that made people want to stay, or at least made rich people like Wang Shuo want to stay.

“Eating again?” he teased, pulling up a chair beside her. “You’ll blame the workers for your own sweet tooth.”

She let out a short, amused laugh. “I’m ensuring perfection, not indulging,” she said with mock dignity, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. “If your uncle serves a poor pastry tonight, whose fault will that be?”

“Certainly not yours,” Wang Shuo said, grinning. “You’d never allow imperfection within a mile of this kitchen.”

“Flattery won’t get you extra sherbet,” she warned, though her smile didn’t falter.

He leaned closer, eyes gleaming with humour. “And what if I said I came not for sweets, but for secrets?”

“Then you’d be wasting your time,” she replied lightly, sipping her tea. “There are no secrets here—only dough and gossip.”

“Ah,” he said, feigning disappointment. “Then let’s gossip, shall we?”

Madam Lian’s gaze flicked toward him, amused but wary. “And who is the subject this time? Or should I guess?”

“You know who,” he said, his grin softening into something gentler, something that carried weight beneath its lightness.

She sighed, setting down her teacup. “Wang Shuo, we’ve spoken about this.”

“I know,” he murmured. “But—”

“You’ve brought it up more times than I can count,” she said, though her tone wasn’t harsh. If anything, it carried a kind of weary affection. “Every month, every season, every year since you turned seventeen, you’ve asked about him. About marriage. About whether Li Wei would ever consider it.”

Wang Shuo smiled faintly, gaze drifting toward the window. “I suppose I was never good at giving up.”

Madam Lian studied him for a long moment before speaking, her voice softening. “You have a good heart, Shuo. But some hearts are fortresses, not homes. You can’t love your way past their gates.”

“I don’t want to break in,” he said, his smile barely there now. “I just want to be let in, even for a moment.”

Her eyes softened. She reached across the table, patting his hand gently. “You remind me too much of myself when I was young,” she said quietly, her tone almost wistful. “So hopeful it hurt.”

Before he could reply, the door creaked open, and a maid stepped in, head bowed. “Madam,” she said respectfully.

Madam Lian looked up. “Yes?”

“Mr Li Wei sent word,” the maid replied. “Master Chi Cheng would like to gather together to discuss a matter.”

The words hung in the air for a beat too long. Then—

Wang Shuo’s head lifted, eyes widening, breath catching somewhere in his throat. “Gather everyone?” he repeated, disbelief melting into hope so quickly it almost looked like joy.

The maid nodded. “Yes.”

A bright smile broke across Madam Lian’s face as she rose from her seat, smoothing down her silk skirt. “God bless,” she said under her breath, turning toward the maid with sudden energy. “You heard the master! We must prepare—quickly now!”

She spun toward the kitchen staff, clapping her hands once. “Come on, ladies—sherbet! Prepare sherbet!” she ordered, her voice lifting with excitement.

Wang Shuo stood too, his heart thudding like a drum in his chest, his lips curving into a breathless smile. “Ah, God bless,” he echoed, almost laughing from sheer relief. “Madam—”

“Go home, son,” she said, turning to him with an affectionate grin. “Go and prepare yourself. Make yourself presentable. Who knows—perhaps tonight, heaven will decide in your favour.”

He laughed, a little shakily, bowing his head before hurrying toward the door. “Then I’d better not keep heaven waiting.”

She watched him go with a fond smile, the corners of her mouth tightening just slightly once the door closed behind him. For all her warmth and teasing, Madam Lian knew that hope was a dangerous thing to feed. But she couldn’t bring herself to extinguish it. Not tonight.

___________________________

Outside, in the cool dusk of the garden, Li Wei stood beneath the old cypress tree, his cane resting beside him as the soft breeze tugged at the hem of his robe. The sky above was the colour of wet ink, heavy with the scent of coming rain.

Chengyu approached quietly, bowing his head before speaking. “You called for me, sir.”

Li Wei didn’t turn immediately. He was watching the servants light the lanterns that lined the walkway, each flicker of flame mirrored in his sharp, thoughtful eyes. “Mr Wu’s family,” he said finally. “Where are they?”

Chengyu’s brow furrowed slightly. “Probably in the kitchen, sir. Madam Lian was overseeing the preparations.”

Li Wei nodded once, his expression unreadable. “Good. Call Mr Wu. Tell him to come to the garden. I have something to discuss with him.”

“Yes, sir,” Chengyu said, bowing deeply before stepping back into the shadows.

As the younger man disappeared down the corridor, Li Wei’s gaze lingered on the horizon, where the first drops of rain began to fall. His hand tightened around the head of his cane, his thoughts unreadable, but his lips curved slightly—half in satisfaction, half in warning.

“Let’s see what the night brings,” he murmured to himself, the words barely louder than the wind.

Chapter Text

The study was silent except for the soft scratching of Li Wei’s fingers against the polished surface of his desk, a sound barely audible over the faint hum of the city outside. Candles flickered along the shelves, casting wavering shadows across the room that twisted the leather-bound books and intricate carvings into shapes that seemed to move with a life of their own. The faint scent of tea hung in the air, grounding the space in a calm that felt almost sacred, a pause before the storm that was about to descend. Li Wei’s gaze rested on a folded piece of parchment on his desk, his dark eyes unreadable, and he allowed himself only the briefest flicker of thought before a soft, deliberate knock interrupted him.

“Enter,” he called, his voice steady but low, carrying the weight of authority and expectation.

The door opened quietly, and Chengyu stepped inside, his posture rigid, his eyes alert. Behind him, the Wu family followed — each member bowing their heads in careful respect as they moved across the threshold. Mrs Wu’s hands were folded tightly in front of her, fingers entwined as though holding onto courage she did not entirely feel, while Mr Wu’s expression was calm but measured, the kind of calm that could tip into fury if pressed too far. And at the end of the line, almost shrinking beneath the weight of the room itself, walked Suowei, his steps tentative, his gaze dropping to the floor as though it were a shield from the penetrating eyes that seemed to appraise every detail of him.

Li Wei’s attention fixed on Suowei for a long, deliberate moment, taking in the younger man’s nervous posture, the faint flush rising in his cheeks, the way his hands trembled ever so slightly at his sides. He had expected a boy of competence, of quiet refinement, but there was something in Suowei’s fragile stillness that gave him pause. Not fragility in the sense of weakness, but in the sense of something untouched, untested — a presence like a candle waiting to be lit.

“How are you, Mrs Wu?” Li Wei asked finally, his voice measured, carrying warmth beneath its formality.

Mrs Wu lifted her head slightly, her lips parting with careful courtesy. “We are well, Master Li,” she said softly, the words polite but tinged with the anxiety of a mother whose child was being drawn into worlds far larger than her own. “Your grace has been generous.”

Li Wei inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement, his dark eyes sweeping to Suowei next. “And how are you, son?” he asked, his voice lighter now, softening just enough to leave room for the boy to breathe under its weight.

Suowei’s gaze flicked upward, shy and uncertain, meeting the older man’s for only a fraction of a second before dropping again in a deep bow. “I… I am well, Master Li,” he whispered, the words almost lost beneath the hum of the room.

Mr Wu allowed a small, satisfied grin to stretch across his face at the attention his son received, a quiet pride in the younger man’s composure despite the overwhelming formality of the occasion.

“That’s good to hear,” Li Wei replied, his voice soft but deliberate, carrying a subtle undercurrent of approval that seemed to linger in the room long after he spoke. Then he leaned slightly forward, folding his hands on the desk, eyes glinting with quiet anticipation. “Master Chi Cheng is hosting a viewing party this evening.”

The words settled over the Wu family like a sudden shift in gravity. Mr Wu’s lips curved into a subtle, knowing grin, one that mirrored Li Wei’s own, as if a silent pact had been sealed between them before the first syllable had been spoken.

“You will be there too,” Li Wei said, his gaze settling on Suowei with a sharp precision. “Start preparations.”

Suowei froze, eyes widening as though the words had struck him like a sudden wind, leaving him teetering between disbelief and panic. Before he could even manage a response, Mrs Wu had taken hold of his arm, guiding him gently but firmly out of the study, her touch the only tether keeping him from completely losing his composure. Mr Wu followed behind them, expression calm but eyes alive with quiet excitement.

Chengyu, poised as always, was about to step away as well, when Li Wei’s voice called him back.

“Chengyu.”

The man immediately turned, inclining his head sharply, ready to obey. “Yes, Master Li?”

“Give them some clothes,” Li Wei instructed, his tone leaving no room for question. “Nice, elegant. Let them prepare themselves. Properly.”

Chengyu’s eyes narrowed, but he bowed his head in acknowledgement before departing to carry out the orders.

The Wu family was escorted home swiftly, though Mr Wu did not leave the carriage with them. Instead, he instructed his son and wife to enter and wait while he attended to matters of his own — matters that, though unexplained, carried an unmistakable weight. Mrs Wu and Suowei nodded obediently before stepping inside.

The moment the door closed behind them, Mrs Wu sank onto the staircase, an audible sigh that carried both exhaustion and apprehension escaping her lips. Suowei slipped off his shoes silently and glanced up at his mother with furrowed brows.

“Mother, what’s the matter?” he asked, his voice tinged with worry as her silence stretched too long, threatening to fill the room with unspoken tension.

When she did not respond, Suowei’s concern grew, and he reached out, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Mother, what happened?”

The hand that rested on his shoulder trembled, and finally, Mrs Wu lifted her head, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Son,” she murmured, her voice breaking the fragile silence.

“What does Master Li mean?” Suowei asked, confusion threading through his words. “What are we going to do?”

Wu Ma’s gaze drifted around the room, conflicted, weighed down with the burden of decisions not entirely her own. Then, finally, she stood, cupping her son’s face tenderly, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “Wait here, okay?”

Suowei blinked, uncertain, but nodded. She left, her footsteps fading into the night, leaving him alone with questions that felt impossibly heavy for one so young.

___________________________

The late evening had settled over the Garden of Eternal Grace, wrapping the sprawling grounds in a soft, almost ethereal darkness, interrupted only by the faint glow of lanterns swinging gently in the evening breeze. The stone paths, slick with the lingering mist of early dew, reflected the golden light in fractured patterns, making the garden feel like a realm caught between reality and dream. Mrs Wu’s heart pounded in her chest with every hurried step she took toward the grand doors of Chi Cheng’s study, her breath coming in shallow, desperate bursts.

“Greetings,” she breathed out to the man guarding Chi Cheng’s study.

“Greetings,” the man replied, inclining his head in recognition.

She breathed heavily, “Can you please call Chi Cheng? It’s urgent.”

“The master is busy, Mrs.”

Mrs Wu gritted her teeth, turning towards the door. Her palms were slick against the cool wood of the door as she rapped sharply, once, twice, three times, each strike echoing like a drumbeat of urgency in the quiet night.

“Master Chi Cheng! Master Chi Cheng!” she called, her voice trembling but fierce, cutting through the stillness. “It’s important! I need to speak with you!”

No reply from the other side of the door, for Chi Cheng was sleeping on the couch in his study, drowned out from the world around him.

The man stationed at the door shifted uncomfortably under her intensity, clearing his throat. “There’s no need for this,” he said, voice careful, almost pleading. “You’re disturbing—”

“Do you hear me?” she snapped, cutting him off. Her voice was edged with desperation and authority all at once, honed by years of raising a son she would fiercely protect. “Master Chi Cheng! For God’s sake! You must listen!”

The door remained closed, the silence behind it heavy and impenetrable. Mrs Wu’s fingers drummed on the wood, nails tapping in rhythm with her racing heart, until a voice cut sharply through her panic.

“Lianhua!”

She froze. The voice — unmistakable, commanding — belonged to her husband. His footsteps approached, purposeful, sharp against the stone pathway. Mr Wu’s expression was taut, impatient, and though his hands were occupied with a bundle of clothes in bags, his presence was enough to make Mrs Wu falter.

“Let’s go,” he said sternly. “Now.”

Mrs Wu hesitated, the weight of her mission battling the authority in her husband’s tone. She cast a quick, desperate glance back at the study doors, then hung her head in reluctant submission, following Mr Wu across the misted garden paths back toward the carriage.

When they arrived home, the atmosphere shifted immediately, heavy with tension and dread. Mrs Wu entered first, stepping over the threshold with her head bowed. “Get in!” Mr Wu barked, voice sharp as he opened the door wider, his patience clearly fraying.

Suowei and Xiaoshuai, drawn by the commotion, rushed down the stairs, their small footsteps echoing through the house.

“Did you want to interfere?!” Mr Wu’s eyes blazed as he loomed over his wife, his voice carrying authority honed from years of leading both family and business. Mrs Wu shook her head frantically, but he continued, pacing, each word heavy with a mix of frustration and urgency.

“Are you not ashamed?!” he demanded, his glare sharp enough to cut glass. 

Suowei’s hands clenched at his sides, fear tightening his chest. “Dad… what happened?” he ventured timidly, voice trembling.

When no response came, he raised his voice, “Dad!” The plea echoed through the halls, but Mr Wu’s attention remained fixed, unyielding, on the matter at hand.

Without another word, Mr Wu strode toward the boys, grasping both their arms with surprising strength for a man of his age, and pushed them gently but firmly into the front room. “Get in there!” he commanded, leaving the door ajar just enough for them to see the tense confrontation unfolding. Suowei’s chest tightened with a mix of fear and confusion as he watched his mother brace herself, the lines of worry etched deep across her face.

“Zhenhai,” Mrs Wu began, her voice trembling. “I can’t… Suowei is still young!”

Xiaoshuai, sensing his cousin’s fear, reached out instinctively, offering a comforting hand and a whisper meant to steady him.

“Who are you?!” Mr Wu’s voice rose again, furious. “What are you going to do?! Huh?!”

Wu Ma shook her head rapidly, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. “He doesn’t even know! I beg you — please. I will talk to them. I will persuade them myself!”

“I told you to prepare our son, and you weren’t even home! Instead, you wanted to betray me!” Mr Wu’s voice was a low roar, carrying across the walls and shaking the foundations of the house with its intensity. “Today, they will ask for your son’s hand in marriage! Wake up, Lianhua!”

Suowei’s small frame stiffened, his wide eyes staring in disbelief. Hand in marriage? Chi Cheng? Him? The words formed silently in his mind, a jumble of awe, fear, and a spark of something he did not yet understand.

“I’m afraid! I was scared, and Suowei will be scared too!” Mrs Wu pleaded, sinking to her knees in desperation, her hands clasped tightly together as if she could physically hold back the inevitable.

“What should he be afraid of?!” Wu Pa thundered, voice echoing off the walls. “After seeing such an important family, what should he fear?!”

Mrs Wu’s voice broke as she begged once more, “Let them ask him for his hand when he grows up. Please! Please! We won’t give his hand to anyone else anyway!”

Mr Wu’s teeth gritted, and with a swift motion, he dragged his wife to her feet by the arm. “Wait here,” he commanded, striding past the boys, their eyes wide with fright as they jolted back in fear. He moved to the cupboard, retrieving a worn photograph, and returned with it, thrusting it toward Mrs Wu.

“Look at this,” he said, voice hard, urgent. “Do you know who this is? A suitor for your son! A very, very adamant suitor!”

The photograph showed an old man with neatly combed grey hair and a stern, unreadable expression. Deep lines framed his mouth and eyes, giving him a look that was both weary and commanding. He wore a dark suit buttoned to the collar, and though the photo was slightly faded, there was something sharp about his gaze—like he could see straight through whoever looked at him.

Suowei’s heart pounded, and he crept toward the door, peeking out at the image, his breath catching in his throat as his eyes widened in shock.

“This man wants your son!” Mr Wu’s voice rose, fierce with authority. “Do not look away!” He shouted as he grabbed his wife’s chin to look at him again. “If you try to interfere again… if you try to disgrace us again… I swear, I will see him married to Suowei!”

Mrs Wu sobbed openly as Mr Wu lifted the bags of clothes from where he had thrown them on the floor, making his way to the front room before turning to address Xiaoshuai. “Go tend to your aunt,” he instructed. The boy dashed out immediately, leaving Suowei trembling in the wake of the escalating tension.

Mr Wu turned back, throwing one of the bags directly in front of Suowei, who instinctively recoiled. “Put this on, son,” his father commanded, firm but not unkind.

Then, softer, with an almost imperceptible warmth threading through his sternness, he noticed his son’s fear and guided Suowei’s hands into his own, seating him on the edge of the couch. “Dad does everything for you, for your own good,” he murmured, voice lower now, almost intimate in its gravity. “You will have a prosperous marriage, and you will be an obedient husband. Make Master Chi Cheng happy, hmm? Do not be afraid, son. Okay?”

Suowei nodded slowly, the storm in his chest quieting just enough to allow the faintest glimmer of understanding to settle within him. His father’s hand, rough but steady, brushed against his cheek in a rare gesture of warmth, grounding him in a world that felt as though it had been suddenly pulled off its axis.

Chapter Text

The night still clung to the sky like silk—dark and tender, refusing to loosen its hold even as the faintest streaks of dawn whispered against the horizon. Every breath that filled the air felt like a secret; every flicker of candlelight seemed to pulse with the weight of something inevitable. The world had fallen into that fragile, shivering stillness before a life-changing choice.

Suowei stood before his mirror, unmoving. His reflection was a stranger—pale, beautiful, haunted. The silk of his wedding attire shimmered faintly in the candlelight, every fold too precise, too ceremonial for his trembling hands. Outside, the world was unaware of the battle raging inside him as his fingers brushed the golden trim of his sleeves, almost like he was trying to remember what courage felt like.

Wu Ma hovered near the doorway, her face drawn tight, watching the soft curve of his shoulders as he exhaled.

Before Wu Ma could speak, Wu Pa appeared at the threshold. His eyes softened—just for a heartbeat—as he took in his son’s nervous posture. Then he reached forward, straightening a loose strand of Suowei’s hair, his hand trembling faintly. He studied his son for a moment longer, a quiet sigh escaping his chest. “Let’s go, son.”

Wu Ma stepped forward, but before she could reach the door, Wu Pa lifted his hand, stopping her. “You wait here. You won’t go.”

Her eyes narrowed in disbelief, a quiet storm building in her chest. “What did you just say?”

Wu Pa’s gaze didn’t falter; instead, his voice came out steady, low, and unyielding. “No more words from you. It’s over.”

Suowei’s eyes widened, the flicker of rebellion sparking behind them. “Dad!”

“Son, come on,” Wu Pa said in a tone that left no room for argument. “Now is the time to listen to your father.”

Suowei’s throat ached. He blinked once, forcing his voice out through the tightness in his chest. “Can I tell mother something?”

Wu Pa hesitated, then tilted his head toward his wife. “Speak.”

Suowei crossed the room and wrapped his arms around his mother. For a moment, he buried his face in her shoulder, breathing in the warmth that had always meant home. When they pulled apart, his voice trembled just enough to break her heart. “Thank you, mother. Don’t worry.”

The words felt final.

Outside, the night hummed with quiet anticipation.

___________________________

The temple was a soft storm of movement and incense. Every surface glowed faintly gold under the oil lamps, the scent of sandalwood clinging to the air like an old promise.

Wang Shuo stood near the entrance, overdressed in an elaborate robe of deep sapphire, silk embroidered with threads of silver that caught the light with every nervous shift of his body. He smiled too brightly, his heart too loud in his chest, glancing at Madam Lian beside him with a kind of restless hope that refused to die. She gave him a look that balanced between pity and exhaustion. He didn’t care. Tonight—he told himself—something would change. Maybe Chi Cheng would look at him differently. Maybe fate wasn’t as cruel as it seemed.

He had dressed like a man expecting love, not loss.

Across the city, in the quiet of a candle-lit chamber, Chi Cheng stood before his mirror as well. His reflection stared back—stoic, handsome, terrifyingly calm. The crimson of his wedding robe bled across his silhouette like fire caught in motion. Chengyu stood behind him, silently adjusting the clasp on his shoulder, but Chi Cheng’s eyes remained fixed on himself. He didn’t look like a man about to marry for love. He looked like a man standing at the edge of duty.

When he finally turned away, the decision was already made.

They had planned for it to be a small ceremony. Chi Cheng hated crowds; he had said so plainly, and no one had dared to argue. Only immediate family had been invited—the quiet sort of gathering that pretended simplicity could make something pure.

Wang Shuo’s heart stuttered as Chi Cheng entered the temple in full attire, his presence commanding without trying, his eyes dark and distant. Wang Shuo dropped his gaze to the floor, pretending modesty, the kind that masked the longing twisting inside him. He smiled to himself, lips trembling faintly. Maybe this was the moment.

But the world shifted the instant Suowei stepped inside.

The path of guards parted, the faint thud of his shoes against the stone echoing through the air. Suowei walked beside Wu Pa, clutching the edge of his robe, every step hesitant, every breath heavy with the weight of a choice already made. The hush that followed was deafening.

Wang Shuo lifted his head—and the smile that had been fixed on his lips crumbled. His face drained of colour, and Madam Lian’s hand froze midair, the horror on her face almost childlike.

It felt as though the universe had paused.

Suowei’s eyes flickered downward as he reached the front, stopping beside Chi Cheng, leaving a breath’s worth of space between them.

Wang Shuo turned toward Madam Lian, the disbelief breaking through his composure.

The ceremony unfolded with deliberate, painful slowness, each movement feeling like a note struck too softly, as if the world itself was holding its breath. The scent of burning incense hung in the air, winding through the temple like a ghost of prayers left unanswered, and the flickering light from the candles cast wavering shadows across their faces. Every vow spoken felt like a dagger wrapped in silk — delicate, precise, but deadly in what it demanded.

Chi Cheng lifted his head, his expression unreadable beneath the golden hue that fell over him. His gaze moved first to Li Wei, then to Madam Lian, his tone calm and commanding as he spoke. “Uncle Li Wei. Aunt Lian. Will you be my witnesses?”

Li Wei didn’t hesitate. His reply was steady, immediate, and resolute. “I will.”

But Madam Lian faltered. Her eyes darted briefly toward Wang Shuo, who stood beside her with his head bowed, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had turned white. Her voice trembled as it left her throat, the words tasting bitter before they fell, “I… will.”

The tension in Wang Shuo’s jaw was so sharp it could have shattered. His heart felt as though someone had reached into his chest and twisted it until it bruised.

Chi Cheng’s eyes turned to Wu Pa. His tone did not waver, but the air shifted with the weight of his words. “Does the father agree?”

Wu Pa’s lips trembled, his breath catching as if he were only now realising what those words truly meant. His voice emerged after a pause, heavy and deliberate, the gravity of the moment breaking through his restraint. “I agree to this marriage.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to drown in.

Chi Cheng turned again, gaze unwavering. “Did the mother give her consent?”

“She did,” Wu Pa answered quickly, too quickly — the kind of speed that comes from fear, from trying to seal something fragile before it can crack.

Suowei’s eyes flickered toward his father, the faintest shadow of disdain breaking through his composed mask.

Chi Cheng’s tone sharpened, slicing through the still air like the edge of a blade. “Then where is she? How am I to take your word that she gave her consent?”

In truth, Chi Cheng cared little for formalities or protocol; what caught his attention instead was the way Suowei’s fingers fidgeted against his robe, his shoulders drawn tight with unease. He had only asked for the boy’s mother because, in that moment, it seemed like Suowei might need her there.

Wu Pa looked down, shame crawling up his neck, his shoulders curving inward beneath the weight of his guilt.

“Call the mother here,” Chi Cheng said, his voice cold, to Chengyu, who bowed deeply before vanishing through the doors in obedient silence.

The minutes stretched, long and merciless. Even the candles seemed to hesitate in their flickering.

When the doors opened again, Mrs Wu entered quietly, her head bowed so low it looked as though she were walking through water. Every step she took sounded like regret pressed into the stone beneath her feet.

Chi Cheng’s voice softened, though only slightly — enough to sound like courtesy, but not compassion. “Does the mother give her consent?”

The silence that followed was the kind that stripped sound from the air. Wu Pa’s gaze darted toward his wife, fear trembling in his eyes, fear that one word from her could unravel everything they had tried to control.

And after a long, aching pause, Mrs Wu lifted her head just enough to speak. “I give my consent.”

Suowei blinked rapidly, trying to keep his vision from blurring. Wang Shuo’s shoulders sank, all the false hope collapsing into him like sand through his fingers. Wu Pa exhaled a breath he didn’t even know he had been holding, his relief quiet and pitiful.

Li Wei’s calm voice cut through the moment. “Do you agree to marry each other?”

Chi Cheng’s answer came steady, unwavering. “I agree.”

Suowei’s throat tightened. The world seemed to tilt. He hesitated, swallowed, then whispered so softly that it barely carried through the still air. “I agree.”

What followed was a blur — a quiet montage of rituals and restraint, each movement deliberate, each gesture laden with unspoken meaning.

Chi Cheng approached his father-in-law first, bowing deeply with his hand pressed over his heart, the gesture rigid but dignified. Wu Pa’s eyes filled with tears, a mix of pride and something heavier — the grief of giving away a son he no longer fully understood.

Suowei went to his father next, and for a fleeting moment, the stoicism broke. Wu Pa cupped his son’s face gently, as though trying to memorise every line of it, every trace of innocence still left, before pressing a trembling kiss to his forehead.

Chi Cheng turned toward his mother-in-law next, bowing with composed formality, before inclining his head to Madam Lian and Wang Shuo — gestures of respect that carried no warmth.

Suowei followed suit, taking his mother’s hand with careful reverence, pressing a kiss to her skin before lifting it to his forehead. Her hand trembled against his lips. Then, slowly, he turned to Wang Shuo, whose expression had shattered into something small and fragile, but he forced a smile, pulling Suowei into a brief hug — too tight, too sudden, as if trying to hold on to him so hard so that he could crumble in his arms and disappear. When he pulled away, his eyes glistened. Madam Lian stepped forward too, embracing Suowei with cold, perfunctory hands.

And then, finally, Suowei faced Chi Cheng.

The air between them grew heavy, their silence a language of its own. Suowei bowed, then reached out for his husband’s hand, intending to press a kiss to it out of tradition, to seal the ritual that bound them.

But before his fingers could make contact, Chi Cheng stepped back, raising a hand — palm outward, stopping him.

Suowei froze, confusion flickering across his face as he slowly straightened. His hand hovered in the air before falling limply to his side.

Chi Cheng placed his own hand over his heart, bowing his head in return — a subtle act of respect, but also distance.

Their eyes met — two storms colliding in quiet defiance, neither yielding, neither breaking.

And just like that, it was over.

___________________________

Chi Cheng led the way to his study, his steps measured, each one echoing against the marble floors like the sound of finality. Suowei followed a few paces behind, the faint swish of his robe brushing the floor the only reminder that he was still there. The corridor felt endless, heavy with the scent of candle smoke and fading incense, as though the night itself was mourning the ceremony’s end.

Inside the study, the air felt different — dense and electric, humming with the weight of something unspoken. The walls seemed to close in, the silence sharp enough to cut through bone.

Suowei’s gaze wandered across the study, tracing the familiar shelves lined with worn spines and carefully stacked papers. The faint scent of ink and sandalwood lingered in the air—the same as that day he’d stumbled in uninvited, curiosity getting the better of him. He could almost see himself again, standing by the far bookshelf, tugging a thick volume from the middle of a precarious stack. It had slipped from his hands, landing with a loud thud that echoed through the quiet room. The memory sent a flush to Suowei’s cheeks even now. He remembered stuttering and scrambling to put the book back in place—only to put it completely out of place.

When Chi Cheng closed the door behind them, Suowei stopped. Neither spoke. For a moment, the only sound was the soft creak of the wood settling.

“Come, sit down,” Chi Cheng said at last, his voice steady, gesturing toward the couch near the window.

Suowei obeyed, lowering himself onto the far end of the seat. His hands twisted together nervously in his lap, the thin fabric of his sleeve trembling against his fingers.

Chi Cheng leaned back slightly, his posture composed, his eyes unreadable. “We’re going to play a game,” he said softly, almost like a challenge. “Are you ready?”

Suowei nodded once, his voice caught in his throat.

“Every game has a prize,” Chi Cheng continued, his tone almost teasing. “Aren’t you expecting one?”

“Yes,” Suowei murmured. His voice was quiet, thoughtful, and it trembled in the still air. “But whether that prize is worth winning or not depends on one’s own choice.”

A flicker of intrigue towards the boy’s intelligent way of speaking passed through Chi Cheng’s eyes. His lips twitched — not quite a smile, but close enough to resemble one. The older let out a small sigh. “Tell me something I don’t know. Something I’ll regret not knowing before.”

The seconds stretched painfully long. Suowei hesitated, eyes still fixed on the floor as if the words he was trying to find were buried beneath it.

“Will you say something?” Chi Cheng pressed. “Have you thought about it?”

“I’ve thought about it,” Suowei whispered, the faint tremor in his voice betraying everything his face tried to hide.

“What is it?”

“Afraid.”

“Don’t be afraid. Speak up.”

“I said it,” Suowei breathed, the words trembling out of him. “I’m afraid. That’s the truth.”

Chi Cheng leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharp and piercing as he tried to meet Suowei’s eyes, but it didn’t work since he was still looking down. “Is this something I’ll regret not knowing? That you’re afraid?”

Suowei nodded, his chin barely moving.

“Look at me,” Chi Cheng said.

And so the shorter did — slowly, hesitantly, his tear-glossed eyes finally meeting Chi Cheng’s. For a second, the world went still again.

Then, all at once, it broke.

Suowei turned away, tears spilling freely, soft sobs escaping before he could stop them. His shoulders shook with the weight of emotion that had been held in too long, the kind that burned quietly in the chest until it could no longer be contained. He pressed a trembling hand to his mouth, desperate to stifle the sound, but it only made the ache worse. Each breath came unevenly, hitching against the pressure in his lungs. The silk of his sleeve brushed his cheek as he wiped at his tears, but they kept falling, unstoppable—like something sacred breaking open inside him. 

Chi Cheng’s jaw tensed before his hand curled into a fist. “Why are you crying? Don’t cry.”

“I’m afraid,” Suowei said again between broken breaths, wiping his eyes as if that could erase the truth.

Chi Cheng rose abruptly, his composure cracking under frustration. “You said what you wanted. Now don’t cry.”

The tension was shattered by a sharp knock at the door.

“What do you want?!” Chi Cheng barked, voice raised.

The door creaked open slightly. Chengyu’s voice came from the other side, calm but cautious. “The psychologist has arrived.”

Chi Cheng lifted his hand in dismissal without looking back, the movement sharp and unyielding. The door closed again with a muted thud, sealing them back into a silence so thick it seemed to pulse between the walls. Even the air felt heavier—charged with everything unsaid, everything too dangerous to name.

When Chi Cheng finally turned toward Suowei, his expression had settled into something unreadable, carved in stone. The earlier flicker of emotion—frustration, pity, perhaps even concern—had vanished, leaving only an austere calm that made him seem impossibly distant. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded handkerchief, the fabric crisp and perfectly white, like it had never been touched by the world’s dirt.

For a moment, he just stood there, the silence stretching between them like a taut thread ready to snap. Then, without a word, he leaned down slightly and placed the handkerchief on Suowei’s lap. The gesture was so careful, so deliberate, it almost felt like a kindness—until his eyes narrowed, his voice cutting through the air in a tone so low it could barely be called a whisper.

“Get out.”

The words lingered, curling through the room like smoke after a fire—acrid, choking, and impossible to ignore.

Suowei’s breath caught. He didn’t dare meet Chi Cheng’s gaze again. Rising slowly, he bowed his head, the motion stiff and trembling all at once. His fingers brushed against the handkerchief for a fleeting moment, as though he couldn’t decide whether to take it or leave it behind, before he finally stepped back and decided to take it with him. His footsteps were soundless on the polished floor, and the faint rustle of his robes was the only sign that he was still there at all.

When he reached the door, he hesitated—just long enough for a single breath, one last glance at the man who had already turned away from him—then opened it and slipped through.

The door shut quietly behind him, and with that, the silence reclaimed the room once more, vast and final.

___________________________

In another hallway, the quiet of the evening was suddenly broken by the faint, uneven sound of muffled sobbing—soft at first, then raw, as if the walls themselves were breathing grief. Madam Lian, who had been walking with her usual composure, stopped mid-step, her brows knitting together as she turned toward the source of the sound. The narrow corridor was dim, lit only by the flickering lanterns along the walls, and the noise seemed to drift from one of the smaller classrooms at the end of the hall.

When she reached it, she found the door slightly ajar, and through the narrow gap, she saw Wang Shuo hunched over a desk, his entire frame trembling. His face was buried in his folded arms, his shoulders shaking with sobs that seemed to come from somewhere deep, from a place too bruised to conceal any longer. For a brief moment, her expression softened—not out of pity, but out of the tired understanding that came from seeing a person unravel in private. But just as quickly, her eyes hardened again, and with the swift, controlled authority that seemed to accompany her every movement, she pushed open the door and stepped inside.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, her voice cutting through the stillness like the crack of a whip. Without waiting for an answer, she reached out and grabbed his arm, forcing him upright with a single, sharp tug.

Wang Shuo gasped in pain, his hand immediately flying to the spot where her fingers had clamped down. “That hurt!” he cried, his voice breaking as he stared at her with wide, tear-filled eyes. “Have you no mercy?”

“In this world,” Madam Lian hissed, leaning in so close that he could see the faint glint of firelight in her eyes, “besides Li Wei—and even that’s rare—only I am merciful to you. So tell me, if anyone sees you like this, broken and pathetic, how will you explain it? How will you face them?”

Wang Shuo’s breath came out in jagged bursts, his chest heaving as fresh tears welled up. “So what?” he shouted through his tears, his voice trembling with equal parts anguish and anger. “How can you pretend like nothing happened, Madam Lian? How are you so calm when everything’s falling apart?”

She straightened, her tone sharp with restrained bitterness. “Son, what do you expect me to do?” she threw back, her words clipped, though a faint tremor betrayed the emotion beneath.

“They’re in there,” Wang Shuo cried, his voice cracking under the weight of his distress. “In his study—alone!” His hands trembled as he gestured helplessly toward the direction of the study, as though pointing out the crime itself might undo it.

“Calm down!” Madam Lian snapped, her voice rising as she tightened her grip on his arm again, shaking him lightly. “Gather yourself, Wang Shuo! If you keep carrying on like this, then no one—do you hear me?—no one, not even Chi Cheng, will ever marry you.”

But Wang Shuo was far beyond reason. His tears came harder now, his breath hitching as he struggled to speak through his sobs. “I can’t calm down!” he choked out, his voice raw and trembling. “I’m hurt—can’t you see? I’m in pain!”

For a moment, Madam Lian said nothing. Then, as if a thought had struck her suddenly, her tone shifted—quieter now, almost calculating. “There’s a way back,” she murmured.

The words hung in the air like bait on a hook. Wang Shuo froze, his sobs faltering, his head lifting slowly. “What?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

“When Chi Cheng shows his real face,” she said, each word deliberate and cold, “his anger, his manic and insatiable condition—his temper that no one ever speaks of—they’ll all see it. They’ll all be shocked. And when that happens, Suowei will come running back to his family.”

A long silence stretched between them, heavy with implication. The sound of Wang Shuo’s breathing steadied, each inhale slower, deeper, as if he were forcing his body to obey the cruel logic she offered him. The wildness in his eyes began to dim, replaced by something else—something smaller, colder, a quiet that was far more dangerous than his tears.

Finally, his trembling eased. He sank back into his seat, his hands falling limp in his lap, eyes still wet but now strangely vacant. A faint, broken smile flickered across his lips, fragile and bitter all at once. “Then I’ll wait,” he said softly, his voice steady for the first time that night—steady, and empty.

Chapter Text

Wu Pa entered the house with the weight of a gathering storm in his step, the front door groaning beneath the subtle violence of his impatience. His coat scraped against the doorframe as he yanked it off, voice rising before his shoes even met the polished floorboards. “Where did this doctor come from?” he demanded, bending down with jerky, restless movements to untie the laces. “Unscrupulous!”

Wu Ma followed behind him, quieter, more measured, though her exhale carried the exhaustion of the night and the worry that lingered on every corner of the house. Suowei trailed a step behind them both, head bowed, the shadow of tension from the ceremony still settling like smoke over his shoulders, unwilling to dissipate. His father’s sharp voice ricocheted through the hallway, clanging against the walls in chaotic energy, a man trying to fill space because silence forced thoughts too heavy to bear.

Wu Ma turned toward her son, brushing an invisible speck from his sleeve with a practised gentleness, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Come on, son, go upstairs and change your clothes,” she said softly, her words almost swallowed by her husband’s irritable energy.

“Yes, everyone to their own room!” Wu Pa barked, dismissing them both with a wave that carried more authority than warmth.

Suowei nodded silently, longing to escape the suffocating air, and hurried up the staircase, each step muted as he ascended. He reached his room at last, pushing open the door to find Xiaoshuai perched cross-legged on the bed, an apple in one hand and the other fidgeting with curiosity that had no filter.

“You’re home late,” Xiaoshuai said, biting into the fruit with a sharp crunch that made Suowei flinch slightly. “So? How was it? Was he scary? What’s he like?”

Suowei leaned against the doorframe, hands trembling faintly as he exhaled a breath that seemed to carry the weight of every emotion he had bottled inside. “He’s… different,” he murmured, gaze sliding toward the floor, memories of Chi Cheng’s unwavering, unreadable stare pressing behind his eyelids. “He doesn’t speak much, but when he does—it’s like his words carry the weight of everyone else’s combined.”

Xiaoshuai arched an eyebrow, a smirk teasing at his lips. “So he’s tall, rich, terrifying… perfect,” he said with mock admiration. He leaned closer, eyes catching the faint glimmer of something on Suowei’s hand. “Wait—what’s that?”

Suowei glanced down and froze, his ring catching the lamplight, delicate engravings tracing patterns that seemed older than time itself. Instinctively, he covered it with his other hand, but Xiaoshuai was quicker, gripping his wrist. “You didn’t tell me there was jewellery involved. I thought Chi Cheng was the minimalistic type. Did he put it on you himself?” He teased, though the grin softened as he studied Suowei’s tense fingers.

“Don’t touch it,” Suowei murmured, pulling back, throat tightening at the memory of the cold metal pressed against his skin the first time it had been placed there—both a promise and a weight. “And no, he didn’t put it on me himself. He doesn’t touch people, for some reason…”

“Someone’s tense,” Xiaoshuai said, his teasing giving way to a gentler curiosity. “I’m just saying, if he already wants to show everyone you’re his by wearing rings, maybe you should start practising your marital patience.”

Suowei didn’t respond. His thoughts were messy, caught in the tangle of the night’s events, his chest tight with emotions he didn’t fully understand. He lowered himself onto the bed beside his cousin, staring at the floor as if the wooden boards might offer some tether to stability. “He looked… so lonely,” he finally admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Like someone who’s seen too much and doesn’t want anyone else to see it too.”

Xiaoshuai’s smirk faltered, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then, with a soft shrug, he said, “Then maybe he needs someone like you.”

Suowei didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure anyone could reach a man like Chi Cheng. But as he stared at his own hands, at the faint shimmer of the ring, a quiet, undeniable thought stirred inside him: maybe he could.

___________________________

The next morning, the house held the fragile hush of early light, broken only by the faint clink of porcelain and the whispered hum of wind through the papered windows. Wu Ma and Wu Pa sat across from each other at the small round table, the sunlight spilling over the wood in muted gold. Wu Ma poured tea with careful attention, the steam rising like a delicate veil.

“Prepare scrambled eggs and potatoes for my Suowei,” Wu Pa commanded, voice firm even in its rare morning calm.

“He’ll have breakfast at the garden kitchen,” Wu Ma replied without lifting her gaze, hands steady as she set the cup before him.

The man frowned. “Let him not get used to sleeping past six. Master Chi Cheng won’t like this once they live together.”

“He is still young,” the woman reasoned, gentle yet cautious, like one speaking to a bird with a broken wing.

“Come on, I’ll wake him now,” Wu Pa muttered, rising from his seat, the authority in his tone leaving no room for negotiation. “There’s no need for him to sleep this long.”

Meanwhile, in the Garden of Eternal Grace, the first light of morning threaded itself between branches like ribbons of silver. Chi Cheng knelt by his mother’s gravestone, carefully arranging fresh blooms with meticulous fingers, stained with earth, each movement deliberate and precise, as though each petal held a memory too sacred to disturb.

Chengyu stood silently behind him, hands folded neatly, aware of the weight of his master’s thoughts but careful not to intrude.

Chi Cheng’s gaze drifted, losing focus for the briefest of moments, pulled into the memory of last night—Suowei’s trembling hands, the soft uncertainty in his voice, the way his chest had seemed to rise and fall in careful balance with his own.

“Sir,” Chengyu said softly, noting the tension etched into Chi Cheng’s shoulders, “is there a problem?”

Chi Cheng swallowed, voice low and strained, hesitant as if tasting words for the first time in years. “Chengyu,” he began, pausing, letting the name linger between them, and then he asked, eyes locking with Chengyu’s, “Are you afraid of me?”

The morning air thickened around the question, silence carrying its weight. Chengyu’s eyes fell immediately, offering the only answer he could give—silence.

Back at the Wu household, Suowei sat stiffly across from his father, the scent of tea and fried potatoes thick and warm in the air.

“I told your mother to make potatoes and eggs,” Wu Pa said, satisfied with the morning ritual. “Go on, eat.”

Suowei pressed his lips together, his voice tight and distant. “Health to your hands, Mother.” The words came out hollow, a formality more than a genuine expression of gratitude.

“You will also cook deliciously, son,” Wu Pa continued. “If you are married, you should be able to cook well, right?”

Suowei inclined his head without speaking, thoughts tangled around the memory of Chi Cheng—the weight of his gaze, the quiet gravity of his presence.

“You are a pure, beautiful boy—” Wu Pa started, but a sharp knock interrupted him, cutting through the fragile domesticity.

When Wu Pa left to answer, Suowei turned to his mother almost immediately, frustration cracking his composure. “Why did you agree yesterday?” he demanded, voice not raised but still carrying a slight undertone of frustration. “You were thinking of agreeing from the start, weren’t you?”

Wu Ma’s eyes widened. “No,” she said quickly.

“Yes,” he whispered, jaw tight, “I know you were.”

Before the conversation could escalate, Wu Pa returned, his face unusually bright. “God bless,” he said, offering a small smile. “Get ready, son.”

Wu Ma frowned. “What happened?”

“Master Chi Cheng is calling Suowei to help in the garden,” Wu Pa said, matter-of-factly.

Suowei’s mother’s disbelief was palpable. “What kind of help this early in the morning?”

Wu Pa ignored her, focusing instead on Suowei. “Come on, son…”

“He hasn’t eaten yet,” Wu Ma interjected, worry threading her words. “He’s been hungry since last night.”

“He’ll be patient. Come on, son,” his father insisted. “You shouldn’t go to Chi Cheng with such a face.”

“Leave him alone,” Wu Ma shot back, frustration flaring.

The man’s gaze snapped toward her, sharp and cold. “Don’t interfere. You walk around with that sulky expression yourself—since last night!”

Wu Ma’s eyes hardened. “Your wonderful mood is enough for everyone,” she countered.

Wu Pa’s hand rose, instinctive and dangerous. “You—”

“Dad!” Suowei called sharply, standing between them, his voice breaking through the tension like sunlight through storm clouds.

Wu Pa froze, then lowered his hand. “Okay, son,” he said, exhaling. “I forgive you only for the sake of my beautiful son. Now go on, you’re late for work.” He turned his attention from Mrs Wu to Suowei with a faint warmth, adding, “Don’t be afraid, don’t worry.”

Suowei’s lips parted in a soft sigh as he passed them, a tremor still in his steps, heart heavy with concern.

___________________________

The Garden of Eternal Grace stretched before him, dewy petals glinting in the pale sunlight. Suowei’s chest tightened at the sight of Chi Cheng sitting on a bench by the gravestone, white shirt slightly rumpled, sleeves rolled up, forearms and hands smeared with soil, yet sitting with such an elegant yet intimidating persona that made him seem at once human and untouchably ethereal.

Suowei inhaled deeply, gathering courage, every step measured, every heartbeat loud in his ears, until he stood before the man who occupied his thoughts entirely. Their eyes met, and Chi Cheng’s voice, quiet and even, broke the morning stillness. “I hope you’re well.”

“I hope you are too,” Suowei said, forcing confidence into his voice, though worry coiled tightly in his chest.

Chi Cheng rested his elbows on his knees, palms open. “Pour some water.”

Suowei obeyed, rolling his sleeves and kneeling beside him, pouring slowly, cautiously, as if each drop might shatter the fragile balance between them.

“More,” Chi Cheng murmured.

Suowei tilted the jug too far, and hot water spilt. Chi Cheng flinched, moving to stand up suddenly, and Suowei’s instinctive reach to steady not only Chi Cheng but also himself caused their hands to meet—small, trembling, yet charged with something unspoken, something tender.

Chi Cheng froze. His gaze lingered on the smaller hand that clasped his own—a fragile, trembling thing—and for a moment the world around him seemed to fold in on itself. The scent of soil and lilies thickened the air, and suddenly, he wasn’t standing in the Garden of Eternal Grace anymore. He was a child again. The air was cold. His mother’s fingers were wrapped tightly around his, pulling him forward through a fog that seemed to swallow the path whole.

“Come on, Cheng’er,” her voice had whispered, gentle but quivering, the way a candle flickers before it goes out. He remembered the sound of the river below the bridge—violent, endless—and how he had begged her not to make him cross. Her hand had been warm. So warm. Until it wasn’t. Until her grip loosened, and the world split open.

Now, years later, standing before Suowei, that same warmth flooded back into his palm like a ghost he’d buried but never mourned. His breath hitched, chest tightening, heart pounding with the kind of panic that clawed its way up from the past and refused to let go.

He blinked once, twice, struggling to steady his breathing, but the edges of reality felt blurred, softened by memory. He could almost hear her voice again, calling his name through the mist—Cheng’er, come here, hold my hand—

Chi Cheng ripped his hand away, and the world rushed back in a single, shattering inhale. His chest rose and fell unevenly, his pulse wild beneath his skin. His eyes darted from Suowei’s startled expression to his own trembling fingers.

He took a step back, then another. His lips parted, but no sound came out. He could only hear the echo of his mother’s name in his head, over and over, until it spilt from his mouth before he could stop it.

“Sir? Are you all right?” Suowei asked, concern threading his voice, eyes searching his face, heart clenching at the fear that echoed in those wide, haunted eyes.

Chi Cheng didn’t answer. His eyes were wide—empty yet burning—and his breathing grew uneven, shallow, erratic, as if the air itself refused to enter his lungs. Panic bloomed in his chest like wildfire. He took a staggering step backwards, then another, his hand clutching at his shirt as though trying to hold himself together.

“Mother…” he whispered, voice breaking. His gaze darted wildly across the garden, as if expecting someone to appear from behind the marble pillars, from between the rows of lilies trembling in the morning wind. “Mother!”

Suowei froze, the jug still half-full in his hands. “Chi Cheng?”

But Chi Cheng wasn’t looking at him anymore. His eyes were unfocused, glassy with terror and memory. He stumbled toward the path that led deeper into the garden, tripping over the uneven stone. “Mother! Where are you?” His voice cracked, loud and desperate, echoing through the still air. “Where did you go?!”

He turned sharply, running now, nearly colliding with the vases along the edge of the walkway. His hands trembled as he reached out for the door of the old garden shed and slammed his palms against it. “Open the door!” he shouted, banging hard enough to make the hinges rattle. “Let me in! I know you’re in there—Mother!”

Suowei’s heart raced in his chest. “Chi Cheng! Stop!” he shouted, causing his voice to crack a little as he stepped closer, voice now trembling. “You’re scaring me!”

Chi Cheng turned toward him, eyes red and wild, as though he didn’t recognise the boy standing there. “She’s gone—she’s gone because of me—” His words came out broken, strangled between sobs.

Suowei took another step forward, hands raised in uncertainty, wanting to reach out to hold him but too afraid. “Chi Cheng, please,” he pleaded softly, his voice cracking. “You’re here with me. No one’s gone.”

But Chi Cheng wasn’t listening. He was running again—past the gravs, past the flowerbeds—his white shirt streaked with soil, his sleeves damp with water and sweat. He called his mother’s name again and again, until his voice was hoarse and raw, until the sound of it twisted into something unrecognisable—something that belonged to a man breaking apart in the middle of his own garden.

Chengyu arrived too late, trying to restrain Chi Cheng, only to be pushed away. Suowei’s heart thundered in his chest as he watched, torn between fear and the burning, protective concern that had rooted itself in his chest.

“What did you do?!” Chengyu shouted to Suowei as Chi Cheng ran out of the garden.

Suowei’s bottom lip trembled, “I didn’t do anything.”

“Go home and wait for news!” Chengyu barked at Suowei before running after his master.

Some minutes later, Suowei stood motionless in front of the door to his house, the nearly afternoon light glinting weakly against the tears that wouldn’t stop tracing down his cheeks. His breaths came in short, uneven bursts, the kind that trembled more from emotion than from exhaustion. His hands, still faintly damp from the garden, quivered at his sides, the faint scent of soil clinging stubbornly to his palms. It felt like the whole world had gone quiet except for the sound of his own heart pounding—a frightened, aching rhythm that refused to slow.

The heavy creak of the wooden door in front of him broke that silence. Wu Pa stepped out, his coat draped loosely over one arm, ready to leave for errands. However, the sight of his son—standing there, pale-faced and broken-eyed—made him stop instantly. “Son?” he said softly, his voice stripped of its usual firmness.

Suowei didn’t answer. His shoulders shook once, barely perceptible, before he wiped at his face with the back of his trembling hand, only for fresh tears to replace the old ones.

Wu Pa approached slowly, his steps measured, his concern deepening with each one. When he reached his son, he placed a steadying hand on Suowei’s shoulder. “Look at me,” he said, voice low but steady.

And Suowei did—his gaze lifting, eyes red-rimmed and glassy with something rawer than fear.

“Did something bad happen?” Wu Pa asked gently. “Tell me, my child. Don’t be afraid.”

Suowei tried to speak, but his throat closed up, and the first words came out strangled. “Master Chi Cheng…” He swallowed hard, forcing his voice to steady. “He’s not himself. He’s sick—not in body, but in his mind. In his soul. He—he kept screaming his mother’s name.” His voice cracked again, and he turned his face slightly, as if ashamed of the tremor in it. “It was like he was somewhere else entirely.”

Wu Pa’s expression softened before he lifted his hand and cupped his son’s face, his calloused thumb brushing against the damp trail of tears. “Son,” he said quietly, “we can’t understand this. He is… superior. Perhaps above this world, perhaps seeing things we cannot.” He paused, his eyes filled with a kind of cautious reverence—as though speaking of something sacred and unreachable. “Don’t be afraid.”

Suowei’s breath hitched. “I’m not afraid,” he whispered, though his voice wavered. “I’m worried.” The words came small, almost childlike, but heavy with sincerity.

Wu Pa’s eyes softened further. His thumb traced another line across Suowei’s cheek, this time slower, as if trying to wipe away not just the tears, but the weight behind them. “Then worry,” he murmured. “Worry deeply, if you must. But don’t let fear hold you still. He is yours to care for, even if we cannot understand him.”

For a long moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the faint whisper of wind brushing past the gate and the distant hum of cicadas in the grass. Then, slowly, Suowei nodded, his chest aching with something he couldn’t name, something that felt both tender and unbearably heavy.

Chapter Text

The air in the physician’s chamber was heavy with the scent of old parchment, sandalwood, and the faint metallic tang of ink. Light spilt through the latticed windows in fractured patterns, falling upon the polished table where Chi Cheng sat with his hands clasped tightly in his lap, fingers twitching ever so slightly—as if each movement might disturb the fragile order of the world he had built around himself. Across from him, the royal mind physician, Dr Han, watched in silence, his calm demeanour masking the curiosity that always accompanied the troubled nobility of the capital.

Chi Cheng did not speak at first. His eyes wandered—to the shelves lined with vials and scrolls, to the small water basin reflecting light against the wall, to his own trembling reflection in its surface. “You asked me to talk,” he said finally, his voice low and measured, as though each word carried the weight of a confession. “But I fear there is nothing in me that you can mend.”

Dr Han leaned forward slightly, his tone soft but deliberate. “And yet you came, General. A man does not seek counsel unless there is a wound deeper than he can touch. Tell me—what troubles you?”

A faint, humourless smile ghosted across Chi Cheng’s lips. “Touch,” he repeated quietly. “That is precisely what troubles me.” His gaze drifted to his hands, his fingers flexing. “My body is the instrument of my ruin, Doctor. I cannot touch without remembering. I cannot reach without recoiling.”

The physician waited. He had learned that silence often coaxed the truth more effectively than sympathy.

Chi Cheng’s voice grew unsteady, and for a moment, his composure fractured like thin porcelain. “When I was a boy,” he began, “I remember the sound of my mother’s bracelets. They would clink when she poured water, when she brushed the strands of my hair from my face. She had the gentlest hands. Hands that could quiet storms.” He inhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. “But then came the day they grew still. No sound, no warmth, completely cold and still. Only the memory of touch that turned to dust the moment I tried to hold it.”

Dr Han’s brow furrowed. “You were there when she—”

“When she died,” Chi Cheng finished coldly. “Yes.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “She fell from the bridge outside the northern quarter. I saw the river swallow her, and I cried until my lungs tore, shouting her name into a sky that did not listen. The men pulled me back before she could take me with her, but I still remember the water—the way it shimmered. The way it looked almost beautiful while it devoured her. Beautiful for the mere reason my mother was in it.”

Silence descended upon the chamber once more. Outside, the faint rustle of trees filled the gap where words could not go.

“Since that day,” Chi Cheng continued, his gaze distant, “my body has betrayed me. I cannot bear to touch. The moment another’s skin brushes mine, something inside me screams, a flood of memory, of grief, of guilt I do not understand. They call it an affliction of the mind, perhaps a madness. But I call it memory refusing to die.”

Dr Han exhaled slowly, the compassion in his eyes tempered by the realism of his craft. “Your affliction, General, is not madness. It is mourning that never found its grave.”

Chi Cheng looked up, eyes gleaming faintly with unshed tears. “And how does one bury what still breathes?”

The physician had no answer. Only silence again, heavy and reverent, as if the walls themselves understood that this was not a wound to be healed but to be carried.

___________________________

That late afternoon, the sun hung low and golden over the courtyard, spilling light like warm honey across the tiled roofs and cobblestone path. The air was rich with the faint scent of incense and damp earth after watering, and the soft chatter of servants drifted through the stillness like distant music. Chengyu walked slowly beneath the eaves, his long sleeves grazing against the blooming chrysanthemums that nodded gently in the breeze. Ahead, by the stables, he caught sight of Xiao Shuai tending to the horses—his sleeves rolled to the elbow, forearms dusted with sunlight.

“You work too much,” Chengyu called, his tone casual yet carrying a warmth that made Xiao Shuai glance up, a faint smile curving his lips.

“Only because someone must keep this place from falling apart,” Xiao Shuai replied, brushing dust from his palms. “And you? Shouldn’t a scholar like you be buried in scrolls instead of wandering through gardens?”

Chengyu smirked, stepping closer until he could see the faint sheen of sweat along Xiao Shuai’s jawline. “Perhaps I prefer the company of people to paper.”

Xiao Shuai chuckled softly, lowering his gaze to hide the sudden flush rising on his neck. “People can be far more troublesome.”

“Maybe,” Chengyu murmured, “but some trouble is worth enduring.” He reached forward instinctively to adjust a loose strap on the horse’s saddle, his fingers brushing Xiao Shuai’s hand. For a moment—just a fleeting, breathless second—the world stilled. The sounds of the garden faded into a hum, and all that remained was the faint pulse of contact.

Xiao Shuai’s breath hitched. He quickly pulled his hand back, his smile faltering. “You should go before the gates close to prepare for evening,” he said, though his voice was softer now, less steady.

Chengyu only nodded, but as he turned away, a small, knowing smile played at his lips. “Then until later,” he said, his tone light, teasing, but layered with something that lingered.

When he was gone, Xiao Shuai stood there for a long while, staring after him, his heart beating too quickly for reasons he could not yet name.

___________________________

Suowei stood at the threshold of Li Wei’s study, the faint scent of cooled tea and aged parchment curling through the air as his fingers twisted anxiously around the fabric of his sleeves. His heartbeat thudded loudly in his chest, each pulse a reminder of the unease pooling behind his ribs. The room itself seemed to breathe with quiet authority—the tall shelves lined with scrolls, the faint golden hue of late afternoon filtering through the windows, and the low hum of cicadas seeping in from the garden outside. When Li Wei finally looked up from his desk, the lamplight caught the edges of his features, softening them into a mixture of stern command and paternal warmth.

“Son,” he said, one hand pressed briefly to his heart before he inclined his head in greeting, his voice a calm tether in the heavy air, “you are now part of our family. You know that, yes? You are the keeper of our secrets, and we are your guardians.” His tone deepened, words growing quieter but weightier, as though each syllable carried the burden of generations. “Now tell me—what happened to Chi Cheng?”

Suowei’s lashes trembled as he lifted his gaze, hesitation threading through his voice. “Nothing happened,” he said quickly, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “I poured water for him to clean his hands, and he suddenly stood up and started shouting.”

Li Wei closed his eyes for a moment, the lines of his face folding into deeper worry. “What did he shout?”

The younger man’s lips parted, a small tremor rippling through his breath. “He was shouting for his mother,” he whispered at last, the confession falling softly into the quiet. “Asking where she was.”

A flicker of shame passed across Li Wei’s features, fleeting but unmistakable. His sigh filled the stillness like a slow exhale of regret. “Then we must go to him,” he said after a pause, his voice steadier now, threaded with resolve. “You and I will visit the hospital. You will calm him. Tell him he does not need to stay there. Understood?”

Suowei swallowed hard, the sound barely audible. “When?”

“I said now,” Li Wei replied, a faint smile ghosting across his lips, though it did not reach his eyes.

Suowei hesitated once more, his voice soft and unsure. “May my mother come too?”

“Of course,” Li Wei said gently. “I’ll ask Madam Lian to grant her leave.”

A fragile smile flickered across Suowei’s lips—small, hopeful, and fleeting. But as he shifted, the worry crept back into his voice. “Sir… did I make him sick?”

Li Wei frowned, stepping forward until his presence filled the space between them. Resting his hands on Suowei’s trembling shoulders, he spoke with quiet firmness. “None of this comes from you, Suowei,” he said. “It all stems from his past.”

And for the first time that day, Suowei exhaled, his breath shaking as the weight in his chest eased just enough to let relief pass through.

The carriage ride to the hospital was cloaked in silence, broken only by the rhythmic creak of the wheels against the uneven road and the occasional rustle of night air slipping through the open slats. The world outside was dim and uncertain, the sky a dull shade of indigo. When they arrived, the corridors glowed faintly under flickering oil lamps, their shadows stretching long and thin across the polished floors.

Li Wei approached the front desk first, his voice composed but carrying the unmistakable edge of authority. “Good evening. We’ve come to see one of your patients—Chi Cheng.”

The young woman behind the desk blinked up at him, polite but cautious. “You’ll need permission from the physician on duty, sir. Only relatives are allowed. I know you are his uncle, but…” her eyes flickered briefly toward Suowei and Mrs Wu. “They are?”

“Husband and mother-in-law,” Li Wei said smoothly, not missing a beat.

The woman hesitated, her pen stilled above the page. “Additional members. Then we’ll need the doctor’s approval. He’s not here at the moment.”

Li Wei’s jaw tightened slightly. “I was told Chi Cheng admitted himself voluntarily.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied carefully.

“Then kindly tell him we’re here,” Li Wei said, his tone calm but threaded with quiet insistence. “Perhaps he’ll wish to see us.”

A few minutes later, Suowei was led into the visiting chamber as the rest waited outside. The chamber—a circular room lined with low tables and paper screens separating each conversation from the next. Suowei sat stiffly at one of the tables, his fingers laced so tightly together that his knuckles turned white. His eyes flicked between the nurses who guided families through the doors, and every time the latch clicked, Suowei’s pulse stuttered.

When the door finally opened for him, Chi Cheng stepped inside. His hair had been neatly combed, his clothes freshly pressed—Chengyu’s care, no doubt—but his eyes looked distant, hollowed by exhaustion. Suowei rose immediately and bowed, the motion instinctive. Chi Cheng inclined his head slightly, his movements careful, measured, tired.

“Mr Li Wei asked me to come,” Suowei began, his voice trembling despite his effort to steady it. “He wanted me to tell you something.”

Chi Cheng remained silent, his gaze unfocused, lingering somewhere over Suowei’s shoulder.

“If I did something to upset you,” Suowei continued softly, each word weighed with careful restraint, “I’m sorry. If I could atone for my guilt, I would.” His lashes lowered as he spoke, his voice trembling like a candle’s flame in the wind. The faint quiver of his lips betrayed the composure he tried so hard to maintain, and when he finally lifted his gaze, his eyes—wide, earnest, and shimmering with the innocence of someone far too gentle for the storm he stood in—searched Chi Cheng’s face with quiet desperation. “Mr Li Wei is upset too,” he added, his tone growing even softer, almost pleading. “Everyone is waiting for you to come home. Even your garden… it’s been left unattended.”

His expression was so pitiful, so filled with childlike sincerity, that for a brief, fragile moment, it seemed to reach past the fog in Chi Cheng’s mind—like a small light flickering in the depths of his despair.

Something in that last sentence seemed to pierce through that exact thick, suffocating fog that had settled between them. Chi Cheng’s knees weakened beneath the weight of emotions he had long refused to feel, and at last, he sank into the nearest seat, the movement slow, deliberate, as though every motion was an effort against the invisible chains binding him. His head bowed, his breath uneven, and his shoulders began to tremble in small, almost imperceptible movements before the first tear broke free, carving a glistening path down his cheek. Then another followed, and another, until the dam shattered completely, and he was no longer the stoic figure everyone respected, but a man undone by memories too heavy to bear. 

He hadn’t wept in the presence of another soul in years—not since that Godforsaken day on the bridge when the light reflected against the black waters and grief had pressed its cold fingers against his throat, turning his heart into stone. But here, now, under the dim light of the visiting chamber, in front of the one person who looked at him not with just reverence but also with trembling concern, the silence fractured. Sorrow—raw and ancient—spilt through the cracks like a river finally breaking through its banks, unstoppable, unrestrained.

Suowei’s breath caught in his throat, his wide eyes glistening as he watched the man before him unravel. Slowly, he sat down, his hand lifting instinctively, hesitantly, trembling with the urge to comfort, yet halfway through the motion, he froze. He didn’t know if his touch would soothe or destroy—if the warmth of his palm would draw Chi Cheng back to the present or push him deeper into the storm of his own despair. So he stayed where he was, suspended in helplessness, his hand hovering in the fragile space between them before retreating back to his lap. He could only watch, silent and unmoving, as the man he was expected to grow to love fell apart in quiet grief, his sobs stifled yet ceaseless, breaking and reforming like waves against the rocks, filling the small chamber with a hollow ache. Even the air around them seemed to hold its breath, heavy with sorrow and devotion alike, until it felt as though the entire world had stopped to mourn with them.

When the visit ended, the world outside seemed to hold its breath, the air unnervingly still, as if even the wind hesitated. Li Wei’s voice broke the quiet, low and deliberate. “We’ve troubled you enough, but it was necessary. This is your burden now, son. Mine first, but yours as well. Carry it with care.”

Suowei nodded, feeling the weight of the words press against his chest, heavy and solemn. The memory of Chi Cheng’s tears lingered like smoke, curling around his heart, and a quiet, fierce resolve settled within him. He didn’t fully understand the responsibility yet, but he knew one thing: he would be there for Chi Cheng, no matter what.

___________________________

By dawn, the carriage creaked and groaned over the mist-laden streets, each wheel pressing through the fog like a whisper through silence, until it finally came to a slow, deliberate halt before the gates of the Garden of Eternal Grace. The pale light of morning filtered through the lingering veil of mist, soft and trembling, brushing over the curved rooftops, the dew-laden grass, and the delicate latticework of the garden paths. The three men—Li Wei, Chengyu, and Chi Cheng—stepped down from the carriage in a hush, their footsteps muffled against the cold stones, and for a long moment, the garden held its breath with them. Without a word, Chi Cheng moved ahead, silent and purposeful, his tall frame cutting through the fog as though he were retreating into the one world that still made sense, the sanctuary of his study, leaving only the echo of his presence behind.

Li Wei followed, his pace calm and measured, a steadying anchor to the tense air. “Sit, nephew,” he said quietly, gesturing toward the low couch by the wide window that overlooked the garden’s early blooms. Chi Cheng obeyed, sliding onto the couch with precise, almost mechanical movements, his face drained of all emotion, eyes distant, as if he were already somewhere else, somewhere far beyond the reach of words. 

Li Wei studied him carefully, the lines of his own face softening with a mixture of concern and unspoken understanding—the gaze of a man who had witnessed immense suffering yet refused to let despair define him. “You are strong,” he said finally, his voice low but resolute, carrying both praise and weight. “Not because you conquered and defeated men, but because you conquered your own rage. You have spared lives even when you had every right to let wrath consume you. That is the mark of true strength. But in matters of the heart, my boy, you are still learning—still finding your way.”

He paused, letting the quiet stretch between them, the soft morning light catching on the faint tremor of Chi Cheng’s hands. “That boy—Suowei—is pure, unwavering in his intent. He does not yet understand the depth of your sensitivities, nor the weight of the burdens you carry. But if there are flaws, if there are shadows in your path, they are his to witness, to learn, and to bear alongside you, just as he is yours to guide. And do not allow the physicians or those who measure healing in charts and rules to meddle too deeply; their interference will only make your return home harder, slower. If your heart grows heavy, speak to me. Speak to him. Do not let silence claim the spaces where words could heal.”

Chi Cheng remained motionless, his gaze unfocused, the silence of the room stretching around him like a fragile cocoon, until finally, his voice broke, fragile and tremulous, a whisper trembling on the edge of sound. “How did Mother do it?” The words were cracked and fleeting, like a thread pulled taut and breaking under too much weight, scattering through the quiet room.

Li Wei froze, the question hanging between them, and for the first time, the man who seemed to have answers to all things could find none. His lips parted, closed again, and all he could do was let the silence linger, thick and tender, a fragile shelter around his nephew’s grief.

Chapter Text

The next morning dawned not with the triumphant blaze of sunlight but with a fragile, uncertain light that filtered through a thin veil of mist, softening every edge of the world as though even the sky hesitated to wake. The Garden of Eternal Grace stood still beneath its shroud of silence, the faint chirping of early sparrows carrying across the dew-laden courtyards, where the air was thick with the scent of earth and old incense. In the farthest corner of the grand estate, behind tall doors and drawn silk curtains, Chi Cheng stood before the dark wooden table in his study, his reflection warped faintly against the polished surface.

Four small pills lay in a line before him, arranged with meticulous precision like tiny sentinels guarding something sacred or dangerous. The bottles behind them bore elegant calligraphy—labels that promised calm, balance, sleep—but all he could see were the remnants of a war he was tired of fighting. The light slanted through the window, brushing his cheek, illuminating the quiet slope of his face, the hollows beneath his eyes, the kind of weary beauty carved only by years of restraint.

For a long time, he simply stared at them.

His fingers hovered above the pills, tracing the air instead of touching, as though contact alone would make the decision real. The physician prescribed them after the incident with water and Suowei, promising to get rid of those endless nights when his mother’s voice still clung to the edge of his dreams, soft and pleading, her laughter echoing against the rippling water. But this morning, something inside him shifted. His hand trembled slightly as he pushed the pills to the edge of the table, his gaze following the slow roll of one white sphere until it stopped just before falling into the waste bin.

It would be easy, he thought, to throw them all away—to reclaim his mind from their fog, to feel everything again even if it burned. And yet, the thought of feeling again terrified him.

He stood caught between two kinds of fear when a sound broke the stillness.

A knock.

Soft at first, then firmer.

His shoulders stiffened. “I don’t want food,” he called out, his voice low but strained, a plea disguised as a command.

From behind the door, a familiar voice answered with gentle insistence, “I’ve not come to bring you food. Open the door, I’m standing here.”

It was his uncle, Li Wei.

Chi Cheng’s eyes fluttered closed for a brief, weighted moment, as though he were gathering the last threads of patience that had long since begun to unravel. The air around him seemed to still; even the faint hum of the evening cicadas quieted beneath the tension that hung in the room. With a controlled breath, he turned—not in haste, but in that deliberate, measured way of someone forcing himself to move when his mind begged for stillness. His hand reached for the door, fingers curling around the bronze handle, and he hesitated for half a heartbeat—enough to betray the flicker of restraint he fought to keep. Then, without another word, he pulled it open, the hinges releasing a long, tired sigh that filled the silence he left behind.

Li Wei stood there, draped in robes of pale grey, his hair streaked faintly with silver, his expression a careful blend of concern and practised warmth. “You look tired,” he remarked softly, stepping into the room without waiting for permission. His gaze, sharp despite its calmness, took in the surroundings—the unopened scrolls stacked carelessly on the side table, the faint scent of medicinal herbs lingering near the window, and finally, the small arrangement of pills resting precariously near the edge of the desk.

“My father misses his grandson,” he said after a pause, letting the words settle slowly between them, his voice calm but purposeful, carrying both gentle authority and an unspoken urging. “Everyone asks about you. The servants speak in hushed tones, as if afraid the walls themselves will overhear them, and they tell me that the candles in your study never go out, night after night, flickering tirelessly in the dim corners while you sit alone, meals left untouched, company deliberately limited to yourself.” Li Wei took a small step closer, his hands folded lightly behind his back as he watched Chi Cheng shift uncomfortably. “Your grandfather isolates himself not out of malice but because the world outside his walls offers only distractions and demands he is unwilling to meet; he locks himself away in that quiet chamber, letting only the occasional visitor pass through the heavy doors, and even then, they leave quickly, for he will not linger in conversation. But perhaps if you were to step beyond this room, even for a brief moment, to see him, to hear him, you might find that the simple act of leaving these walls will breathe a little life back into both your hearts.”

Chi Cheng shut the door quietly behind him. “I couldn’t go to him,” he said, the words almost swallowed by the weight of the room.

“So go now,” Li Wei replied simply, lowering himself onto the couch with an ease that came only from years of knowing when to push and when to stay silent. “Visit him, let the old man’s presence do its work. A blessing might help your spirit.”

Chi Cheng’s lips twitched, a humourless smile curving faintly at one corner. “If I walk out of this room and bow before him, will my soul really be healed?” His tone carried no real expectation of an answer—only quiet defiance and sarcasm.

Li Wei chuckled under his breath, the sound warm but laced with exhaustion. “No,” he admitted, “but it might begin to breathe again. Staying locked in here, watching the sun rise and fall through one window—do you think that is living? Tell you what—later on, we’ll take the workers and the frequent visitors out for a picnic. You’ll come too.”

Chi Cheng raised a brow, the faintest glimmer of amusement softening his gaze. “A picnic,” he repeated. “In this weather?”

“Scared that there might be no leaves?” Li Wei teased, a knowing smile pulling at his lips.

Chi Cheng’s low laughter broke through at last, short and fleeting, but it loosened something tight in the air.

“When I was a boy,” Li Wei continued, settling back, “I used to chase leaves as they fell. I thought if I caught enough, the trees wouldn’t have to die. Foolish, isn’t it? But I suppose it’s the kind of foolishness that keeps you tender.”

Chi Cheng glanced at him then, eyes softening. “You were always sentimental,” he murmured.

“And you,” Li Wei replied, “were always too proud to be.” He stood, straightening his robes with deliberate calm. “So it’s decided. We’ll go later on.”

Chi Cheng didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted once more to the pills on his desk—the quiet war lined up like soldiers. “The workers will come too, you said?”

“Yes. Everyone.”

“Don’t bring Mrs Wu,” Chi Cheng said quietly, his voice low and steady, but the weight behind it made it impossible to ignore, carrying a firmness that seemed to hang in the air between them like mist over the garden in early morning.

Li Wei’s brows furrowed almost imperceptibly, a crease of concern knitting his forehead as he leaned forward slightly. “What do you mean by that?” he asked, his tone careful, almost gentle, though the question lingered with a subtle undercurrent of warning.

“I don’t want her to come,” Chi Cheng replied again, his words clipped, deliberate, leaving no space for negotiation, though his eyes, shadowed with exhaustion and something unspoken, barely met his uncle’s gaze.

“And Suowei?” Li Wei’s voice was quieter this time, carrying that familiar thread of patience that could bend steel, but beneath it, a flicker of unease crept through, betraying the worry he tried so hard to mask.

“Let Suowei not come either,” Chi Cheng said, and now there was a sudden sharpness to his tone, a snap of authority that cut clean through the softness of the morning, leaving the room suspended between the sound of his words and the faint flicker of candlelight that danced across the walls.

Li Wei froze in place, the words striking him with an unexpected weight, and he studied his nephew with a careful, measured patience, his eyes flicking briefly, almost involuntarily, toward the edge of the table where the pale, unclaimed pills still waited in silent testimony to the battles being waged in Chi Cheng’s mind. The room was quiet, except for the faint whisper of a breeze through the window, carrying the scent of dew and earth. Yet, the tension made it feel as though even the air was holding its breath.

___________________________

By early afternoon, the courtyard hummed with the slow rhythm of routine. Madam Lian and Wang Shuo sat beneath the broad shade of an apricot tree, the wind carrying faint traces of jasmine and the low murmur of servants preparing for the next day’s outing.

“Eat, at least a piece,” Madam Lian urged, tearing a small portion of bread and holding it out.

Wang Shuo turned away with a sigh, his profile etched with irritation. “I don’t want it.”

“Then what do you want?” she asked, her tone weary but patient.

He exhaled sharply, his words brittle. “You know everything, and yet you still throw Chi Cheng and me into the fire.”

She frowned, startled. “What are you talking about?”

“Did you not hear what Suowei did?” he hissed, voice rising with a strange desperation. “He made Chi Cheng cry, Madam. Cry. That boy—he’s dangerous.”

“Shh,” she warned, glancing around. “Don’t spread rumours.”

“I’m not lying,” he insisted. “Chi Cheng is fragile. I know him better than anyone. That’s why I’m the one who suits him.”

Her sigh was long and drawn-out, heavy with the fatigue of someone used to hearing the same delusion repeated. “Ah, son. The river finds its path in time. Don’t fight its flow.”

“But by then,” he said bitterly, “it’ll be too late. That boy and his mother will take root here, and you’ll see—there’ll be no river left for me.”

Before she could reply, footsteps echoed against the stone path, Li Wei’s familiar voice breaking the conversation. “Get ready. We’re going on a picnic.”

“A picnic?” Madam Lian repeated, eyebrows arching.

“Yes,” Li Wei replied with a half-smile. “My father heard about Chi Cheng’s condition. He wishes for us all to breathe some air together.”

Wang Shuo’s lips twitched upward—an involuntary, fleeting smile—but Madam Lian caught it and immediately schooled her expression into polite enthusiasm. “Of course. It will be good for everyone.”

Li Wei’s tone softened, almost as if he were trying to fold the sharp edges of tension into something more manageable, yet every word he spoke still carried the weight of authority, experience, and a careful concern that had been honed through decades of navigating a family both proud and stubborn. “Though,” he said, his gaze lingering thoughtfully on the floor for a heartbeat before rising again to meet those assembled, “it seems my nephew doesn’t wish for Suowei to join.”

Madam Lian, seated nearby, tilted her head slightly, her expression carefully measured as she feigned thoughtfulness, though her eyes—sharp, bright, and perceptive—betrayed her own calculation. “He must come,” she said gently, her voice carrying that soft insistence that could pierce through stubbornness without breaking it, a velvet hammer striking at the walls of indecision and fear. “He might be the one to bring Chi Cheng out of silence,” she added, her gaze flicking toward Wang Shuo, who felt that subtle jab like a dart to his chest, his chest tightening and his stomach knotting with both indignation and a reluctant hope that, perhaps, what she suggested held truth.

Wang Shuo exhaled through his nose, a sound barely audible, as he tried to rein in the storm of thoughts that threatened to betray his composure. He watched Suowei in his mind’s eye—innocent, earnest, unpredictable—and felt an odd mixture of exasperation and admiration. That boy, so young, so seemingly fragile, might hold the key to unravelling a heart that Wang Shuo himself could not reach, and the thought both thrilled and terrified him in equal measure. For a moment, he felt utterly powerless, suspended between wanting to shield Chi Cheng from Suowei to have him all to himself and knowing that the boy’s very presence—annoying, intrusive, relentless as it might be—was the only thing that could stir him from his isolation.

Li Wei hesitated, uncertain, but finally nodded. “Very well. Bring them.”

As soon as his footsteps faded, Madam Lian leaned closer to Wang Shuo, her voice barely a whisper. “Let everyone see. The boy is not meant for him. If this outing reveals it before their eyes, a separation will come faster.”

Wang Shuo’s lips curved into a thin, gleaming smile.

Word of the picnic had reached the kitchen, and all the workers began preparing.

Mrs Wu stood by the large wooden counter, her sleeves rolled up past her elbows, the fine wrinkles on her hands deepened with flour and work. She was slicing pickled radishes into thin crescents, her movements sure, her expression calm in the way only a woman accustomed to quiet burdens could be. Beside her, Suowei worked with quiet concentration, arranging pastries into neat rows upon the trays. 

The air was warm, heavy with the aroma of baked custard and the faint bitterness of tea cooling somewhere on the table. Laughter rose now and then from the workers near the hearth, brief bursts of joy that faded as quickly as they came. And somewhere amidst that hum of motion stood Wang Shuo, leaning lazily against the counter, polishing cutlery with the care of a man pretending to be busy. His eyes, sharp and restless, followed Suowei like the shadow of a thought he could not rid himself of.

He waited until the kitchen quieted for a moment—until Mrs Wu turned to fetch the next tray, until the soft creak of the oven door masked the sound of his voice—before he spoke.

“Suowei,” Wang Shuo said, his tone smooth, almost kind.

Suowei lifted his head, strands of hair falling softly against his temple. “Yes?”

“Master Chi Cheng is very fond of tarts,” Wang Shuo said lightly, watching the boy’s expression. “Pack some more, will you?”

For a second, Suowei blinked at him—just long enough for confusion to pass like a shadow across his face. But he said nothing, only nodded obediently and reached for another tray as Madam Lian appeared by the doorway. Her eyes, sharp as lacquered steel, met Wang Shuo’s across the room. When she saw the slight tilt of his head—the subtle smirk forming beneath his words—she smiled faintly, her painted lips curving like a blade.

Tarts. Chi Cheng’s least favourite.

Mrs Wu returned with a soft hum, unaware, and handed Suowei a stack of empty boxes tied with red string. He filled them carefully, his fingers brushing lightly over the golden crusts before placing each box in the large picnic basket.

“Good job, Suowei,” Wang Shuo murmured, reaching out to pat his arm as though in encouragement. “You’ll personally give them to Master Chi Cheng, yes?”

Suowei nodded once more, eyes bright with quiet determination, the innocence in them almost painful to witness.

When he turned away, Wang Shuo’s smirk deepened, and Madam Lian’s fan fluttered open with a soft snap, her gaze shimmering with satisfaction.

“Perfect,” she whispered.

___________________________

By late afternoon, the estate had emptied into the woods. The path stretched through clusters of cypress and willow, their leaves swaying gently in the warm wind, scattering fragments of sunlight across the earth. The picnic had been arranged near a small clearing by the lake—a place where the air carried the faint perfume of blooming magnolias, and the sound of water lapping against stones felt almost like a lullaby.

Long wooden tables stood beneath the trees, draped with white cloth and laden with dishes: salted duck, candied lotus root, steamed buns still glistening from the pot, and baskets of fruit so ripe they glowed in the afternoon light. On one side, the nobles and soldiers sat, their polished armour catching glints of gold in the sun; on the other, the workers and their families gathered, chatting quietly, laughter occasionally breaking through the calm like a ripple in still water.

Children ran barefoot through the grass, their shouts echoing softly as they took turns on a small wooden swing tied between two trees. The ropes creaked with each motion, the sound strangely comforting amidst the rustle of leaves.

Madam Lian, seated among the wives and husbands of the soldiers, raised her cup of tea and smiled. “What a beautiful day this is,” she said, her voice carrying easily through the air. “It’s good that everyone came, isn’t it?”

A chorus of polite agreement followed, though most mouths were too full of food to speak clearly.

But at the far end of the long, sun-dappled table, Suowei barely touched his plate, the food before him going largely unnoticed as his attention wandered, drawn irresistibly to the swing set just beyond the trees. His eyes remained fixed on the little boy who laughed with a careless abandon that made the leaves above sway in time with each peal of joy, a sound so pure and untethered that it seemed almost alien in its simplicity. There was a kind of freedom in that laughter—unburdened, unrestrained, utterly unafraid—that Suowei had never known; it tugged at something deep within him, a quiet ache that both stirred longing and reminded him of all the rules, expectations, and careful containment that had defined his own life up to this very moment. For a long heartbeat, he sat frozen, mesmerised by the way the boy’s small hands gripped the ropes and the wind tousled his hair, and for the first time in days, Suowei felt the faint, almost painful whisper of jealousy brush against his chest.

Wang Shuo, catching the faraway, almost haunted look that lingered in the boy’s eyes, leaned back slowly in his seat, letting out a quiet, almost imperceptible sigh. His brows furrowed slightly as he studied Suowei, trying to decipher the mixture of longing and uncertainty etched across his features. 

And then, from the corner of his vision, almost as if summoned by the pull of his thoughts, he caught sight of Chi Cheng in the distance, walking slowly along the edge of the trees, his hands folded neatly behind his back, each step deliberate yet effortlessly graceful, his posture holding the sort of quiet regality and measured control that spoke of both authority and vulnerability, the kind that made Wang Shuo’s chest tighten as he recognised, with sudden clarity, just how much influence this man unknowingly held over every heartbeat and thought around him.

He smirked.

“Suowei,” Wang Shuo said suddenly, setting his cup down. “I just saw Master Chi Cheng nearby, taking a walk. Why don’t you go to him? Unnoticed.”

Suowei blinked, startled by the request.

“Take the food too,” Wang Shuo added, his tone honeyed. He reached out, placing what might have seemed an encouraging hand on Suowei’s arm. “He’ll be pleased.”

The boy hesitated for a moment, then nodded, lifting the box of tarts from the basket. As he walked away, Wang Shuo exchanged a glance with Madam Lian, whose lips curved into a knowing smile.

Chi Cheng stood beneath the dappled shade of a cluster of tall, swaying elms, the sunlight filtering through their leaves in soft, golden streams that danced across the ground at his feet, his head tilted slightly back, eyes closed, as he drew in the slow, cooling air with deliberate, measured breaths. The gentle breeze stirred his dark hair, sending strands to brush against his forehead, carrying with it the faint, comforting scent of pine and earth, mingling with the subtle fragrance of wildflowers that dotted the floor nearby. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the rigid lines of tension around his jaw softened, and the tightness in his shoulders eased ever so slightly, giving him an almost fragile, human quality—vulnerable yet quietly commanding—a fleeting glimpse of serenity that seemed to belong entirely to this stolen moment of solitude.

The soft crunch of footsteps behind him made him open his eyes.

“Master Chi Cheng,” came the quiet voice.

He turned sharply, his calm fracturing like thin ice. He knew that voice—it was too soft, too familiar, too unwelcome and yet inescapable.

“Why did you come?” His words were cold and clipped as he looked at the shorter in front of him.

Suowei’s grip tightened around the box. “I brought food,” he said softly, taking a careful step forward.

“I mean,” Chi Cheng’s gaze sharpened, “why did you come here? To the picnic?”

Suowei hesitated, blinking up at him as if trying to understand the question. “You wanted me to,” he said finally, his voice trembling slightly, as though the memory of being told to attend by Wang Shuo and Li Wei was proof enough.

Chi Cheng’s eyes flicked briefly toward Li Wei, sitting a little ways off among the other men, before returning to Suowei. “Among so many people, you still don’t know how to follow rules?” His tone hardened, and there was an exhaustion behind it, a quiet ache that sounded almost like self-defence. “Do you know nothing?”

The words stung.

Suowei’s fist clenched at his side, his breath quickening. “I only came because you wanted me to,” he said, his voice growing sharper, frustration tightening every syllable. “Why are you acting like this? What did I do to you?”

Chi Cheng looked at him for a long moment, and when he finally spoke, his voice dropped to something almost fragile. “You made me cry,” he said, half-shameful and half-serious as he looked away, avoiding his husband’s eyes.

Suowei’s eyes widened. “Chi Cheng!” he snapped, his irritation spilling over, the name falling unbidden from his lips. Though the man in front of him intimidated him at times, his growing frustration was too much to ignore. “How old are you? Twenty-four? Twenty-five?”

Chi Cheng’s shoulders slumped, his head lowering slightly. “Twenty-six,” he murmured.

“Exactly,” Suowei said, his tone softening despite himself. “Then stop acting like a child.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The wind stirred gently between them, carrying the scent of wet grass and baked fruit.

Then, quietly, Suowei added, “I didn’t make you cry. But what’s wrong with that? A person may cry. Is this shameful?”

Chi Cheng’s lips tightened. “Not shameful,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “But it’s forbidden.”

The words hung in the air like smoke.

Suowei lowered his gaze, his jaw tightening, before he bent down and set the box at Chi Cheng’s feet. “Then perhaps you should break more of your rules,” he said softly, turning around to leave.

But before he could take more steps, Chi Cheng’s voice stopped him. “What would you like?”

Suowei froze. Slowly, he turned back, confusion flickering in his eyes.

“You didn’t want to come here,” Chi Cheng said, his tone quieter now, as if the anger had drained from him and left only exhaustion. “So tell me. What would you like?”

Suowei thought for a moment, eyes distant. “Forgive me,” he said at last, “but I would like to have as much power as you.”

Chi Cheng tilted his head ever so slightly, his dark eyes narrowing with a quiet curiosity that seemed almost mischievous, the faint lines of his stern features softening as a small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips, betraying a warmth he rarely allowed himself to show. “Why is that?” he asked, his voice low and even, carrying a subtle undertone of amusement that made the question feel less like interrogation and more like an invitation to reveal a secret he was genuinely interested in uncovering.

“Then I wouldn’t have to ask for anything,” Suowei replied. “I could do whatever I wanted.”

“Is that how it works?” he asked as he raised an eyebrow. “And what would you do, for example?”

Suowei’s eyes softened as he thought. “I’d go to the library whenever I wished, without my father stopping me,” he said quietly. “I’d walk the streets at night with no fear because I’d be strong enough to protect myself. And at a picnic like this, I’d go on the swings without worrying that my father would see and scold me.”

After a measured silence, the older finally turned on his heel with a quiet decisiveness, the movement graceful and commanding, as if every step had been planned beforehand. “Come with me,” he said, his voice calm but carrying an unspoken authority that left no room for hesitation.

Suowei blinked. “Where?”

“Just come,” Chi Cheng said simply, not looking back.

They walked a short distance through the trees until they reached a secluded spot—an older swing, larger than the children’s, hanging from a low, sturdy branch. The ropes were frayed with age, the seat wide enough for an adult. The air here was cooler, quieter, and the sunlight dappled through the leaves like liquid gold.

“This is where I used to come with my mother,” Chi Cheng said softly, brushing a layer of leaves from the seat, cleaning it up for Suowei. His wedding ring caught the light, flashing briefly like a shard of sun. Then he looked at Suowei. “Sit.”

Suowei hesitated, a smile tugging faintly at his lips. “Can I really? Why?”

Chi Cheng’s mouth curved slightly. “Fragrance will linger over your hands when you give out flowers,” he said, his voice unexpectedly gentle. “If you help others, they’ll remember your kindness.”

Suowei looked down, hiding his growing smile.

“Sit,” Chi Cheng repeated, stepping aside.

When Suowei obeyed and settled onto the swing, Chi Cheng asked, “Do you know how to ride it?”

“No,” Suowei admitted, gripping the ropes tightly. “But I’ve seen others.”

“Then listen,” Chi Cheng said, moving closer, his tone slipping into that quiet authority he carried so effortlessly. “When you move forward, extend your legs. When you swing back, pull them in. You said you wanted power like mine—then ride it yourself.”

Suowei nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting as he began to push gently with his feet.

Chi Cheng turned his back to Suowei, his eyes closing once more as he felt the wind brush past him, the same breeze that touched the boy’s hair. “If this is freedom to you,” he murmured, “take it. I’ll keep watch.”

From a hill not far away, a shadow stirred. Wang Shuo had been walking toward the trees when the sight froze him mid-step—Chi Cheng standing by the swing, his expression softened by something dangerously close to affection, Suowei smiling softly as the ropes creaked. The scene struck him like a blow. His heart began to race, and before he realised it, he had ducked behind a tree, watching with wide, horrified eyes.

It was too gentle, too warm. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

It had been a few minutes of Suowei swinging when he heard a twig snap.

The boy’s head turned sharply, his gaze flickering toward the trees. For a heartbeat, fear crossed his face—raw and immediate, the fear of a boy who had known the weight of his father’s anger. The possibility of the person hiding behind the tree being his father caused him to stop swinging at once, his feet brushing the ground. “Thank you,” he said quickly, standing. “But that’s enough.”

Chi Cheng opened his eyes but didn’t move. “Go,” he said softly. I’m staying.” He wanted to take the breeze in for a little longer.

Suowei nodded and hurried back toward the clearing, his heart still beating fast.

Behind the tree, Wang Shuo’s breath came out ragged. He stumbled backwards, his mind a whirl of disbelief, his face pale as moonlight. And then, without warning, he began to cry—loud, uneven sobs that tore through the quiet woods.

He ran, branches catching at his sleeves, until he collided with someone—Madam Lian, her cloak brushing against his as he grabbed her arm, gasping for air.

“Madam!” he choked out, eyes wide and glistening.

She caught him, startled. “Son—what’s happened? What is it?”

Wang Shuo’s voice broke, trembling with fury. “I swear, this boy is a devil! He knows—he knows exactly what he’s doing!”

Madam Lian’s expression hardened instantly. She pressed a hand over his mouth, eyes darting around. “Quiet! Someone will hear!” she hissed. “Come to your senses. Tell me what happened—slowly.”

“The opposite of what we wanted happened,” Wang Shuo said between shallow breaths. “Chi Cheng didn’t send him away—he… he stayed with him! He likes him, Madam! The boy did this on purpose—I know he did. He did it to spite me.”

Chapter Text

That night, long after the oil lamps had been dimmed and the corridors had grown silent, Suowei lay in bed, eyes open against the dark. Sleep refused to come. It felt as though the stillness itself pressed against his chest, thick and unmoving, whispering the same image over and over again—the faint sound of the creak of a wooden swing, and Chi Cheng a little in front of it, his hair slightly tousled by the wind. He remembered how the breeze had moved through him, how, for a fleeting moment, freedom had looked like sunlight breaking across Chi Cheng’s face, softening the edges of his otherwise cold composure. It was strange, he thought, how someone so unreadable could grant such peace without a single word.

When morning came, mist curled low against the temple walls, and the world outside hummed with quiet expectancy. Suowei found himself in one of the temple’s small classrooms, the smell of old parchment and cedar oil hanging faintly in the air. Wang Shuo stood beside him, sleeves rolled neatly, his voice even and practised as he inspected the rows of shelves lined with alphabet books and scrolls.

“Did you count the books?” he asked, his tone brisk but not unkind.

“Twenty-six,” Suowei replied softly.

“Everything is in place?”

“Yes.”

“And the alphabet books?”

“Forty-two. There should be forty-four, but two of the girls took them home.”

“Have you checked the pages? Nothing was torn, right?”

“I checked them.”

Wang Shuo nodded approvingly. “Well done, Suowei.” He made his way toward the bookshelf, his steps measured and precise. “You’d be a good teacher here, you know? The little girls adore you.”

Suowei inclined his head slightly, his voice quiet and polite. “Thank you. They are also very good.”

“But you have to be careful with their studies,” Wang Shuo continued, tapping the edge of the shelf as he spoke. “For example—Meimei. Where is she lacking the most?”

“In how to pronounce different words,” Suowei replied.

Wang Shuo gave a faint smile, nodding. “Correct.” His tone carried a hint of approval before he asked another. “And what’s the best way for Xiaoyu to study?”

“She studies best when you don’t let her go home,” Suowei said, thoughtful. “When she stays here, with her friends, she learns even better.”

“Well done,” Wang Shuo said again, impressed. His eyes lingered on Suowei for a moment, scanning the youth’s face as though searching for something unspoken. “And you?”

Suowei blinked. “Me?”

“Are you happy here?” Wang Shuo asked, his tone softening. “Happy that you came?”

Suowei hesitated, his throat tightening. His eyes wandered to the open window, where sunlight streamed across the floor in pale, trembling beams, swaying gently as if unsure whether to touch him. For a long while, he said nothing. The question lingered in the air between them—fragile, dangerous, and his fingers brushed absently against the edge of the table, tracing the grooves in the wood, as though he could lose himself in their quiet simplicity. Somewhere in his chest, something ached—a feeling too heavy for words, too complicated to name. He didn’t reply.

“Is it because of Master Chi Cheng?”

No answer.

Wang Shuo exhaled slowly, feigning a smile. “I’m glad you came, truly. You have a new life ahead of you, Suowei. Everyone here is watching you.”

“The countryside was beautiful,” Suowei said at last, his voice barely above a whisper. “But we couldn’t stay there. Jobs weren’t paying enough.”

“If the jobs paid well,” Wang Shuo pressed gently, “would you have still come here?”

“I would like to,” Suowei murmured.

“Why? Why would you not stay there?”

“There were too many suitors there.”

Wang Shuo frowned slightly. “But that’s good, isn’t it? You should have a husband—someone to take care of you, to lift you when you fall, to stay by your side as you grow old.”

Suowei’s fingers tensed, the slight movement betraying the restlessness he tried to hide. He fidgeted with them, eyes darting briefly toward the floor as he spoke. “When the age is right, yes,” he murmured, his tone carrying a hint of defensiveness that faltered into something smaller, almost uncertain. “But some old men came too.” His voice thinned with the memory, and he gave a quiet, nervous laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “In the countryside, they look at you like you’re a servant, not a significant other.” His fingers kept moving, twisting together, as though the motion itself could soften the sharpness of what he’d just said.

Wang Shuo’s eyes lowered, a shadow of pity flickering across his expression. “It’s hard,” he said quietly. “And you can’t understand love when there is such a distance in years. Did they ask for your hand?”

Suowei’s chest tightened as he remembered the memories surfacing like ghosts. “They asked my father.”

Wang Shuo bit his bottom lip, his voice faltering. “Well,” he said finally, “let bygones be bygones. Your father didn’t give you away. That means he values you. He brought you here—to safety, under the wing of Mr Li Wei.”

Suowei nodded faintly, swallowing hard.

___________________________

Somewhere else in the temple, far from the soft clatter of wooden abacuses and the murmur of children’s recitations, Chi Cheng sat in his study. The air was thick with the acrid scent of crushed medicine, his desk covered in shattered glass bottles and scattered pills that had been crushed, white dust streaking across his knuckles. His breath came sharp and uneven as he smashed another pill, the sound echoing off the walls like breaking bones.

When Wang Shuo entered carrying a tray of food and water, he froze. “Master Chi Cheng—what are you doing? Stop!”

“Get out,” Chi Cheng muttered, voice hoarse.

“Stop doing that,” Wang Shuo pleaded, stepping closer. “Just wait a moment—what happened?”

“I am sick,” Chi Cheng snapped, slamming the glass bottle against the desk again. “I am sick. Were these medicines meant to heal me, or to make me worse?”

“How should I know?” Wang Shuo stammered.

“Then get out,” Chi Cheng said coldly, his eyes burning.

Wang Shuo hesitated, his voice trembling. After a pause, he finally spoke. “It’s all because of that boy.”

Chi Cheng paused mid-motion, the words hanging in the air like smoke.

“Ever since he came,” Wang Shuo continued, “you’ve been feeling worse. He’s a bad influence on you.”

Chi Cheng’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“He doesn’t even love you,” Wang Shuo pressed on, voice growing desperate. “He doesn’t want to love you! They were going to marry him off to an old man in his village. He only agreed to marry you so he wouldn’t have to marry him!”

Chi Cheng’s tongue pressed hard against his cheek, the muscle in his jaw tightening as he looked away, the silence between them sharp and dangerous. It filled the space like the edge of a blade, thin and gleaming, cutting through the still air. Even the faint rustle of leaves outside seemed hesitant to intrude. 

“Just like your uncle says,” Wang Shuo said, voice shaking now, “a lover loves in any condition. But when Suowei looks at you, all he sees are your faults—and that’s what hurts you most and makes you worse.”

Chi Cheng stood abruptly, his chair scraping harshly against the floorboards, the sudden movement slicing through the fragile quiet of the room. His shadow stretched long across the wall, fractured by the wavering light of the candles, his expression unreadable yet heavy with something unspoken—anger, perhaps, or disappointment, or a weariness he could no longer hide. For a heartbeat, he simply stood there, still as stone, the rise and fall of his chest the only thing betraying the restraint it took not to speak.

“Do something about this, Chi Cheng,” Wang Shuo said finally.

Without a word, Chi Cheng brushed past him and stormed out of the study, the echo of his footsteps fading into the hall.

___________________________

Suowei was reading quietly in the sitting room, the soft rustle of pages the only sound filling the stillness. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood and dust, and the late afternoon light spilt through the curtains in long, sleepy stripes. His eyelids felt heavy, his body lulled by the calm, when a sudden knock shattered the quiet. It was sharp, deliberate—too heavy to belong to a neighbour or a messenger.

He froze, pulse quickening. The book slipped slightly from his grasp as he set it down, its spine landing softly against the cushion. His steps toward the door were slow, uncertain, each one echoing faintly against the wooden floor. When he reached the entrance, he hesitated for a heartbeat before peering through the glass.

His breath caught.

Chi Cheng.

The sight of him—rigid posture, dark eyes gleaming with something unreadable—sent a shiver down Suowei’s spine. For a moment, he couldn’t move. The air felt too thin, his heart pounding unevenly in his chest. Whatever calm had settled over the house only seconds ago now dissolved into a quiet, trembling tension.

He unlocked the door slowly, and Chi Cheng immediately took hold of the handle from the other side, yanking it open.

“Master Chi Cheng,” he began, voice cautious, “my mother and father are not at home—”

But Chi Cheng had already stepped forward, closing and locking the door behind him. The sound of the bolt sliding into place made Suowei’s pulse quicken.

“Chi Cheng,” he said carefully, backing away, “why are you here? What are you doing?”

“Put your coat on,” Chi Cheng said, his tone clipped and commanding.

“Why? I don’t want to go anywhere.”

“Wu Suowei!”

The way the older said his name—sharp, thunderous, carrying a weight that made the walls themselves seem to shudder—made Suowei flinch violently, his body recoiling instinctively. In that instant, the vase beside him teetered precariously before toppling with a crash, shattering into jagged fragments that littered the polished floor. Chi Cheng’s fist clenched so tightly that the delicate beaded bracelet around his wrist—the one his mother had given him, threaded with care and small tokens of love—snapped with a harsh, abrupt sound, sending the tiny beads scattering across the floor. Suowei’s eyes widened at the sight, the soft clatter echoing in his chest, and for a fleeting second, the sharpness of Chi Cheng’s anger seemed almost too much to bear.

“Don’t make me angrier than I already am,” he said, voice trembling from restraint. “Put your coat on!”

“Chi Cheng, stop shouting,” Suowei whispered.

“You don’t want to listen?”

Intimidated, Suowei slipped beneath his arm, fumbling to put on his coat. “Where are you taking me?”

“Come.”

Suowei hesitated, his feet rooted to the floor as if the very air around him had thickened, slowing his every thought. But the look in Chi Cheng’s eyes—unsteady, volatile, and charged with a force that seemed impossible to resist—told him that any argument would be useless, that words would crumble before the weight of that storm. With a reluctant sigh and a tightening of his chest, he swallowed his fear, took a careful step forward, and followed the taller.

Outside, the world had gone still, the air heavy and brittle. Chengyu was driving down the narrow road in the old car Li Wei had gifted him, since the man had decided he much preferred carriages. When he saw Chi Cheng step into the path, he slammed the brakes.

“Master Chi Cheng, are you all right?” he swiftly got out of the car and asked, alarmed.

Chi Cheng didn’t answer. Instead, he walked to the passenger seat and opened the door, looking back at Suowei. “Get in.”

Suowei froze, eyes wide and tearful.

“Master—” Chengyu began.

“Get in,” Chi Cheng repeated, voice low. “Or it will be bad.”

Trembling, Suowei obeyed, his hands gripping the edges of the seat as if they could anchor him to safety. He slid in silently, heart hammering against his ribs, every nerve taut with unease. Chi Cheng’s jaw tightened, his features carved in a mask of determination and fury, as he slammed the door shut with a force that made the car shudder. Without a word, he circled to the driver’s side, the engine roaring to life beneath his hands, and they tore away from the quiet street into the uncertain path ahead.

Chengyu stood frozen for a heartbeat, eyes wide, disbelief rooting him to the ground. Then panic broke through like a flood, and he bolted, the sound of his hurried steps echoing through the empty road as he ran straight toward the Garden of Eternal Grace, fear and worry propelling him faster than reason could keep pace.

Back in the car, Suowei’s tears fell silently, one after another. He turned to Chi Cheng, his voice small. “Master Chi Cheng, can you tell me where we’re going?”

No answer. Only the sound of tyres over gravel, the occasional growl of the engine.

“Where are you taking me?” Suowei repeated, louder now.

Chi Cheng’s hands gripped the wheel tighter. “To your village.”

Suowei’s eyes widened. “Why?”

“You have a fiancé,” Chi Cheng said coldly. “I asked your father for your hand. Now I can give you away with my own hands if I choose to.”

“What are you talking about?” Suowei’s voice cracked. “I don’t have a fiancé.”

“You were afraid the night we married,” Chi Cheng said, staring straight ahead. “Now you can be afraid again.”

“My parents—” Suowei started, voice shaking. “They’ll be worried!”

“Let them,” Chi Cheng muttered. “I’ll marry their son off properly.”

“I’m married to you!” Suowei shouted, the words tumbling out, jagged and urgent, anger spilling over the trembling edge of his fear. His chest heaved, and his fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms, as if to hold himself steady against the storm inside him.

Chi Cheng’s head turned sharply, every line of his face tightening, his glare slicing through the air like a blade, sharp and unyielding. 

But Suowei didn’t falter. He met Chi Cheng’s eyes with everything he had. “Look at me like that all you want,” he said, voice trembling but fierce, a fragile defiance shimmering through the quiver of his tone. “I don’t care.” His words hung in the air, a fragile challenge, carrying both the vulnerability and the strength of someone daring to stand against the tempest before him.

Chi Cheng turned back to the road, knuckles white against the wheel. “I will direct your destiny in the right direction.”

“I don’t want that,” Suowei said, his voice sharp, a stubborn edge threading through the words.

“Learn to want it,” Chi Cheng replied, calm but relentless, the weight of certainty pressing down like a stone in the quiet space between them.

“No,” Suowei countered immediately, head shaking, chest rising and falling with the stubborn defiance that seemed to flare hotter in the presence of Chi Cheng’s unwavering gaze.

“You will learn. They’ll teach you.” The words were both promise and command, a slow, deliberate rhythm that left no room for argument, and yet carried the strange pull of something Suowei couldn’t ignore.

“Then I’ll teach you something,” Suowei said suddenly, his voice breaking, wild with desperation.

Chi Cheng’s brows furrowed. “What?”

“My destiny,” Suowei said, eyes glistening, “is in my own hands.”

Before Chi Cheng could react, Suowei’s hands shot forward, gripping the steering wheel with sudden desperation. The car lurched violently to the left, tyres screeching against the road, and with a bone-jarring impact, it collided with a sturdy tree. Both of them were thrown forward, heads slamming against the dashboard.

The world went black for a moment.

When Chi Cheng’s eyes fluttered open, the sharp sting at his temple made him wince. Blood trickled down from the cut on his forehead, warm and sticky against his skin, and the sudden emptiness beside him hit like a physical blow—the passenger seat was vacant. His heart thudded erratically, panic rising like a storm. Blinking against the glare of sunlight filtering through the windshield, he scanned the surroundings, chest tightening as confusion clawed at him.

And then he saw him—Suowei, frantic, darting into the forest, weaving between the trees with a desperate urgency that made Chi Cheng’s chest constrict. Branches snapped underfoot, leaves rustled violently, and the distance between them stretched with every heartbeat. For a moment, Chi Cheng was rooted to the spot, torn between pain, fury, and an all-consuming worry that left him hollow and breathless.

“Suowei…” he whispered.

He stumbled out of the car, every step unsteady, and followed.

“Suowei!”

Suowei’s chest heaved violently, each breath sharp and uneven as his legs trembled beneath him. The roots and rocks clawed at his feet, threatening to betray him with every step, yet he refused to stop, his panic propelling him forward. His eyes flicked repeatedly over his shoulder, catching glimpses of Chi Cheng—his figure moving with tense determination, shadowed by worry that made Suowei’s heart hammer even faster.

When he tripped, he let out a small cry before pushing himself up again, refusing to stop.

“Suowei,” Chi Cheng called again, his tone softening with concern.

Then, suddenly, the forest opened, revealing a sheer cliff that dropped into a dizzying abyss of rock and mist. Suowei skidded to a halt, the coarse dirt and pebbles slipping under his feet, and he stumbled forward, grabbing at nothing as the air left his lungs in a strangled gasp. The world seemed to tilt, the wind tugging at his clothes and hair, and he finally turned to face Chi Cheng, chest rising and falling wildly, eyes wide with a mixture of fear, defiance, and something else he couldn’t name.

“Chi Cheng… don’t come closer!” His voice cracked, raw and desperate, echoing against the cliffs, trembling yet fierce. “It’s high—don’t come near!”

Chi Cheng froze mid-step, his chest rising and falling with ragged intensity. The sight of Suowei teetering at the cliff’s edge struck him with a jolt that clawed at his chest, a bitter echo of memory surfacing unbidden—his mother, fragile and trembling, standing on the old bridge, her hair whipped by the wind, her figure poised between fear and resignation. The resemblance was cruel, and for a heartbeat, the world narrowed to Suowei’s wide, terrified eyes and the violent gusts that threatened to pull him into the abyss below.

“Suowei,” he said quietly, stepping closer.

“Please let me go!” Suowei shouted, tears streaming down his face. “What do you want from me?!” He sniffled and carried on sobbing. “Don’t come closer!”

But Chi Cheng’s body moved on instinct, muscles tensing as if the past and present had collided into one unbearable moment. His mind blurred—memories of his mother standing on the bridge, the wind tearing at her hair, the helplessness, the fear—all crashed over him, merging with the sight of Suowei at the cliff’s edge. Step by step, he closed the distance, his eyes locked on the younger boy. When Suowei’s foot slipped on the loose soil, Chi Cheng didn’t think—he lunged forward, fingers gripping Suowei’s arm and yanking him back with a force that made them both stagger.

Suowei hit the ground first, gasping for breath, chest heaving, trembling from fear and exertion. Chi Cheng followed, falling to his knees in front of him, still at the cliff’s edge and immediately wincing at the contact. His fingers brushed against Suowei, a touch so rare, so foreign to him, that it sent a jolt through his entire being. His forehead throbbed from the cut he had sustained in the crash, his vision swimming, yet all he could focus on was the fragile form of Suowei, a mere breath away.

“Mother…” Chi Cheng whispered, voice cracking. “Don’t go, Mother…”

The blood from his forehead trickled down his cheek, mixing with the few tears that began running down his face. He swayed—and then collapsed at Suowei’s feet.

“Suowei!”

A voice called out through the trees. Dr Han emerged, breathless, his coat brushing against the ferns. Once Chengyu had informed Li Wei that Chi Cheng was taking Suowei somewhere, in a very angry manner, the man swiftly called upon Chi Cheng's doctor to find them.

“Dr Han!” Suowei cried, running toward him, eyes red and wet. “Something’s wrong with Master Chi Cheng—please, help him!”

“Stay there,” Dr Han said, approaching and crouching beside Chi Cheng. “Don’t be afraid.” He checked Chi Cheng’s pulse, his breathing, and his eyes. “He’s alive. Just unconscious.”

Suowei stood frozen, shaking. The woods were quiet again, except for the wind that moved gently through the leaves, carrying the faint sound of breaking hearts.

Chapter Text

Dr Han carefully lowered the unconscious Chi Cheng into the backseat of his car, his movements deliberate, the quiet air around them trembling with the kind of tension that only follows a near tragedy. He rested a hand behind Chi Cheng’s head to keep it from lolling against the cold leather, positioning him so the man looked almost peaceful, despite the faint blood at his temple and the unnatural stillness of his body. The faint sound of the wind brushed through the trees, carrying with it the metallic scent of the crash, of fear, of what had almost been lost.

“Why isn’t he waking up?” Suowei’s voice came out small and uncertain, a whisper of desperation that cracked somewhere between guilt and disbelief. His hands were still trembling, his hair dishevelled from running, his eyes glassy with confusion.

Dr Han closed the car door with a soft click and turned to face him, his brows furrowing as he looked from Suowei to the still form in the backseat. “Just… tell me what happened.”

Suowei hesitated, his lips pressing together before he spoke, the faintest pout tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I started to fall,” he said softly, his voice trembling like he wasn’t sure he should even be saying it out loud. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve, twisting the fabric until it wrinkled. “And he—he saved me.”

For a moment, he seemed lost in the memory, his gaze unfocused as if he were still standing at the edge of that cliff, the wind whipping around him, the world spinning too fast to breathe. “I thought I was going to die,” he whispered, eyes darting down to his hands. “But he caught me before I did. Even though he was bleeding… he didn’t let go.”

He swallowed hard, as though the words themselves hurt. “He saved me,” he repeated, quieter this time, almost like he was trying to convince himself that it was true—that Chi Cheng, in all his chaos and cruelty and confusion, had still chosen to hold on.

The doctor’s expression tightened, his brows knitting together as he studied Suowei’s face with a mixture of concern and suspicion. His voice came out low and deliberate, the kind that carried weight even when spoken softly. “Where were you heading to?”

The question seemed to hang in the air between them, sharp and heavy, like a blade waiting to drop. Suowei shifted on his feet, yet the doctor’s eyes didn’t waver—steady, searching, quietly demanding an answer.

It wasn’t anger that colored Dr Han’s tone, but something sterner, sadder—an understanding of how often fear drove people to run, and how often running led them straight into danger. “Tell me, Suowei,” he pressed gently, though the firmness in his voice left no room for evasion. “Where were you heading to?”

Suowei’s gaze dropped to the ground, his shoes digging into the dirt. “He said he’d take me back to my village and marry me off.”

Dr Han exhaled heavily, his eyes scanning the line of trees as though searching for a more merciful truth to give the boy. The faint light of morning fell across his face, deepening the worry carved into his features. “Look,” he began, his voice low, careful. “Chi Cheng has problems with his own self. The fact that you don’t truly want or love him — that your heart didn’t truly desire to marry him — brought him to this state. But listen to me. It won’t lead to this. He won’t take you back to the countryside. He won’t marry you off. What else did he say?”

Suowei’s lips quivered before he spoke in a voice barely above a whisper, fragile and hesitant. “He… he was calling for his mother… he always calls for his mother,” he admitted, the words trembling on his tongue, carrying the weight of fear, confusion, and something he could not quite name—pity, perhaps, or sorrow. 

“More?”

“When he took my hand to save me, it was as if he’d been electrocuted — and then he fell.”

“When he touched you?”

Suowei nodded, slowly, uncertainly, and Dr Han’s face darkened with contemplation. “Okay,” the doctor said finally, his tone gentler. “Get in the car.”

The boy obeyed without protest, trembling slightly, every movement careful and tentative as if afraid one wrong step might undo the fragile sense of safety he clung to. He slid into the passenger seat, hands resting nervously on his knees, and cast a quick, uneasy glance at the unconscious figure of Chi Cheng behind them, as though checking that he was still there, still breathing. Dr Han circled the car with practised precision, settling into the driver’s seat and adjusting the mirrors before turning the key. The engine rumbled to life, a low, steady hum that vibrated through the car and seemed to settle into the tense silence that wrapped itself around them like smoke curling in the air. Outside, the world continued, oblivious to the fragile bubble they occupied, and inside, neither boy nor doctor dared to speak, each lost in their own thoughts, the quiet stretching long and taut between them until the road ahead blurred into shadows and sunlight.

When they arrived at the Garden of Eternal Grace, the late afternoon light painted the courtyard gold. Mr and Mrs Wu were waiting with Chengyu and Li Wei, their faces etched with worry. However, the moment Mrs Wu caught sight of her son, her expression broke open with relief.

“Suowei! Son!” she cried, rushing forward and wrapping him in her arms before he could even shut the car door. She smelled faintly of jasmine and the warmth of home, her embrace tight, trembling.

Mr Wu joined them, his movements more controlled, but his concern no less apparent. He reached out, cupping Suowei’s face between his calloused palms. “Are you okay, son? Did something happen to you? Nothing hurts, right?”

Suowei shook his head, his small shoulders rising and falling as he tried to steady his racing thoughts, and his father let out a shaky, uneven breath, the tension in his frame easing just a fraction, though the shadow of worry still clung to him like a second skin. 

“Let’s go,” Mr Wu said finally, his voice carrying a controlled firmness as he turned toward his wife, the lines of fatigue and fear etched faintly across his face. “Take him home. Get the water ready so he can bathe. Let him come to his senses.” There was a quiet authority in his tone, the kind that brooked no argument, but beneath it, a protective desperation that betrayed how fragile the situation still felt in his heart.

Mrs Wu nodded, her eyes soft yet haunted, and gently locked her arm around her son’s as she guided him forward, murmuring under her breath small, hurried prayers of thanks to the heavens for his safety, the words slipping between them like whispered promises of protection. She paused just for a moment before exiting, turning toward Dr Han with an expression of profound gratitude, her hands folding together as she bowed deeply, almost reverently. “Thank you so, so, so much,” she said, her voice trembling with a mixture of relief and awe, the sincerity of her words hanging in the quiet air like a delicate offering.

Dr Han inclined his head in return, acknowledging her thanks with quiet humility, the faintest crease of thoughtfulness crossing his brow as he observed the family’s concern. But before he could step away, Mr Wu moved closer, his presence immediate and imposing, carrying with it an undercurrent of restrained suspicion that made the room feel smaller, heavier. His eyes, sharp and unblinking, fixed on Dr Han as though trying to measure not just his competence, but the unseen dangers that might still be lurking, the unspoken fear that something might have gone unnoticed. The air between them was taut, filled with the weight of a father’s protective vigilance, the unspoken question of whether the boy’s innocence and safety had truly been preserved.

“Thank you, doctor,” Mr Wu said, his tone polite but edged. He extended his hand, and Dr Han took it cautiously. Mr Wu leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper meant for no one else. “Is there something wrong with Suowei?”

Dr Han froze for a fraction of a second, his brow furrowing in disbelief at the man’s implication — the accusatory tone aimed not at the boy, but at Chi Cheng, still unconscious and bleeding in the car.

Before he could respond, Li Wei intervened. “Mr Wu, I need to speak to Dr Han, please.”

Reluctantly, Mr Wu released the doctor’s hand, throwing one last suspicious glance toward the car before following his wife and son home.

___________________________

Inside the quiet study, the air thick with the faint scent of old paper and polished wood, Li Wei gestured gently for Dr Han to sit. The doctor obliged, lowering himself into the chair with a measured calm, folding his hands neatly in his lap, though his eyes betrayed a storm of concern beneath the surface. 

His gaze, heavy and contemplative, swept across the room as if searching for the words that might bridge the distance between caution and action, while the soft ticking of the old clock on the wall marked time. The silence stretched between them, fragile and loaded, as though the very walls of the study were holding their breath, waiting for the conversation to unravel the tangled threads of worry and uncertainty that had woven themselves around the household.

“Mr Li Wei,” he began, “do you think it won’t be worse next time?”

Li Wei sighed, his eyes dropping to the teacup before him. “Doctor, who knows what will happen next? It is up to us to watch, clasp our hands, and pray.”

“Do you think this will be solved by prayers?” Dr Han replied, his frustration peaking through.

“Of course, I understand the seriousness of the situation,” Li Wei said quietly, his voice like paper worn thin by years of restraint.

Dr Han pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly. “Look, I want to help you. You help me too. This man—Chi Cheng—he has a problem with his family, with his mother, from the past.”

Li Wei’s brows drew together. “Sir, we are his family. What problems could he have with us?”

Dr Han shook his head, closing his eyes briefly. “No.” His tone sounded as if he had given up. “No, we won’t come to an agreement like this… it won’t work. I need to talk to Chi Cheng, find out everything. Okay?”

“Of course,” Li Wei murmured. “Chi Cheng rejoices at such meetings with you, doctor.”

Meanwhile, back at the Wu household, the gentle afternoon light filtered through the lace curtains, casting delicate patterns across the polished floor as Mrs Wu settled beside Suowei on the edge of the sofa, her hands steady but tender, dabbing a cool ointment onto his scraped and bruised knees with soft, deliberate strokes. 

Each touch made the boy flinch slightly, a quiet wince betraying the sting of the tender skin beneath her careful ministrations, and yet, in the warmth of her presence, there was a sense of comfort that wrapped around him like a fragile shield, softening the echoes of fear that still clung stubbornly to his chest. Suowei’s breaths came shallow and uneven, a mixture of lingering fright and the subtle reassurance that, for this moment at least, he was safe, cradled by the unspoken love of the mother who had guided and protected him his entire life.

“Ah, Xiaowei,” she whispered, her voice full of pity.

Suowei straightened instantly. “It doesn’t hurt or burn, don’t worry, Mother. I was just scared. Besides, Dr Han came quickly.”

“I can’t believe Chi Cheng did this,” Mrs Wu muttered, shaking her head.

Suowei’s lips curved in a small, uncertain pout. “I don’t think it was on purpose.”

“My naive boy,” she said, sighing, her voice tender yet exasperated. “My pure boy. Isn’t this something people do on purpose? They say that Master Chi Cheng’s mind is slowly melting.”

Suowei looked down. “Not on purpose,” he said softly. “But it seems to me that Chi Cheng is sick. Something happened to him.” He looked back up at her, his tone fragile, searching. “It’s like it happens and then goes away. His mind is in place, but his soul…”

Mrs Wu wiped her hands on a towel and cupped her son’s face, her expression tightening with fear disguised as firmness. “You are very naive, very merciful. But don’t think about him. Many look at him and forgive him, but you — you think about yourself. Understood?”

Before Suowei could even form a reply, the faint creak of the front door opening downstairs sliced through the quiet, making Mrs Wu’s hands pause midair as she stiffened, her senses sharpening instinctively. With a quick, almost imperceptible inhale, she set the ointment aside, rose gracefully yet urgently from her seat, and moved toward the stairs, each step measured but swift, her eyes narrowing as she peered into the dimly lit hallway, prepared for whatever interruption might have come calling.

Mr Wu entered with thunder in his eyes. “Where is he?!”

“Who?”

“Wu Suowei, who else?” He moved to the base of the stairs and shouted, “Wu Suowei!”

“The boy is sleeping,” she lied, blocking the path to her son. “He’s tired, don’t scream, I beg you.”

The man’s jaw tightened. “What if Master Chi Cheng did something bad to him?”

Mrs Wu stared back defiantly. “God forbid. Suowei himself said he didn’t do anything.”

“Maybe he didn’t say because he was shy! How do you know?!”

“You got your son married yourself,” she shot back. “And now you don’t even wish for his own husband to touch him?! Come to your senses! They will live together at some point! This is all your doing! It’s all your fault!”

He took a deep breath, his fists trembling at his sides. “I’m going to leave,” he said through gritted teeth, “just so I don’t do anything to you. But I swear, I will find out everything about this matter.”

Meanwhile, Chi Cheng remained motionless on the sofa in his study, the blanket aimlessly draped across his broad chest, his body tense beneath it despite the shallow, uneven rhythm of his breathing. The late afternoon light filtered through the half-drawn curtains in fractured slivers, cutting across his features and illuminating the faint lines of strain etched into his face, the subtle tremor of his hands, the ghost of sleepless nights and relentless self-reproach.

Li Wei, seated carefully on the edge of the sofa, leaned close, his voice a soft, reverent murmur as he whispered the prayer, syllables curling like smoke through the quiet room, before he cupped his hands gently and blew the blessing toward Chi Cheng, the faint exhalation stirring the loose strands of hair across his nephew’s forehead, leaving a fragile trace of comfort in its wake.

The sudden sensation startled Chi Cheng, his eyes snapping open.

“Uncle,” he breathed, disoriented, his hand gripping the edge of the blanket.

“I wanted to talk to you a little.”

Chi Cheng rolled onto his back, resting an arm behind his head. “You aren’t my uncle today.”

Li Wei tilted his head, his heart tightening. “Where is this coming from, Chi Cheng?”

“When I was little and you were angry,” Chi Cheng said, his voice detached, distant, “you said you weren’t my uncle — you were Mr Li Wei. Because if you were my uncle, you wouldn’t be able to get angry. That’s what you used to say.”

Li Wei closed his eyes, shame flickering across his features. However, Chi Cheng just sighed, eyes squeezing shut. “You’re right. I’m angry at myself, too.”

“I wasn’t just angry,” Li Wei said gently. “I was also upset. I do everything in my hands and power to raise you well, and you put both yourself and me in such a position. Marriage is tradition — if you follow it, you’re respected. But if you say that you are incapable, that it is difficult for you, that you cannot, then finish this marriage. Nobody will judge you.”

“I don’t know,” Chi Cheng admitted, voice low. “Suowei—”

Li Wei interrupted. “It is up to you. Nobody else has a say in this marriage. It’ll be as you say.”

As he rose, straightening the folds of his coat with slow, deliberate movements, Chi Cheng’s voice broke the quiet of the study once more, low and hesitant, almost as if the words themselves were a question he wasn’t sure he had the right to ask. “Won’t you ask?”

Li Wei paused mid-step, tilting his head slightly as he regarded his nephew. “Ask what?”

Chi Cheng’s eyes flickered briefly toward the window, toward the fading light that cast long shadows across the room, before returning to Li Wei. “Won’t you ask if I did something?” The words trembled just enough to betray the vulnerability he usually buried beneath layers of pride and fury.

Li Wei shook his head slowly, a quiet resolve in his expression. “I won’t ask.” He pressed a hand over his heart, the gesture heavy with reassurance and trust. “The boy said you didn’t do anything. As you can see, he protected you.”

Chi Cheng’s brows knitted together in surprise, the tension in his jaw loosening slightly. “He isn’t mad at me?” His voice was barely above a whisper, disbelief mingling with a fragile hope.

Li Wei’s lips curved into the faintest of smiles, soft and almost secretive, yet filled with warmth. “No.”

Chi Cheng’s gaze drifted away from his uncle, resting on some distant point beyond the study walls. His eyes softened, the harsh lines of anger and worry momentarily melting away. “Such a good boy,” he murmured, almost tender, the words slipping out like a secret confession meant only for himself. “Like an angel.”

___________________________

Xiaoshuai stood rigidly by the edge of the courtyard, the late afternoon sun casting long, wavering shadows across the stone beneath his feet, his fingers drumming an uneven rhythm against the cool surface of the wall. Each tap echoed his restless agitation, a tiny percussion to match the storm inside him—a storm of worry, frustration, and an anger he could not fully name. Ever since Suowei had been brought home, pale and trembling, with knees scraped raw and eyes glistening from the kind of fear that burrowed deep and lingered long, Xiaoshuai had found himself unable to sit still, unable to focus on anything except the thought of the boy who should never have been put in such peril. Every glance he cast toward the doors of the garden was impatient, every sigh a muted exclamation of his own helplessness, until finally he spotted Chengyu returning from his duties, and a tense hope stirred in him that perhaps someone—anyone—could explain why Suowei had been left alone, vulnerable, in the shadow of Chi Cheng’s volatile presence.

When Chengyu finally appeared, his coat still damp with sweat from the afternoon’s labour, his usual easy smile faltered at the sight of Xiaoshuai’s expression.

“You look like you’ve been waiting to bite someone,” he said lightly, though the humour didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Xiaoshuai’s lips twitched into something between a grimace and a smirk. “Maybe I have.”

Chengyu frowned and stepped closer, his voice low. “Is this about Suowei?”

“Of course it’s about him!” Xiaoshuai’s tone sharpened as his gaze rose to meet Chengyu’s. “You knew, Chengyu. You knew about Chi Cheng’s condition, and you still left Suowei alone with him.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and trembling.

Chengyu’s eyes darkened. “I didn’t mean to leave him alone,” he said quietly. “I was helpless, and I trusted that Chi Cheng—”

“Trusted?” Xiaoshuai cut him off. “You trusted a man who can’t tell past from present? Who barely knows what he’s doing when his head starts to spiral?” His voice cracked, brittle with worry that he could no longer hide. “He could’ve got seriously hurt, Chengyu!  Suowei could’ve died. You’re just lucky that Chi Cheng’s morals finally flickered through for a brief second!”

The silence that followed was filled with the distant hum of crickets and the soft rustling of trees swaying under a tired wind.

Xiaoshuai’s chest tightened at the intensity in Chengyu’s voice, the heat of it pressing against him like a physical weight. Chengyu took a deliberate, measured step forward, closing the small distance between them until only inches remained, his presence suffocating in its closeness, his gaze sharp and unyielding. 

“You think I don’t care?” he repeated, his words low and rough, almost a whisper but charged with raw, unrelenting emotion. “You think I’d ever let something happen to him on purpose?” The edge in his tone was tempered by something quieter, a tremor of frustration and fear that Xiaoshuai could feel vibrating through the air, a silent declaration that Chengyu’s care was not just a thought but a force as fierce and urgent as the wind in a storm.

“I think you don’t think, Chengyu.”

The words hit him like a blade drawn too fast, too close.

Chengyu’s shoulders dropped slightly, his anger bleeding into exhaustion. “I made a mistake,” he said, his voice quieter now, heavy with guilt. “But you act as if I wanted this to happen. As if I don’t lose sleep every night too!”

The look in his eyes made Xiaoshuai’s breath falter. There was something unguarded there—something that made his own anger stumble and lose balance.

“You lose sleep over Suowei?” Xiaoshuai asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Chengyu’s eyes softened slightly, and in that moment, all the sharpness of earlier anger seemed to melt into something quieter, more fragile. “I lose sleep over you,” Chengyu said again, his voice steady, almost cruel in its honesty, “because every time something happens, you look at me like this—like I’m the one who set the fire.”

The words hung in the air, lingering like smoke, wrapping the small courtyard in their weight. Xiaoshuai’s throat tightened, and for a moment, he didn’t know whether to yell, to protest, or to cry. His fingers flexed against the stone wall behind him, trembling slightly, before he managed, “You’re impossible.” The words came out soft, shaking, carrying more emotion than irritation, and they felt almost embarrassing even as they left his lips.

Chengyu’s lips curved into a faint smile, one that held the weight of patience, understanding, and a tenderness Xiaoshuai rarely saw. “And you’re the most stubborn person I’ve ever met,” he said gently, the teasing edge gone, replaced by something almost protective.

“Don’t start,” Xiaoshuai muttered, turning slightly away, pretending to adjust his sleeves, though his voice betrayed the faintest hint of warmth creeping back.

Chengyu watched him for a long, measured moment, letting the silence stretch comfortably between them. Then, with a soft exhalation that seemed to carry the day’s lingering tension, he said, “Come inside. It’s getting cold.” The words were quiet, a gentle command that Xiaoshuai found he couldn’t refuse, not when the concern behind them pressed so clearly against his chest.

Xiaoshuai hesitated, his body still humming with the aftertaste of argument, but the way Chengyu said it—gentle, coaxing—made something inside him relent. He followed quietly, and they walked side by side through the dim hall until they reached the kitchen, where the faint glow of candles cast a honeyed light over the walls.

Chengyu poured two cups of tea. Neither of them spoke for a while.

When Xiaoshuai finally looked up, the words came out softer than he meant. “Don’t be careless again. He’s like a brother to me.”

“I know,” Chengyu said simply. Then, with a half-smile that almost made Xiaoshuai roll his eyes, he added, “And you’re like a storm to me.”

The younger tilted his head in confusion. “Meaning?”

“Meaning you ruin my peace. Don’t get me wrong, though,” Chengyu smirked, “I’d still rather have you around.”

The silence that followed wasn’t sharp anymore—it was warm, alive.

___________________________

That night, after the lamps had been dimmed and the house fell into the quiet rhythm of sleep, Suowei and Xiaoshuai lay side by side on the floor of Suowei’s bedroom. The air smelled faintly of lavender and smoke from candles, and outside, the wind brushed against the shutters like an old friend.

Suowei was the first to speak, his voice low, almost playful, carrying that soft teasing edge he always used when trying to coax someone out of their stubborn silence. “So… what did you and Chengyu argue about this time?” His eyes, curious and sharp, followed every subtle twitch of Xiaoshuai’s expression, noting the slight tightening of his jaw and the way his fingers fidgeted against the edge of his sleeves. He knew his cousin too well—better than anyone, perhaps—and this unusual quiet unsettled him. 

Xiaoshuai wasn’t normally like this. Even after an argument had been resolved, he would chew over every word and every glance for the next couple of days, sometimes even longer. Suowei leaned forward slightly, letting the moonlight catch the glint of mischief in his eyes, and added softly, almost conspiratorially, “Come on… you can tell me. You can’t hide it from me.” The way he said it wasn’t accusatory—it was gentle, patient, almost coaxing, like a hand extended to pull someone out of a shadow they didn’t want to step out of.

Xiaoshuai groaned, covering his face with a pillow. “You always know everything, don’t you?”

“Of course. Your face speaks so many volumes,” Suowei teased, his lips curling into a tired smile. “What was it about?”

“About you, of course,” Xiaoshuai said, lowering the pillow. “Because he doesn’t think before he acts, and I don’t want you getting hurt again.”

Suowei turned to face him, his expression soft. “I’m not a child. Chengyu doesn’t need to protect me, so don’t argue because of me,” he said quietly. “Please.”

“He was careless,” Xiaoshuai muttered.

“Yes,” Suowei agreed, his voice soft but steady, carrying a weight that belied his years, “but I forgive him. And I forgive Chi Cheng, too.”

Xiaoshuai’s eyes widened in surprise, a mix of incredulity and awe crossing his features. “You what?”

“I forgive him,” Suowei repeated, letting his words settle into the quiet of the room, firmer this time, deliberate, almost as if saying them aloud made them more real. “Because I know it isn’t his fault. He can’t help it. There’s something broken inside him, something that claws at him in ways no one else can see, and I think it hurts more than anyone realises. And I… I can’t hold that against him.”

The room seemed to shrink around them, the soft tick of a clock in the distance the only sound. Dust motes drifted lazily, settling in the pause that hung between them. For a long moment, Xiaoshuai simply looked at him—the boy who could forgive even the hand that had frightened him, the boy whose gentleness seemed almost dangerous in a world so full of sharp edges. His eyes, wide and earnest, reflected a rare mix of admiration, disbelief, and quiet sorrow.

Then, quietly, almost in a whisper that felt too tender for the weight it carried, he said, “You’re too kind for this world, Suowei.”

Suowei’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile, eyes half-closed as if shielding himself from the intensity of the moment. “Or too foolish,” he murmured, the words carrying a playful lilt despite their depth, a shield against the vulnerability of truth.

“Both,” Xiaoshuai said, and this time his tone was warm, carrying a fondness that softened the edge of frustration he often wore, a rare tenderness reserved only for moments like this, when the world seemed quieter, and people could finally breathe.

___________________________

The next morning arrived with a quiet, almost fragile beauty, the kind of dawn that felt like it had been whispered into existence rather than demanded. Sunlight poured in through the window in thin, trembling ribbons, painting the wooden floor with streaks of gold that wavered with the gentle sway of the curtains. The air carried a soft scent of tea leaves left to steep overnight, mingling with the faint, earthy aroma of dew that had settled on the small garden of the Wu Estate just beyond the glass. It was the kind of morning that felt suspended in time, as if the world itself had held its breath in delicate anticipation.

Suowei lay curled beneath the covers, his chest rising and falling in the slow, untroubled rhythm of sleep. His long lashes rested against his cheeks, dusted with the pale light of the morning, and his hair had fallen in soft waves across his forehead. He breathed deeply, the faint tension of the previous day finally giving way to a fragile stillness that had almost seemed impossible the night before.

A soft, tentative pat pressed against his shoulder, warm and steady, and Suowei stirred. He shifted slightly, his mind hovering between dreams and the tug of waking, a flutter of consciousness brushing against the remnants of sleep. The touch was insistent enough to rouse him, yet gentle, carrying with it the familiar timbre of care and concern. Slowly, he blinked, his eyes adjusting to the pale light spilling across the room, and the hush of the morning seemed to fold around him, cradling him in quiet urgency.

“Suowei,” came his father’s whisper.

He stirred, blinking against the light.

“Get up, son,” Mr Wu said quietly. “Get up—we must go.”

Suowei rubbed his eyes, still heavy with sleep. “Father?”

“Come now,” Mr Wu said, pulling a coat from the chair and draping it over his son’s shoulders. “Wear your coat. It’s cold.”

“Father, where are we going?”

“Just do as I say.”

Suowei sat up fully now, confusion wrinkling his brow. “What about Mother?”

“She’ll come later,” Mr Wu said briskly. “Come on, shoes on.”

The firmness in his tone left no room for questions.

Outside, the morning fog clung stubbornly to the earth, weaving between the trees and curling around the edges of the road in soft, silver tendrils. It blurred the world beyond the van, wrapping the landscape in a quiet, secretive hush, the kind of hush that made every sound—every scrape of a wheel, every rustle of leaves—feel louder, sharper, more immediate. Mr Wu opened the van door with deliberate calm, his hand steady as he gestured for his son to climb in.

“Father,” Suowei’s voice broke the stillness, small but insistent, “are we going somewhere far? Mother should—”

“Enough, son. Sit down.”

His father’s words were quiet, tempered, but they carried an authority that left no room for argument, the kind of authority that had always made Suowei hesitate and obey, even when questions lingered on his tongue. He swallowed, his throat tight, and slowly climbed into the van, the leather seat cold against his skin.

As he settled, still dazed and trying to shake off the weight of yesterday’s events, his eyes roamed across the interior of the van, finally resting on the man sitting opposite him. A physician, stooped slightly over a bag filled with instruments that caught the light in subtle glimmers, his presence professional yet somehow suspicious at the edges. The man lifted his gaze, meeting Suowei’s uncertain eyes, and offered a small, measured smile.

“You’re so young,” he said softly, his voice calm but laced with curiosity as he studied Suowei’s features, lingering over the boy’s figure. Suowei blinked, unsure what to make of the words, unsure why a sudden tightness coiled in his chest, the kind of unease that wasn’t quite fear but wasn’t comfort either.

The door shut with a dull click, a sound that reverberated faintly in the thick morning air. The van began to move, its engine humming low, vibrating softly through the metal beneath Suowei’s fingers as he gripped the edge of the seat. 

And somewhere, far behind them, from the upper floor window of the Wu house, Xiaoshuai pressed his face against the glass, breath fogging the pane as he watched the van disappear down the winding road. His heart pounded, the realisation of what his uncle was about to do striking him in sudden, jagged waves. 

He didn’t even stop to think. He threw on his clothes, his hands shaking, and bolted out the door. The morning air cut cold against his face as he ran, the path a blur beneath his feet. He didn’t stop until the gates of the Garden of Eternal Grace came into view—until he caught sight of Chengyu crossing the courtyard.

“Xiaoshuai?” Chengyu called, startled by the sight of him—dishevelled, breathless, eyes wild.

Xiaoshuai stumbled forward, clutching Chengyu’s sleeves. “My uncle—Mr Wu—he took Suowei to a physician.” His words tumbled out in a rush. “He doesn’t trust Chi Cheng, he thinks—he thinks something happened, and the physician is going to check Suowei, for marks, for—” His voice broke, the last words slipping out as a whisper. “For any indication he could ever find of… intercourse.”

Chengyu’s expression darkened, the warmth that usually lingered in his eyes evaporating as it was replaced by a sharp, almost feral intensity. His jaw tightened, and the set of his shoulders made him look larger, more commanding, a protective force coiled and ready to act. The playful light that sometimes softened his features was gone, leaving only a quiet, simmering determination that made the air between them feel taut, as if it could snap at any moment.

“Please,” Xiaoshuai said, his voice breaking slightly, trembling with the weight of fear and helplessness. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, and his hands twisted together as though holding himself together was the only thing keeping him upright. “Please, Chengyu… my cousin is pure. He’ll be terrified. He—he doesn’t deserve this.”

Chengyu’s hands reached out, cupping Xiaoshuai’s face with an unusual gentleness that contrasted with the fire in his eyes, grounding the trembling boy in his steadiness. His thumbs brushed lightly against Xiaoshuai’s cheeks, warm and firm, anchoring him to the present. “Don’t worry,” he said, his voice low and controlled, soft yet carrying an unshakable authority. “We’ll get him. I promise.”

The words lingered between them, echoing in the quiet of the courtyard, wrapping around Xiaoshuai like a protective cloak. In that moment, the boy felt a fragile hope thread through his fear, a reassurance that somehow, with Chengyu there, Suowei would be safe, no matter the danger that had carried him away. The tremor in Xiaoshuai’s hands eased slightly, though his eyes remained wide, still brimming with worry, still holding onto the trust that Chengyu’s promise had ignited.

Chapter Text

The morning light slanted through the lattice windows of Li Wei’s study, pale and forgiving, spilling across the room like liquid gold. Dust floated in the air—tiny fragments of stillness suspended in silence. The faint scent of sandalwood clung to the shelves, to the parchment, to the robes that hung on their pegs. Outside, the cicadas had not yet begun their songs, and inside, the only sound was the gentle ticking of the old clock beside the desk.

Chi Cheng sat across from his uncle, posture composed but eyes restless, the kind of restlessness that came after sickness—not of the body, but of the soul. His hands were folded neatly in his lap, but his fingers betrayed him, twitching slightly against one another, like a secret he couldn’t hold still.

Li Wei studied him quietly. “I see you’re feeling better,” he said finally, his voice calm, deliberate, as if speaking too loudly might break the fragile quiet between them. “You came to your senses quickly, thank God.”

Chi Cheng nodded, the movement small but certain. “I’m fine, thank God.” His voice was low, almost hoarse, his gaze dropping to the rug beneath their feet. “All the people who came to the temple yesterday,” he murmured, “did they come for me?”

Li Wei smiled, faintly, almost wistfully. “They waited at the door for you,” he said. “They prayed for you. Maybe, thanks to their prayers, you got better.”

Chi Cheng’s throat tightened, and something like disbelief flickered in his eyes. “I don’t know what I did to deserve such generosity and love,” he whispered, his voice unsteady for the briefest second. Then, as if to hide it, he added quickly, “But Dr Han’s medication also helped.”

Li Wei chuckled softly. “Yes, yes—you got better thanks to a little bit of everything. Faith, medicine, and perhaps—”

“Uncle.”

The interruption was quiet, but sharp enough to slice the air between them. It wasn’t loud, not even defiant, but it carried the kind of quiet power that made the room pause to listen.

Li Wei stopped mid-sentence, his mouth still half-open, the air stilling between them. The faint rustle of the paper on his desk was suddenly too loud. He lowered his hands slowly, eyes lifting to his nephew.

Chi Cheng’s expression was unreadable—serene on the surface, but with an undercurrent Li Wei couldn’t quite name. His tone, when he spoke, was calm but resolute; his voice filled the air with something heavier than sound. “Those who came yesterday,” he said, his gaze drifting toward the open window as though he could still see them waiting at the temple gates. “I want to meet them and talk to them. Let them know I’m okay.”

Li Wei blinked, caught off guard by the quiet insistence in his voice. There was a flicker of something behind Chi Cheng’s eyes—a need that wasn’t about gratitude or duty, but about absolution. The kind that came from someone who’d seen death too closely and woke up wanting to feel human again.

“Chi Cheng,” Li Wei said gently, folding his hands on the desk as though that might steady the moment, “rest a little more. There are still things you need to be careful about. Don’t worry—the people will know you’re okay.”

But Chi Cheng was already shaking his head, and the faintest hint of a bitter smile ghosted his lips. “I don’t want them to hear it from someone else,” he said, his eyes dark and focused. “I want them to see me. Alive. Whole.”

The words fell heavy, and Li Wei felt them like stones dropped into still water.

He’d seen this before—this fire that burned too bright in the blood of his family. The same relentless defiance that his brother once carried, the kind that refused to yield even when the world demanded it. Stubbornness born of hurt. Strength born of loss. The kind of spirit that would rather break than bend.

He opened his mouth to speak, to tell Chi Cheng that some battles were not worth fighting so soon—but before the words could find their way out, a knock split the silence.

Sharp. Urgent. Unmistakably wrong.

Both of them turned their heads toward the door.

“Come in,” Li Wei said, his voice tightening slightly.

The door flew open.

Chengyu stumbled inside, breathless, the edges of panic still clinging to his face. His eyes found Li Wei at once, desperate for direction, unaware of the quiet figure seated in the corner. 

“Mr Wu—” he began, but stopped abruptly when he saw Chi Cheng seated there. The name died in his throat, and his lips clamped shut as if he’d swallowed something sharp.

Li Wei’s eyes narrowed. “Chengyu.”

The young man swallowed hard. His shoulders were tense, his fingers twisting in the fabric of his sleeve. “Sir,” he managed, his voice uneven.

Chi Cheng turned his head slowly, gaze steady and cutting, like the quiet turn of a blade. He stood up, approaching Chengyu. “You mentioned Mr Wu.”

The air in the room seemed to drop several degrees.

Chengyu hesitated, his throat bobbing. “Yes, sir,” he said finally, the words catching slightly. “Mr Wu… he took his son to a run-down clinic in the area.”

Li Wei’s brows drew together, his frown deepening. “For what?”

The young man froze. His eyes darted to Li Wei, then to Chi Cheng, then back again. He looked like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, aware that no matter what direction he chose, he’d fall.

Chi Cheng didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe, it seemed. But something in his eyes—dark, deliberate, unblinking—made Chengyu falter, made his next words drag like stones over gravel.

“To check…” he said at last, his voice barely a whisper, “his son.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Li Wei exhaled slowly through his nose, closing his eyes for a brief moment, his hands tightening over one another. He didn’t need to ask what “check his son” meant. He’d lived long enough to understand the cruelty that hid inside such words.

Chi Cheng’s expression was carved from stone. His jaw was tight, his gaze distant yet burning. There was no hesitation in him—just a steady, quiet fury that made the entire room feel smaller.

Without a single word, he turned on his heel and strode past Chengyu, brushing past him with a silence more commanding than a shout. The door shuddered softly as it closed behind him.

Li Wei remained still for a moment, watching the space where his nephew had been, his chest tight with a strange mix of pride and dread.

He pressed a hand to his temple, the beginnings of a headache coiling behind his eyes. “Guo Chengyu,” he muttered, voice heavy, “your mouth…”

Chengyu flinched.

Li Wei stood abruptly, the chair scraping softly against the polished floor, a sharp reminder of the urgency in his movement. He slipped his arms into his coat with swift, precise motions, the fabric rustling as he adjusted it over his shoulders. Then, turning toward Chengyu, his gaze was firm and unyielding, his hand lifting in a commanding gesture toward the door. “Come!” he said, his voice carrying both authority and a subtle undercurrent of warning, leaving no room for hesitation. 

And together, they hurried after the storm that had just walked out.

___________________________

Outside, the morning air hung thick and heavy, the kind of grey that seemed to seep into bones and thoughts alike, as if the sky itself had grown sombre in anticipation of trouble. Mist curled along the edges of the courtyard, clinging to the stones like whispered warnings, and the faint scent of damp earth and lingering dew filled the air, making every breath feel weighted.

At the Wu household, Xiaoshuai’s legs ached and burned from the frantic run, his heart hammering so violently that it seemed to echo in his ears louder than the soft rustle of the waking house. He reached the door and slammed his fist against it with all the force he could muster, shouting until his voice fractured and rasped from sheer panic. The sound of his urgent cries seemed to reverberate endlessly through the still morning, scattering a few early birds from the trees.

When Wu Ma finally appeared, rubbing sleep from her eyes and tugging her tangled hair back into some semblance of order, her robe loosely wrapped around her shoulders, she froze at the sight before her: Xiaoshuai’s wide, desperate eyes, the beads of sweat on his forehead, and the unsteady, trembling way he clutched at the doorframe.

“Auntie…” he gasped, his voice breaking under the weight of fear, his chest heaving as if every breath were a battle.

“Xiaoshuai,” she said, her alarm immediately igniting as she pushed fully into wakefulness. “Son, what’s wrong?”

“Uncle…” he stammered, swallowing hard as his throat tightened, the words catching halfway. “Uncle Wu… took Suowei to get… checked out by a physician.”

Her face drained of colour, pale and rigid, her breath catching sharply as if she’d been punched in the stomach. “What did you say?” Her voice was sharp now, edged with disbelief and rising panic.

He didn’t need to repeat himself. Her reaction spoke volumes. Before he could say another word, she was already turning on her heel, her voice slicing through the hall like a bell of warning and desperation. “Suowei! Wu Suowei!”

But the house offered only silence in return, thick and oppressive, the kind that made each second stretch unbearably long. No footsteps, no answering calls—just a void that seemed to swallow the frantic echo of her voice whole.

___________________________

The clinic was dim, the faint light struggling through narrow windows, casting long, distorted shadows across the walls, the faint smell of rust and herbs thick in the air, clinging to the furniture, hanging heavy around them as though the room itself had been holding its breath in anticipation of the fear it knew it would witness. Suowei followed his father hesitantly, small steps echoing in the near-empty hallway, his young face clouded with confusion, with a tremor of dread that made his stomach twist into knots he didn’t even want to name. “Father,” he whispered, voice tight and quivering, “for God’s sake… what’s going on?” His words were swallowed by the cavernous quiet of the clinic, the sound of his uncertainty almost tangible.

“Don’t be afraid, son,” Mr Wu said curtly, his voice sharp, almost brittle, eyes avoiding his son’s pleading gaze. “Stop.” Then, his voice softened, but only slightly, as he turned to the physician standing nearby, his posture stiff with authority. “Sir… can you check him right away?”

“Of course, of course,” the physician said, nodding as though it were a simple task, his hands steady and deliberate, though there was an unsettling detachment to him. He motioned to his assistant, who stepped forward with precise steps, hand outstretched. “Take the boy into the room,” he instructed.

But Suowei recoiled instinctively, the edges of panic lacing his frame. “Dad, what’s going on? Who is this?!” he demanded, voice rising in pitch and desperation, eyes wide and shimmering with the first glimmers of tears.

“Son,” Wu Pa said, voice hard, almost cutting, “I told you not to be afraid. The physician will take a look. Are you still pure or not? Did anything happen to you? Those are the things he’ll check for.”

The words landed on Suowei like a heavy blow, pressing down on his chest, constricting the air in his lungs. His eyes widened, his hands clenching at his sides, already slick with the beginnings of tears. “Dad…” he whispered, voice trembling, barely audible. “I don’t want to… I’m fine. Nothing happened. Please… I’m really scared.”

The physician’s voice was soft, almost soothing in its tone, but it carried a precision that made the words feel more like commands than comfort. “I have a light hand, son. Don’t be afraid. Come on.”

“Come on, Suowei,” his father echoed, his voice hardening, the edges sharp, the weight of authority pressing down.

“Dad, please…” Suowei’s small voice cracked, rising in desperation, shaking with every syllable. “I’m fine. I don’t want this.”

Mr Wu’s jaw tightened, the veins in his neck taut, and in one swift, unyielding motion, he grabbed his son’s arm and dragged him toward the examination room, the boy’s small protests swallowed by the echo of the walls.

“Dad, I’m fine! I don’t want to! Please!” Suowei screamed, the sound high and desperate, reverberating like a fragile glass shattering.

“Suowei, don’t disgrace me!” Mr Wu barked, shoving him inside and slamming the door with a force that made the entire room shudder. “I’m right here, son!” He shouted from the other side of the door.

And then came the sound—raw, piercing, helpless: the sobbing, struggling, urgent voice of a boy so terrified it seemed to scrape the air itself. “Dad, I swear to God, he didn’t do anything! Please get me out of here!”

“Calm down, son. Lie down,” the physician said, his voice trying to sound gentle, measured, but the words felt wrong, cold against the raw terror in Suowei’s cries.

“I didn’t do anything! I swear I didn’t! Let me go!”

The man stepped closer, and Suowei, trembling from head to toe, shoved him back with all the strength his arms could muster. “Don’t touch me!” he screamed, tears streaming freely now, streaking his pale face.

The physician’s hands came again, gripping Suowei’s wrists, and the boy screamed even louder, the sound ragged and broken. “Don’t touch! Don’t touch!”

Finally, the man drew back, his tone hard now, sharp, a reprimand rather than comfort. “Look at you! Even if nothing happened, people will say that everything did!”

Suowei’s sobs turned into quiet, choking hiccups, the words barely escaping his lips through tears and panic. “I will not lie down! Dad… please! I don’t want this! Don’t touch me!”

Then—a sudden bang at the door, startling in its decisiveness. A voice, deep, commanding, cut through the air like a blade.

“Open the door, Mr Wu! Suowei!”

Time seemed to stop. Every heart in the room froze.

Mr Wu’s hands trembled, his grip slackening on the door handle as he hesitated. Slowly, he turned the knob, and when the door swung open, he came face-to-face with Chi Cheng. The man’s presence was like a storm coiled into flesh, tall and immovable, eyes sharp and cold, cutting through the air and pinning Mr Wu to the spot. Behind him, Mrs Wu stood, breathless, hair dishevelled, eyes wide with fear and hope alike.

Chi Cheng stepped into the clinic without hesitation, filling the small space with the sheer weight of his presence, the kind of presence that made the air itself seem to bend around him, the kind of quiet, lethal authority that rendered Mr Wu momentarily powerless.

Wu Ma rushed forward, her voice cracking under the strain. “Where’s Suowei?!”

Her husband moved instinctively to block her. “Don’t shout in front of people—”

“Mr Wu,” Chi Cheng’s voice sliced through the chaos, low, deadly, impossible to ignore. His father-in-law froze, unable to move, unable to speak.

Then Suowei’s cries pierced again, muffled but unmistakable, shattering the room. “Let me go! I don’t want to! Don’t touch me!”

Mrs Wu’s heart felt as though it had stopped in her chest. She surged forward, shoving the door to the back room open with all her strength. “Suowei!” she gasped, her voice breaking into sobs as she pulled him close, slamming the door behind her to shield him from the world.

Chi Cheng shifted, stepping forward, placing himself firmly between Mr Wu and the closed door, a barrier of unyielding steel. His expression remained unreadable, but his feelings of restrained rage radiated in waves from him, pressing down on the room, forcing obedience, demanding silence.

“Because of your son,” he said slowly, each word deliberate, his voice cold and lethal, “I will spare you. Thank your son for your safety.”

When the door opened again, Mrs Wu emerged, clinging to Suowei’s arm like an overprotective lion who had just found their fragile cub seeking protection, her face streaked with tears, lips trembling, breath coming in short, shuddering gasps.

Chi Cheng’s eyes swept over his husband in a rapid, calculating glance, noting every mark, every expression, every flicker of pain or fear, assessing for harm without a single word.

Mrs Wu pressed her lips together, bowing her head slightly in gratitude to her son-in-law. Chi Cheng inclined his head once, imperceptibly, before stepping back to allow them to pass.

Outside, the family moved cautiously, the air between them taut with tension. Mr Wu began to turn on his wife and son, voice low and venomous. “Don’t you dare raise your eyes—”

Chi Cheng stopped mid-step, his gaze slicing through Mr Wu like ice, crawling down his spine, freezing him in place. Slowly, with the weight of inevitability pressing down, Mr Wu turned around, defeated by the quiet authority of the man who had stepped in.

Chi Cheng said nothing. He simply positioned himself strategically, walking ahead so that Suowei and Wu Ma moved safely behind him, a silent sentinel, a living shield.

“Mother,” Suowei whispered, voice fragile and trembling, eyes wide. “How did you find me?”

“Master Chi Cheng found out,” she said softly, her eyes flicking toward the man leading them.

Suowei’s gaze followed Chi Cheng for a fleeting moment, locking with his. There was a softness there—almost imperceptible, fleeting, a trace of pity, of understanding, of quiet assurance—before Chi Cheng looked away, walking steadfastly, guarding them with a presence that could not be questioned.

___________________________

The sun dipped toward the horizon, its mellow, amber light spilling across the empty streets and slanting through the windows, stretching long shadows that hinted at the day’s slow decline into evening. A sharp knock echoed through the quiet house. Wu Ma and Wu Pa had already been summoned by Li Wei, and Xiaoshuai was still lingering at the market, leaving Suowei alone in the dimming stillness of the home.

Suowei descended the stairs barefoot, each step hesitant, his body still trembling from the events of the morning, from the fear and chaos that clung to him like a second skin. His hair fell loosely around his forehead, bouncing with each step he took. Through the thin, gauzy curtain of the front door, he saw him—Chi Cheng—standing perfectly still on the steps outside, his back straight, shoulders squared, and expression unreadable, a presence so steady it seemed to hush the world around him.

Suowei’s fingers twisted nervously in the hem of his sleeve as he reached the door. He hesitated for the briefest heartbeat before lifting the latch.

“Good afternoon,” Chi Cheng said, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of control, of someone who had never needed permission to take charge of a moment.

“Good afternoon,” Suowei whispered, his voice small, almost swallowed by the distance between them. He shifted on his feet, unsure of what to do with the pounding of his own heart.

“Is your mother home?” Chi Cheng asked, eyes lingering on Suowei, taking in the lines of exhaustion etched so faintly across his face, the very faint shadows beneath his eyes, the slight tremor in his posture.

“She went to the temple,” Suowei said softly, glancing up through his lashes. “She’s there, if you want to see her.”

Chi Cheng studied him for a long moment, his gaze deliberate, as if weighing the boy’s words against some hidden measure of truth. “Are you okay?”

Suowei hesitated, his throat tight as though his voice had been stolen. He lowered his gaze, fiddling with the edge of his sleeve as he avoided the question. “For the damage to the car,” he began carefully as he referred to the other day’s events, “my father will pay from his salary—”

“The damage belongs to me,” Chi Cheng interrupted, his voice low but steady, unwavering. “And the damage that was about to be caused today… belongs to me too.”

Suowei knitted his eyebrows together in confusion. Chi Cheng had saved him today, not caused him any damage. “What are you talking about? If you hadn’t come—”

“I came to apologise,” Chi Cheng said, cutting him off, his tone flat yet carrying the strange weight of something unspoken, a remorse so deeply buried it trembled beneath the surface. “I hope you’ll forgive me…for everything I’ve done.” He inclined his head once, a gesture of closure, and turned to leave, each step measured, controlled, almost ritualistic.

“Wait!” Suowei’s voice cracked, carrying across the small threshold. Chi Cheng paused, his body half-turned, the wind catching at his coat as he glanced back.

Suowei moved quickly to the coatrack, crouching to reach into his pocket. His fingers were trembling, but steady enough to retrieve what he held—the beaded bracelet Chi Cheng had broken the day of the incident, carefully restrung by Suowei himself, the missing bead replaced by a single red pearl that gleamed softly in the fading light compared to the other beads. He held it out to Chi Cheng.

“You dropped and broke it,” Suowei said, his voice small but resolute.

Chi Cheng’s eyes lingered on it, lingering longer than seemed natural, tracing the tiny repairs, the painstaking effort. He took it finally, his thumb brushing the smooth red bead with an admiration that made Suowei’s chest tighten. His brow furrowed faintly, shadows flickering over his features as he looked at the shorter again.

“I couldn’t find one of the beads,” Suowei murmured, his voice soft, almost a whisper. “So I put this in its place.”

Chi Cheng’s voice, when it came, was quiet, almost reverent. “Then, every time I look at this, I will remember the shame.” His gaze found Suowei’s as they locked eyes, steady, piercing, and for the briefest moment, something unguarded flickered there. “I apologise for the pain I caused you.” He inclined his head again, a gesture of quiet farewell. “Goodbye.”

Suowei mirrored the bow, his fingers still clutching the edge of his sleeves, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on him.

Chi Cheng had only taken a few steps before the sudden arrival of Chengyu in the small garden of the Wu Household startled the quiet moment. Breathless and urgent, he called out, “Master Chi Cheng—Suowei. The elders are summoning you for a meeting.”

The couple exchanged a brief, silent glance, understanding passing between them like a current. Suowei reached for his coat, and together, they began walking toward the temple, the gravel crunching beneath their shoes, the fading light painting the world in soft gold and grey.

When they arrived at the temple, the elders were seated, their expressions solemn, the air thick with expectation. Chi Cheng and Suowei took their places among them, the wooden floor cold beneath their feet, the scent of incense curling through the rafters, thick and comforting.

Li Wei’s hands were folded before him as he spoke, his voice calm yet layered with anticipation. “If Master Chi Cheng allows this,” he said, pausing to let the weight of his words settle, “I would consider it a blessing for this couple to live under one roof. Let them get to know each other better. Let them find peace—and happiness.”

The room fell into silence, each heart beating a little faster, the gravity of the suggestion hanging between them like suspended crystal.

Chi Cheng turned his gaze toward Suowei, who had lowered his head, fingers twisting nervously in his lap, eyes flickering with uncertainty and awe under the temple’s golden light.

“Suowei, son,” Li Wei asked gently, breaking the quiet tension, “what do you think about this?”

Suowei’s head lifted slowly, blinking against the light, his voice soft but firm. “I think that’s a good idea,” he said. “Uncle.”

Chi Cheng exhaled quietly, a long, low breath that carried a lifetime of restraint and burden. For the first time in what felt like years, his shoulders slumped slightly, the rigid walls around him softening ever so little. Something inside him—a small, careful ember—stirred with possibility, with hope, with the faint whisper of beginnings.

And in that quiet temple, surrounded by the scent of incense and the watchful eyes of elders, two lives shifted imperceptibly, drawing toward each other like magnetised fragments, fragile yet impossible to ignore. A reckoning, a promise, a first brush of what might become a shared life, began in the hush of the golden light.

Chapter Text

The late afternoon light filtered through the lattice windows, scattering patterns of amber and shadow across the worn floorboards. Outside, the distant rustle of leaves mingled with the low murmur of city life—a cart wheel creaking, a dog barking once, then chatter from vendors again. The air inside carried a faint trace of incense and rain-warmed earth, grounding the quiet that lingered in every corner of the house.

Suowei stood with his hands clasped tightly in front of him, his eyes lowered. Across from him, Madam Lian spoke in brisk, confident tones, the kind that filled every silence, whether welcomed or not. Her voice had a way of circling him, crowding the air until it became difficult to think.

“Come now,” she said, her smile sharp as the glint of sunlight on porcelain. “Tell me, what’s your favourite colour? You’re around the same age as Wang Shuo—surely you have preferences. What do you like? What do you want in your house? Tell us.”

Her words fell like rain against stone—gentle, unrelenting, yet unable to break through. Suowei blinked slowly, his throat tightening until he could barely swallow. The silence that followed felt louder than any reprimand, stretching thin and taut between them. He didn’t answer.

From the corner of the room, Wang Shuo sighed, the sound heavy with feigned boredom. He leaned back in his chair, one leg crossing lazily over the other. “I hope he loosens his tongue soon,” he muttered, though his eyes flicked toward Suowei with a faint trace of curiosity.

Madam Lian tsked, her bracelets clinking softly as she folded her hands. “Suowei, if you don’t speak, we won’t be offended or leave,” she said, her tone walking a line between coaxing and command. “But it is one thing to do everything from the heart, and another by force. Right, son? It was about time you got out of your father’s house anyway. Come on, tell us.”

Wang Shuo tilted his head, a smirk tugging faintly at the corner of his mouth. “Say, for example—what kind of blanket do you want? Cotton? Wool? Or silk, maybe? You look like someone who’d prefer silk.”

The questions began to pile up, one after another, until the room itself seemed to shrink beneath them. Suowei’s lips parted, but no sound came. His thoughts scattered like startled birds, his chest tightening under their expectant stares. He could feel their words pressing against him, heavy and clumsy, until his breath came unevenly.

He blinked hard, lowering his gaze to the floor, his lashes trembling. “As you wish,” he murmured, the words barely audible, little more than breath.

Madam Lian exchanged a look with Wang Shuo, then chuckled lightly. “We’ll buy both then,” she said, as though humoring a child. “Now, what kind of carpet do you want, son?”

“As you wish.”

“Bedsheets?”

“As you wish.”

Her voice sharpened, no longer soft. “Suowei,” she said, his name slicing through the quiet like the edge of a blade. “Answer normally.”

Something flickered behind his eyes—fear, exhaustion, the faint tremor of a boy who had spent too long trying to find the right thing to say. His chest heaved once, twice, as if struggling to contain something that no longer wanted to stay hidden.

Then, suddenly, his voice broke free. “I don’t know the answers to these questions!” he burst out, his tone cracking with the strain. It was loud, hitting the room like thunder. His hands trembled as he spoke, his words spilling raw and uneven. “I don’t know—so stop asking me!”

For a moment, no one moved. The air seemed to freeze, the golden light from the window catching in his eyes, making the sheen of unshed tears unmistakable. Then, before anyone could respond, he turned sharply, his footsteps ringing against the wooden floor as he left the room.

He pressed his sleeve against his eyes, wiping quickly at the tear that dared escape. The cool air outside met him like a balm, the faint rustle of leaves a whisper of comfort. He inhaled slowly, shakily, until his heart began to steady—and stepped further into the quiet of the garden, where no one could ask him any more questions.

He sank onto one of the marble benches that was positioned in front of a tap, letting his shoulders slump as he watched the water trickle steadily. The soft burble, a simple, constant rhythm, seemed to reach inside him and press gently against his chest, steadying the quick, erratic thump of his heartbeat. For the first time since the questions, the opinions, and the prying gazes had overwhelmed him, there was a quiet in which he could breathe. 

The sky overhead had begun to deepen into amber, streaks of gold and rose bleeding across the horizon, the sun half-swallowed by the edge of the world, casting long, tender shadows across the garden. It was a fragile kind of peace, delicate as spun glass, but it wrapped around him all the same.

Chi Cheng was making his way toward his study, the soles of his shoes whispering against the stone paths, when the faint, rhythmic sound of the running tap caught his attention. His steps slowed as he approached, a quiet anticipation pulling him forward. Suowei had not noticed him, the boy so absorbed in the water that he did not hear the approaching figure until footsteps stopped just a few paces behind him.

“Do you know the meaning behind the phrase ‘talking to the water’?”

The voice was calm, deep, resonant—an anchor in the quiet atmosphere. Suowei’s head snapped up. His pulse stuttered violently as recognition struck him, warm and sharp. He stood quickly, bowing his head instinctively in quiet, almost involuntary respect.

Chi Cheng came closer, his posture as composed and steady as ever, the dying sunlight catching on the sharp lines of his shoulders, painting them gold. His shadow stretched across the marble path, a dark, solid presence in contrast to the liquid shimmer of the water. “The phrase,” he continued, his voice deliberate, measured, carrying weight yet gentle, “comes from an old belief that everything has its nature. Water holds memory. You speak to it, entrust it with your heart, and it preserves goodness, delivering it where it belongs. And the things that harm you… it carries them away, casting them far beyond reach.”

Suowei’s eyes flickered back to the water, tracing the ripples as though searching for an answer within them. His voice was soft, hesitant, barely audible as he craned his neck to look back up at his husband. “But… what if there’s no water where I am? Where do I go to be heard?”

Chi Cheng’s gaze deepened, dark and thoughtful, fixed on the boy in a way that seemed to see not just him, but everything he carried silently. “Seventy percent of a human being is water,” he said, steady, quiet, almost like a promise. His words hung in the air, the weight of them grounding Suowei, nudging him toward opening up to others, particularly Chi Cheng.

Suowei lowered his eyes again, the old reflex of retreat curling in around him. “There’s no need to tell anyone about your troubles,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“There is,” Chi Cheng replied, voice unwavering, firm but not unkind. “If the world causes a person trouble, then they should settle it with the world. For example, if it’s carpentry that troubles you, a carpenter is who you need.” He tilted his head slightly, studying Suowei’s face with a careful patience that was almost unbearable in its intimacy. “What’s troubling you?”

The boy didn’t answer. His fingers curled at his sides, trembling imperceptibly, and he swallowed hard, ashamed even of the smallest hesitations. He could not speak—not about the suffocating pressure of Madam Lian’s questions, nor the paralysing shame of not knowing what to say, nor the ache that had lodged itself stubbornly in his chest.

Chi Cheng watched him quietly, silence stretching between them, and then exhaled slowly. His tone softened, a warmth threading through it. “They were stressing you out about preparations in there,” he said gently. “Don’t worry. You don’t need to prepare anything. Let them do as they please. Sooner or later, they’ll back off, and then… then you’ll do as you wish. That’s how I handle it.”

A small shift passed over Suowei’s expression—uncertainty still tugging at his eyes—but a faint softness emerged in the corners of his mouth. He forced a tentative smile, but it barely reached his lips. Chi Cheng noticed, of course. The subtle tremor of it, the fragility of it, stirred something protective within him.

“Come on,” Chi Cheng said, his voice lighter now. “You can leave now. I’ll talk to them. If they leave it up to me, I’ll say I leave it up to you. They’ll get confused and flow away… like water.” 

And then it happened—something small, fleeting, but unmistakable. For the first time that whole day, a genuine smile cracked through Suowei’s carefully guarded composure. He looked down, quickly trying to hide it, but Chi Cheng caught the curve of his lips nonetheless. The warmth it sent through him was almost dizzying, foreign, but welcome, and something inside him—a quiet ember long buried—flickered awake.

Suowei’s eyes lifted again, meeting Chi Cheng’s. And for a moment, the world softened around them: the garden, the water, the amber light of the sky, all muted and holding their breath. Chi Cheng’s faint grin mirrored Suowei’s, a quiet acknowledgement, a silent promise.

In that shared, wordless exchange, the chaos of questions and expectations, of shame and fear, eased just enough for the two of them to exist simply—together—in the quiet flow surrounding them.

___________________________

The morning air smelled faintly of rain-soaked earth and tea leaves drying in the sun, a delicate combination that made the world feel both alive and calm. The Wu household stirred slowly to life, the soft clinks of porcelain from the kitchen mingling with the low shuffle of slippers against polished wood, the occasional murmur of conversation drifting from one room to the next. Sunlight slipped through the windows, falling in warm, angular stripes across the floor, and Suowei could hear the quiet rhythm of life moving around him, ordinary and steady.

A sharp knock at the door broke the morning’s calm. Chengyu stood there, cheeks flushed from haste, chest rising and falling as if he had run from one end of the street to the other. It was understandable, for Li Wei would assign Chengyu to so many tasks, he was a busy man. 

“Madam Lian sent me,” he panted when Mrs Wu opened the door, catching his breath. “She wants you and Suowei to come see the house she’s picked out.”

Mrs Wu, still adjusting her sleeves, nodded in understanding. “Wait here,” she said, her voice soft but brisk, before disappearing down the hallway to fetch her son. The faint rustle of her robe faded as she went, leaving a momentary silence that seemed unusually heavy.

Moments later, Suowei emerged, dressed neatly in a simple tunic, sleeves rolled to the forearms, his hair combed but not overly pressed. 

When they arrived at the house, Madam Lian greeted them at the gate with her customary brightness, her hand immediately reaching to clasp Suowei’s arm. “Come,” she said warmly, her voice infused with an enthusiasm that almost startled him. “Let our son see the house he will live in.”

Suowei’s gaze helplessly flicked back at his mother, who followed close behind, her hand resting lightly on the edge of his elbow for reassurance. The faintest flicker of exhaustion passed through his eyes, a shadow of the many pressures he still carried, but he did not falter. Wang Shuo trailed after them, uninvited but inseparable from Madam Lian, his smirk fixed, eyes flicking around the property with the practised air of someone who belonged everywhere and nowhere at once.

The house loomed ahead, its whitewashed walls glowing softly beneath the sun, its structure both elegant and welcoming. Windows reflected the morning light, and the faint scent of cedar and polished stone mixed with the earthiness of the garden outside. The front doors opened smoothly, and inside, the air smelled faintly of wood polish and new beginnings, as if the space itself were breathing softly in anticipation of those who would occupy it.

“It’s a very spacious house, isn’t it, Mrs Wu?” Madam Lian asked, her tone light but proud, like someone who had invested herself entirely in this moment.

Mrs Wu nodded slowly, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Indeed. Son, take a walk. Take a closer look.”

Suowei obeyed quietly, stepping into the large, open rooms. They were bright and airy, filled with pools of sunlight that stretched across polished floorboards. Every corner seemed thoughtfully designed, the ceilings high enough to give the impression of openness without emptiness, the walls painted a soft cream that caught the light and softened the edges of each space.

When Mrs Wu inquired whether the house had only one bedroom, Madam Lian chuckled, the sound warm and slightly indulgent. “Of course. They are married, are they not? What would they need two bedrooms for?”

Suowei said nothing. His feet, guided by some silent curiosity, carried him toward a smaller room tucked at the back of the house. Its air was cooler, tinged with the faint musk of dust and ink, the scent of aged paper lingering like a secret. Shelves lined the walls, filled with books, scrolls, and scattered papers. It was a study and library combined, orderly yet intimate, a space that seemed to have been waiting for him.

He stepped closer, fingers lightly brushing the spines of the books. One title stopped him cold: The Art of Enduring Hearts.

His breath hitched, small and involuntary. The book seemed impossibly familiar, like a fragment of memory pressing urgently against the walls of his mind. He reached for it, fingertips grazing the worn spine, and instantly, the memory returned—sharp, vivid, alive.

The first time he had encountered this book came rushing back to him, in a study much like this one, light spilling from the window onto the worn pages, the faint rustle of footsteps approaching, the sudden and startling awareness of the man who now dominated his thoughts. The memory was both tender and painful, an ache that refused to fade.

Suowei lifted the book carefully, almost reverently, as though it were more than mere paper and ink. It was a link—a bridge—to something that had shaped him, that had marked him in ways he had only begun to understand. His lips curved in a small, almost imperceptible smile, one born of recognition, surprise, and an odd comfort that someone had thought of him enough to leave this piece of the past here.

The first time he had met Chi Cheng was when he stepped into Chi Cheng’s study, the room had been drenched in the gold of late afternoon transitioning into evening. Shelves lined every wall, holding books on philosophy, strategy, poetry—each one worn smooth from years of touch. Papers littered the desk near the window, where sunlight pooled like honey.

Suowei had run his fingers along the spines, reverent, careful. He paused when one title caught his eye—The Art of Enduring Hearts. He smiled faintly, pulling it free. The words drew him in immediately; they spoke of restraint, patience, and the quiet dignity of suffering.

Then—footsteps. Slow. Measured.

Suowei had set the book down hastily, not even where it belonged, and planned to immediately leave. He turned, but was startled when a figure filled the empty space in front of him.

Chi Cheng.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. His uniform crisp, his hair tousled by the wind. His face—beautiful in the cruellest sense—carved from discipline and silence.

Their eyes met, and the air shifted. Chi Cheng’s expression flickered with confusion, then curiosity, eyebrow furrowing as he read Suowei’s face.

But something about the stillness of that moment stayed with him long after—the weight of that gaze, the calm strength it carried.

Now, standing in the quiet of the new house, Suowei turned the same book over in his hands. “So he brought it here,” he murmured, a small, wistful smile tugging at his lips. “For me.”

A shadow crossed the doorway. Wang Shuo.

“You can’t come here without permission,” Wang Shuo said sharply, stepping in front of Suowei. “This is Master Chi Cheng’s room. His workroom. You’re not supposed to wander in—only to dust or tidy, if he allows it, of course.”

Suowei looked up calmly, his voice quiet but firm. “He’s my husband,” he said, each word deliberate. “I don’t need anyone telling me when I can or can’t go into his room.”

The change in tone hit Wang Shuo like a slap of cold water. He froze, his irritation faltering. Suowei had never spoken to him like that before—never with that kind of steadiness, that quiet authority that didn’t need to be raised to be felt. For a moment, Wang Shuo could only stare, unsure whether to be offended or impressed. “Your husband or not, this is still his workspace. There are things in here that—”

“—that he trusts me to be around,” Suowei finished for him, tilting his head slightly as his gaze met Wang Shuo’s. His voice wasn’t raised, yet something about the steadiness of it made the air in the room shift. “Do you really think I would disrespect him, or the things he cares about?”

“I’m not saying that,” Wang Shuo shot back quickly, though the defensiveness in his posture betrayed him. His arms crossed tightly over his chest, and his brows drew together. “I’m saying boundaries matter. Even for husbands.”

Suowei exhaled softly through his nose, a small, measured sigh. “Then respect the boundaries he sets,” he said, turning back toward the shelves. His fingertips glided along the edges of the books—slow, deliberate, careful—as though each title deserved a small bow of acknowledgement. “He hasn’t told me not to be here, so I am.” He replaced one of the books gently, its spine aligned with precision. “Simple as that.”

Wang Shuo’s jaw flexed. He straightened, puffing up slightly as though trying to reclaim ground that had quietly slipped from beneath his feet. “You can’t just barge in whenever the mood strikes,” he said, his tone sharpening. “I know you’re married, but—he’s particular. You’re… lucky he isn’t here right now.”

Suowei turned then, his expression calm but unreadable. The light from the window traced the side of his face, softening the edges but doing nothing to dull the quiet defiance in his eyes. “I am not here by luck,” he said softly. His tone carried something new—an undercurrent of steel, quiet but impossible to ignore. “I am here because he trusts me. And if he trusts me, then your concern, while appreciated, isn’t needed right now.”

For a moment, Wang Shuo could only stare. The change in Suowei unsettled him—this wasn’t the meek, hesitant boy he remembered. There was poise now, a kind of restrained confidence that unsettled the space between them. He blinked, faltering just enough to let the silence settle thickly.

“Hmph,” he managed finally, shifting his weight and glancing aside. “Well… I suppose that’s fair. But don’t think I’ll stop keeping an eye on you. For his sake, you understand. Madam Lian asks me about how he is frequently.”

Suowei’s lips curved faintly, the hint of amusement flickering at the corner of his mouth. “I understand,” he said lightly. “And I trust you’ll be very thorough.”

He stepped past Wang Shuo, unhurried, the faint scent of sandalwood and paper trailing in his wake. The older man watched him go, caught somewhere between irritation and reluctant respect.

“Lucky bastard,” Wang Shuo muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

Suowei didn’t respond. He paused by the doorway, glanced back once, and let a small, knowing smirk ghost across his lips—barely there, but enough to leave its mark. Then he turned away, his gaze following the light that spilt across the floorboards, golden and quiet, like a secret he alone understood.

Meanwhile, Chi Cheng sat in the examination room at the hospital, his posture rigid. The faint hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, sterile and cold, the air thick with the scent of disinfectant and metal. His hands rested on his knees—steady, unmoving—but his jaw was tight, a muscle flickering every so often like the tick of a clock.

“Just a quick check-up,” said Dr Han, adjusting his spectacles with a faint clink. “Blood pressure, blood work. I’ll prescribe you pills afterwards.”

Chi Cheng gave a small nod, the motion restrained, his shoulders rigid beneath the fabric of his shirt. The faint scent of antiseptic continued to fill the air, sharp and clean, crawling into his lungs. The room was painfully white—white walls, white floors, white coats—and for a man who had seen the dull colour of battlefields, of smoke and steel and earth, the sterility of it all felt strangely suffocating.

He sat in silence, his gaze fixed on the small metal tray beside him where the nurse had laid out her instruments—cold, gleaming, precise. He could almost hear the sound of them in his mind: the clatter, the press, the touch. His pulse began to climb, steady but forceful, thudding in his temples.

“Are you all right?” Dr Han asked after noticing Chi Cheng’s uncomfortable expression, his voice soft but knowing.

Chi Cheng’s lips parted slightly, then closed again. “It’s not related to this,” he lied, his tone even but his hands betraying him—fingers curling slightly against his knee, the veins along his wrist faintly pronounced.

The nurse stepped forward, her voice calm, rehearsed. “Don’t worry. I have a light hand.”

He didn’t respond.

“Roll up your sleeve, please,” she said.

There was a long pause. Then, with the smallest of movements, Chi Cheng obeyed. The fabric of his sleeve brushed against his skin as he folded it up to his elbow, revealing the hard lines of muscle beneath—built from years of drawing swords, holding reins, commanding troops under blistering suns. His bicep slightly flexed against the pressure of his shirt, the fabric straining faintly around the curve of muscle. 

The nurse reached for the blood pressure strap. The sound of the buckle clicking open made something twist in his chest. When the strap tightened around his bicep, his entire body went taut. His breath hitched—just once, barely audible—but his eyes flashed with sudden alarm.

“Leave it.” He suddenly demanded, voice cutting through the air like a blade, quiet but absolute.

The nurse froze. “Sir, I just need—”

“Enough.” His voice was sharper now. He pulled his arm away, muscles flexing, breath shallow. “I’ll do it myself.”

Dr Han’s expression didn’t shift, though a faint sigh ghosted past his lips. “Very well,” he said quietly, motioning for his assistant to follow him outside. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving only the muffled hum of the hallway beyond.

In the corridor, the assistant turned to him in confusion. “Doctor… what’s wrong with him?”

Dr Han adjusted his spectacles again, glancing back toward the closed door where Chi Cheng now sat in silence, every inch of him a fortress of control. “He has a disorder,” he murmured, almost to himself.

The assistant frowned. “What kind?”

“Obsessive-compulsive,” Dr Han said after a beat, his voice low. “Not hygiene-related, but body-focused.” His gaze softened, tinged with something like pity. “He doesn’t let anyone touch him.”

___________________________

By the time the last of the street vendors closed their stalls, dusk had fallen like a soft curtain over the town. Paper lanterns glowed faintly above the narrow roads, their red and gold light trembling with every whisper of wind. The smell of fried chestnuts and soy broth lingered in the cooling air, fading slowly as footsteps grew scarce. Somewhere in the distance, a pipa played—melancholy, lilting, the sound of the strings melting into the river’s hush.

Suowei sat by the stone bridge, knees drawn to his chest, chin resting atop them. The river below shimmered with ribbons of lanternlight, rippling like a mirror disturbed by ghosts. Beside him, Xiaoshuai leaned forward on his elbows, idly kicking a pebble into the dark water. It skipped once, twice, before sinking with a quiet plunk.

“You should go home,” Xiaoshuai said after a while, his voice low, carrying a hint of concern that didn’t need to be spoken aloud.

Suowei didn’t look away from the river. “It doesn’t feel like home yet.” His voice was soft, swallowed by the hum of the crickets and the faint rustle of willow leaves above them.

Xiaoshuai’s expression softened. “He’s not going to hurt you. You know that, right?”

“I know,” Suowei murmured, pulling at the sleeve of his robe. “But still… when he looks at me, I don’t know what he sees. A boy he protected? A reminder of what he did? Maybe both.” His voice cracked slightly as he exhaled, slow and unsteady. “That’s what I hate most. Not knowing what people perceive me as. Usually, I can guess—but with Chi Cheng, I can’t. He’s so… fractured. His past, his present—they collide in his mind... and I don’t know where I fit in all that chaos.”

The reflection of a drifting lantern washed across his face, painting his skin in fleeting gold before passing. Xiaoshuai leaned back on his hands, gazing up at the sky where the first stars had begun to bloom. “What if he’s worried about you right now?” he asked after a moment. “It’s late, you’re not home. He’s probably waiting.”

Suowei drew his knees closer. “I just need a little time,” he whispered. “To breathe. To learn how to exist and breathe in the same house as him.”

They sat like that for a long while—two silhouettes beneath the amber lanterns, the sound of the river a steady lullaby beneath their quiet thoughts. The night deepened, the lanterns dimmed, and the pipa’s song drifted away into silence.

Finally, Xiaoshuai pushed himself to his feet, brushing the dust from his trousers. “I’ll walk you back,” he said gently.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know,” Xiaoshuai smiled faintly, “but you’ll sit here all night if I don’t.”

Suowei’s lips curved in a small, tired smile. “You know me too well.”

They walked together through the sleeping streets, their footsteps echoing softly on the cobblestones. Dogs barked faintly in the distance. Someone snuffed out a candle behind a paper window. By the time they reached the gate of Wu Suowei’s new home, the world had gone still.

A faint glow shone through the window—one candle, still burning in the living room.

“You can’t avoid him forever,” Xiaoshuai said softly, eyes flicking toward the warm light.

“I know.”

He hesitated a moment longer.

“Good night, Weiwei,” Xiaoshuai said, pulling him into a brief, grounding hug.

“Good night, Xiaoshuai.”

When Suowei entered the house, silence greeted him. The faint scent of sandalwood hung in the air, steady and calm. He slipped his shoes off quietly, every sound amplified by the emptiness around him, and then squeezed his eyes shut, taking a deep breath before he had to face his husband. Suowei’s heart thudded painfully in his chest—was Chi Cheng angry? Worried? Frustrated?

He moved toward the living room, each step slow and deliberate.

Chi Cheng sat on the couch, the lamplight outlining the sharp cut of his jaw. A stack of documents rested in his hand, half-read, forgotten. He looked up as Suowei entered, eyes unreadable, and after a brief moment, lowered them again—his silence heavier than any scolding could ever be.

“Aren’t you going to ask anything?” Suowei said quietly.

No response.

“Did you tell anyone I wasn’t coming?”

Chi Cheng sighed, removing his glasses. “I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That you were reluctant to live with me,” Chi Cheng said, rising slowly from where he was seated on the couch. His voice was even, measured. “But I also knew you’d come.” His gaze lingered on the space between them, where the candlelight wavered like a heartbeat. “I didn’t ask because… if you don’t ask someone how they are, they won’t have to lie and say they’re fine.”

The confession hung in the air, soft but heavy. Suowei’s lips parted, as if to speak, yet for a moment no sound came. When his voice finally did, it trembled like something fragile. “I wasn’t reluctant because of you.” His fingers twisted the edge of his sleeve, knuckles pale. “My father—I have to admit he’s not a good man. I’m scared he’ll hurt my mother. I just want to protect her.”

Chi Cheng’s expression softened, a shadow of understanding flickering across his face. He nodded once, slowly, as if acknowledging not only Suowei’s words but the pain woven through them. “I see,” he murmured.

Suowei lowered his eyes, ashamed of his own hesitation. “I didn’t want to burden you with it,” he whispered.

“You’re not a burden,” Chi Cheng said quietly, almost to himself. For a moment, it seemed as though he wanted to reach out—but his hand stayed at his side. Instead, he turned slightly and gestured toward the stairs. “Come on,” he said. 

The shorter hesitated before following him. The wooden steps creaked faintly beneath their weight, and the soft glow of the oil lamp stretched their shadows long against the wall. Neither spoke as they climbed, though the silence between them felt almost alive—thick with thoughts neither could voice.

When they reached their room, Chi Cheng reached for the handle and pushed the door open with quiet care. The faint scent of cedar drifted in from the polished furniture, mingling with the cool breath of night that slipped through the open lattice. Moonlight spilt across the floor in pale ribbons, softening the edges of everything it touched.

He didn’t step inside immediately. Instead, he turned slightly, his hand still resting against the doorframe, and waited. His gaze flicked to the latter—a silent invitation, or perhaps a small gesture of respect.

Suowei hesitated, caught off guard by the courtesy. He lowered his eyes briefly, then stepped past the taller, his sleeves brushing against Chi Cheng’s as he entered the room.

Only after Suowei had crossed the threshold did Chi Cheng follow, letting the door ease shut behind them with a muted click. The sound seemed to seal them into a world separate from the rest of the house—quiet, fragile, and steeped in the mingled scents of cedar and night air.

“Sit,” Chi Cheng said gently.

Suowei obeyed, making his way to the bed and perching on the edge of it. His shoulders were tense, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. The air in the room felt charged, a quiet tension that wasn’t born of anger but of two people still learning the contours of each other’s silence.

After a pause, Chi Cheng spoke again, his tone softer now. “Take your robe off.”

Suowei hesitated, his fingers tightening around the knot of his sash. He looked up, his gaze flickering to Chi Cheng’s face—as if trying to read something there, to find reassurance in the stillness of his expression. The air felt heavy between them, thick with quiet anticipation. Then, slowly, he loosened the sash and let the robe slip from his shoulders.

The fabric fell soundlessly to the floor, pooling around his feet like spilt light. Beneath it, he wore only a thin linen vest that clung faintly to the curve of his collarbones, the rise and fall of his chest unsteady beneath the dim glow of the lantern.

For a heartbeat, neither moved. Chi Cheng’s eyes lingered—not in hunger, but in study, as though tracing each line of him for unseen fractures. And Suowei’s breath caught—not from fear of the order, but from the raw awareness of being seen, wholly and without defence, by someone whose silence carried more weight than touch ever could.

Chi Cheng’s eyes roamed over Suowei with quiet scrutiny, taking in every line and curve as if cataloguing them in memory. His gaze lingered on the gentle slope of Suowei’s shoulders, the delicate rise of his collarbones, and the smooth plane of his chest beneath the thin vest. He noted how the fabric clung to him, hinting at the subtle definition beneath, the lean strength that belied Suowei’s outward delicacy.

Chi Cheng’s attention drifted down, tracing the curve of Suowei’s waist—slim, taut, almost fragile—and the way it tapered seamlessly into the soft swell of his hips. The motion of his body as he shifted slightly, the faint rise and fall of his ribs with each breath, drew Chi Cheng’s focus.

The older’s gaze lingered on Suowei for a long, almost imperceptible moment. There was admiration there, quiet and restrained, but also a distant wariness, as if measuring the space between them with careful precision. Suowei was breathtaking—fragile and yet defiant, every line of him seemingly carved with care. Chi Cheng had seen many faces in his life, had faced men and women of remarkable beauty, but there was something about Suowei that unsettled and captivated him all at once.

It was clear why Suowei was fearful. He was married to a man he did not yet fully trust or desire, and the intimacy expected of their union was an impossible weight on his shoulders. And yet—even if Chi Cheng’s heart and mind wanted closeness, his body could not follow. Years of scars and unspoken horrors had left him incapable of touch, a prisoner of his own trauma. The simple act of holding someone, of bridging the gap between them physically, was a mountain he could not climb.

With a deliberate effort, he forced himself to tear his eyes away, masking the conflict with a flat, calm voice. “Go to bed.”

Suowei obeyed, getting up and walking towards the head of the bed with measured steps before sliding beneath the covers. The linen whispered against his skin, a fragile comfort. Chi Cheng moved quietly, extinguishing the candles so that shadows swallowed the corners of the room.

Suowei’s eyes squeezed shut, his chest tightening, anticipation knotting every muscle. He braced himself, waiting for some sign, some movement, some warmth to breach the chasm of silence.

Minutes ticked by, heavy and slow. The room remained still. No hand on his shoulder, no brush of fingertips against the blanket. Hesitantly, he opened his eyes, only to find Chi Cheng across the room, methodically pulling a spare blanket and pillow from the cupboard.

The general’s movements were careful, deliberate. Before leaving, he paused at the doorway, letting his gaze flick to Suowei one final time—brief, gentle, protective—before closing the door behind him. The soft click resonated in the quiet room, leaving Suowei alone, yet strangely comforted by the silent care.

He made his bed on the couch downstairs, the blanket tucked tightly around him, the candlelight flickering across the sharp angles of his face. Every corner of the room was cast in shifting shadows, the quiet so thick it seemed to press against his ears. He closed his eyes, trying to will his body into rest, but sleep came in uneven breaths, fragile and hesitant.

Later, it fractured into fragments—dreams bleeding seamlessly into memories he had tried to bury.

A small voice, high-pitched and trembling, pierced the darkness. Little Chi Cheng ran barefoot over cold, uneven stone, his legs pumping as the hallways stretched endlessly before him, walls pressing in as if the air itself weighed him down. “Mother! Mother!” he cried, panic twisting his chest.

Ahead, a woman appeared, her back to him, walking swiftly. “Mother!” he called again, faster, almost tripping over his own feet. The hall seemed to stretch farther with every step, the shadows growing longer, darker, swallowing the floor beneath him.

He reached out, desperate, and his small fingers brushed against her sleeve. The woman turned slowly, her face pale, eyes calm but hollow. “Your mother is gone,” she said softly, the words slicing through him. “She’s gone.”

Little Chi Cheng froze, chest heaving, tears streaking down his cheeks. His legs moved, but the stone floor seemed to shift beneath him, unsteady, betraying him with every step. He had watched his mother jump, but was too young to comprehend that meant she was no longer here.

He tried to call again, to ask where she was, to plead, but no sound would come. The corridors twisted impossibly, doors slamming shut in the distance with a hollow clang, and the echo of the woman’s words followed him, relentless: Your mother is gone.

He stumbled, the cold floor biting at his knees, his small body shaking, and the shadows pressed closer, tightening around him like a cage. The hallways never ended, and the image of the woman—so still, so final—remained burned behind his eyelids. His chest throbbed, his heart hammering in panic, and the world he knew—the warmth of safety, of her hand in his—was gone, replaced only by emptiness and the impossibility of holding onto what was lost.

“Mother!” he shouted in his sleep, still tossing and turning.

Upstairs, Suowei stirred at the sound—swiftly sitting up in concern. Something in the way the man’s voice was laced with both tension and exhaustion drew the younger out of bed. He swung his legs over the edge, feeling the cool night air brush against his skin, and padded softly across the floor, each step careful.

He paused at the foot of the stairs, his gaze lingering on Chi Cheng. The man lay sprawled across the couch, brows furrowed as though even sleep could not loosen the weight pressing on him. Moonlight streamed through the lattice window, catching the sharp planes of his face, tracing the curve of his jaw, the slope of his shoulders. There was a quiet vulnerability in the way he slept, an unspoken openness that tugged at something deep in Suowei’s chest.

Gently, Suowei moved to the kitchen. He poured a glass of water, the sound muffled in the stillness, and set it carefully on the table. Then he rushed upstairs and retrieved a warmer shirt from the drawer, folding it with deliberate care before rushing back down and placing it beside the glass. It was a small thing, but it felt necessary—a way to offer comfort without words, to bridge the quiet distance that still lingered between them.

For a long moment, Suowei lingered, watching Chi Cheng’s steady, uneven chest rise and fall. The thought struck him—soft, insistent—that he wanted to be here, near him, even if only in these small, silent ways. The vulnerability in Chi Cheng’s sleep made his heart ache with a mix of admiration and tenderness he barely allowed himself to acknowledge.

Finally, he retreated back to the stairs, pausing briefly to look over his shoulder. The faint flicker of the candlelight caught on Chi Cheng’s features once more, and a small, unbidden smile tugged at Suowei’s lips. Then he slipped back into their room and closed the door, leaving the soft glow behind.

Moments later, Chi Cheng’s eyes fluttered open. His chest tightened, and sweat clung to his temples. His gaze fell immediately on the glass of water and the neatly folded shirt. A quiet warmth spread through him—surprise, recognition, and something more tender, something he had not expected to feel.

He didn’t need to ask who had left them. The care in the gesture, the thoughtfulness, the quiet, unspoken affection—it hit him in a way that was both startling and comforting. For the first time that night, the tight knot of tension in his chest eased, and he allowed himself a breath that was less measured, more human. Something small and fragile shifted inside him, a realisation of how much he was beginning to feel for the boy who had quietly stepped so close to his heart.

Chapter Text

The sun had already begun its descent when Suowei’s eyes fluttered open. The pale afternoon light stretched across the room like spilled gold, pooling over the folded blankets, painting soft, shifting shapes across the wooden floor. Dust motes floated lazily in the air, glimmering like fragments of something sacred. The faint scent of cedar lingered, mixed with the warmth of the day slowly passing by.

His lashes quivered as he blinked, the haze of sleep clinging to him. For a moment, he couldn’t tell if he had been dreaming—only that the stillness around him felt heavy, as if something had been waiting in his absence. He turned his head toward the window, watching the sunlight spill in stripes across the bed. Afternoon. Already?

A startled breath caught in his throat as he sat up too quickly. His body jolted awake, muscles tensing as though he’d missed something important. The silence pressed closer—the kind that felt less like peace and more like emptiness. The kind that reminded him he was alone.

He pushed the blanket aside and rose, bare feet brushing against the cool wooden floor. He pulled on his robe, which was hung slightly open at the collar; but he drew it tighter, fastening the sash with hurried fingers. The house didn’t feel like it belonged to him yet—too orderly, too empty, every sound swallowed by its size.

As he stepped out of the room, the boards beneath his feet creaked softly, his movements echoing faintly down the corridor. “Chi Cheng?” he called, his voice uncertain, thin in the still air. He paused at the top of the stairs, listening. Nothing.

He descended slowly, hand brushing the smooth railing, each step quieter than the last. The main room was bathed in a muted glow, sunlight slanting through the lattice windows, painting long shadows across the polished furniture. The faint scent of sandalwood and cedar lingered—Chi Cheng’s scent, clean and composed, but faint enough to suggest he had been gone for some time.

“Chi Cheng?” he tried again, his tone softer now, almost hesitant.

Only silence answered.

Suowei stood still for a moment, heart sinking with a feeling he couldn’t quite name. Disappointment? Unease? Or something more fragile—something that had begun to grow, quietly, in the spaces between their words.

Of course he was gone. Duty always came first. It was foolish to expect otherwise.

He exhaled through his nose, letting the breath shake out of him. Crossing to the living room, he found the couch neatly arranged, the blanket folded at its edge, the pillow tucked perfectly against the armrest. It was such a simple thing—tidiness—but somehow it made the place feel emptier.

He reached for the duvet, lifting it into his arms. The faint warmth of another body still clung to the fabric, the ghost of his presence. Suowei held it for a moment too long before turning toward the stairs, the soft linen pressed against his chest.

He was halfway up when a sharp knock broke the quiet.

The sound startled him. He froze, heartbeat quickening. For an instant, the silence that followed felt deafening. Then—another knock, brisk and expectant, echoing through the stillness of the house.

He blinked, mind catching up with his heart. Visitors? His first thought bloomed with relief, almost joy. “Mother,” he whispered, the word escaping on a breath of hope. His lips curved into a small smile, the kind that reached his eyes without him realising.

He hurried back down and to the living room again, the hem of his robe brushing against his ankles. In his haste, the duvet slipped from his grasp, falling soundlessly onto the couch. He smoothed his hair with his fingers, quickly tightening the sash around his waist. When he made his way to the door, the faint mirror reflection in the glass door caught the nervous flush in his cheeks, the soft, boyish hope in his eyes.

“Coming,” he called, his voice carrying a gentle lilt as he reached for the latch. His heart beat faster, warmth spreading through him at the thought of seeing her familiar face that would provide him even a little bit of comfort.

But when the door swung open, the breath left his lungs in a single, stunned second.

It wasn’t his mother.

The air shifted, colder now, as two silhouettes filled the doorway—Madam Lian, her expression a perfect blend of politeness and authority, and beside her, Wang Shuo, wearing that same knowing smirk that made Suowei’s stomach tighten. The sunlight hit the edge of Madam Lian’s embroidered sleeve, catching the shimmer of her jewels. 

Suowei’s smile faltered, fading completely. His hands, still on the edge of the door, stiffened. The warmth that had filled his chest moments ago vanished, replaced by a thin chill that settled beneath his skin.

Madam Lian’s painted lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Good afternoon,” she said smoothly, her tone sweet but heavy with something else—something that pressed, tested. “We came to drink coffee from the hands of our son-in-law. Will you allow us?”

Suowei’s heart sank. He swallowed, the words sticking in his throat. The room behind him suddenly felt too small, too exposed. Still, he lowered his gaze politely and stepped aside.

“Of course,” he murmured, voice soft but steady. “Please come in.”

The two entered with the practiced ease of people who believed the world owed them space—of those who had never once been told they were unwelcome. Their presence filled the house instantly, like perfume too strong to ignore.

Madam Lian was first to move, gliding toward the couch as if it had been waiting for her. Her robes cascaded around her in layers of silk and embroidery, the faint scent of rose oil trailing behind. She sat with perfect posture, adjusting her sleeves until not a single wrinkle dared remain. Beside her, Wang Shuo flopped down without grace or care, his smirk spreading slowly across his face like a stain. The faint glint in his eyes was sharp, knowing, cruel in the way of men who found amusement in discomfort.

Suowei, caught between courtesy and unease, moved quickly toward the kitchen. His robe swayed lightly with each step, his hands trembling as he reached for the porcelain cups and the polished golden tray. He worked in silence, lips pressed into a thin line, every motion deliberate—measured—as if carefulness could protect him from scrutiny.

Moments later, he returned.

Steam rose softly from the two cups in the tray he carried, curling upward like mist in morning light. The scent of roasted beans mingled with the faint aroma of cedar that still lingered from the night before. He set the tray gently on the table, one cup before each guest, his fingers steady though his heart was not.

“Son,” Madam Lian began after taking a delicate sip, her tone airy, conversational, yet sharpened by something unmistakable. “Are there no pastries? No sweet delights to accompany coffee? Didn’t you teach him, Wang Shuo?”

“Sorry, Madam,” Wang Shuo replied with a low chuckle, leaning back lazily. “In time, he’ll figure it out.”

The jab was small but pointed.

Suowei’s brows drew together faintly. “I’ll bring some, ma’am,” he murmured, beginning to walk away.

Madam Lian waved a jeweled hand, dismissive and indulgent all at once. “No, no. It’s no longer necessary. I only mentioned it so you’ll remember for next time.” Her painted lips curved into a smile that felt less like warmth and more like a test. “Sit down, son.”

He obeyed, lowering himself onto the edge of the opposite couch. His posture was straight, his hands folded neatly in his lap, every inch of him composed but wary. The space between them seemed to shrink beneath her gaze.

“I came to see my son-in-law,” Madam Lian continued, her tone shifting to something smoother, coaxing. “How are you, Suowei? Tell me.”

The question was ordinary, yet her voice wrapped around it with an intimacy that made his skin prickle.

“I… I’m fine,” he replied softly, eyes darting to the tray instead of meeting hers. His heart drummed quietly in his chest.

Madam Lian tilted her head, studying him as though he were a particularly delicate piece of porcelain. The silence that followed pressed down like weight.

In his nervousness, Suowei’s eyes searched for anything—anything—to focus on. They landed on the folded pillow and blanket resting beside him, the ones that still faintly carried Chi Cheng’s scent. His breath caught. Before he could move them, Wang Shuo noticed.

A smirk curled Wang Shuo’s lips, cruel and deliberate. “Did it hurt you?” he asked suddenly, his tone dripping with mockery.

Madam Lian choked on her coffee, setting her cup down with a sharp clink. “Wang Shuo!” she hissed, glaring at him. Then, with a practiced shift of tone, she turned back to Suowei, her voice softening into false sweetness. “Don’t mind him, son. The wedding night is the secret of the couple.”

Heat rushed to Suowei’s face, spreading from his neck to the tips of his ears. His lips parted, but no words came. He dropped his gaze, the world blurring faintly at the edges.

“I’m speaking for his benefit,” Wang Shuo said coolly, his grin widening.

“But you can’t talk about it like that, can you? You need to ask gently.” Madam Lian scolded, flicking her fan open with a snap. She sighed dramatically, as though his crudeness had exhausted her. Then she turned back to Suowei with exaggerated gentleness. “Now, son, if there are any problems—anything at all—you can tell me. Consider me your mother, hmm? Now, consider me asking more gently, are you happy with your situation?”

Her voice was honeyed, but her eyes searched him like knives.

Suowei hesitated. His lips parted once, twice, but no sound escaped. The air thickened between them, stifling, suffocating. Finally, he rose abruptly, bowing his head. “I’ll bring the pastries,” he murmured, his voice a whisper of retreat.

He escaped to the kitchen, the cool air there a small mercy. For a few moments, he simply stood at the counter, hands gripping the edge until the trembling stopped. He arranged the pastries carefully on a plate, forcing his breath into steadiness before returning.

When he came back, Madam Lian was smiling that same knowing smile, as if she had been waiting to strike again.

“I understand, son,” she said sweetly. “Of course, you’re shy, so you changed the topic. But look what I brought you.”

From her embroidered handbag, she drew out a small glass jar filled with a golden-brown paste that shimmered faintly under the light. “A special recipe. It has many benefits. Both of you should eat a spoonful after dinner. Okay, sweetie?”

Wang Shuo’s eyes widened, his mouth twitching with suppressed laughter. “Oh,” he said, feigning surprise, “that kind of paste?”

Suowei blinked, confusion flickering across his expression. “What… is it for?”

Wang Shuo snorted. “Acting shy but still asking—how bold.”

“No, I just don’t know…” Suowei stammered.

“Suowei,” Wang Shuo pressed, leaning forward slightly, his voice thick with mock amusement. “If nothing happened, then say so. Why suffer in silence?”

The jab struck too close, too cruelly. The flush on Suowei’s cheeks deepened from embarrassment to anger.

“Did I say that?!” he snapped, his voice shaking but sharp. “Madam Lian herself said it’s a secret!”

“Suowei!” Madam Lian’s tone cracked like a whip, her painted smile vanishing. “Quiet. I know you’re embarrassed, but there’s no need to be disrespectful. We speak for your benefit.”

The words struck him like a slap—sweetened scolding meant to shame. His throat tightened, breath catching somewhere between indignation and helplessness.

But before he could say anything more, a knock echoed through the house.

He froze. Relief flooded his chest like air after drowning. “Excuse me,” he murmured, setting the tray down quickly and crossing the room.

When he opened the door, the sight before him melted the tension from his shoulders.

“Xiaowei!”

“Mother!”

Wu Ma swept inside like a rush of wind, slipping her shoes off in one practiced motion before wrapping her son in a tight, familiar embrace. Her hands pressed against his back, grounding him.

Suowei inhaled deeply, burying his face in her shoulder. “Mother,” he breathed, the single word breaking apart with emotion.

“Son,” she whispered, pulling back to cradle his face between her palms, her eyes glistening with affection. “Are you all right? You look pale.”

Behind them, Madam Lian and Wang Shuo had left the living room and stood, getting ready to leave, their expressions carefully masked.

“Since the mother has come,” Madam Lian said smoothly, “we’ll take our leave.” She paused by Wu Ma’s ear, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “By the way, your son seems… inexperienced in certain matters. Perhaps you should educate him. It’s a mother’s responsibility.”

Wu Ma stiffened, her jaw tightening, but she said nothing.

Suowei bowed politely, though his heart burned with humiliation. “Have a safe journey,” he said softly.

Once the door shut behind them, Wu Ma turned immediately to her son. “Are you all right?” she asked again, her voice trembling now that they were alone.

He nodded faintly. “He didn’t touch me,” he said quietly. “What I thought all along was right. He doesn’t touch anyone.” He hesitated, then added, more softly. “But you shouldn’t worry about me being married to Chi Cheng anyways, mother. He's a good person.”

Wu Ma’s expression softened, though the faint shimmer gathering in her eyes betrayed the worry she tried to hide. “Instead of me comforting you, you’re the one consoling me,” she murmured, her voice trembling with tenderness. Her fingers reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair from his forehead with that same motherly precision that had once soothed him as a child. “My sweet boy,” she whispered, her thumb grazing his temple as if to quiet the ache she could sense in him.

She sighed then, a soft sound weighted with years of helpless love. “Why did they come?”

Suowei’s gaze fell to the floor, his lashes low, shadowing the quiet grief in his eyes. “To humiliate me, perhaps,” he said at last, his tone gentle, resigned. “Or to test me. I don’t know which is worse.” His fingers twisted faintly in the fabric of his robe, the memory of their laughter still echoing faintly in his chest.

Wu Ma’s hand rose again, steady and sure despite the tremor in her voice. She tilted his chin upward, her touch light but resolute, forcing him to meet her gaze. “Then remember this,” she said softly. “A person’s cruelty is never truly about you. It’s only ever the reflection of their own smallness.”

For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke. The world beyond their walls quieted—the wind stilling, the house heavy with the fading scent of coffee and cedar. And in that silence, something in him eased. The shame, the humiliation, the ache of their words—all of it dulled beneath the fragile, enduring warmth of her love.

He nodded faintly, eyes glistening. “I know,” he whispered, a small, trembling smile finding its way to his lips.

And Wu Ma, seeing that, pulled him into her arms once more—not to protect him, but to remind him that no cruelty could ever make him less her son.

___________________________

By late afternoon, the sun had begun its slow descent, painting the world in molten gold and deep, bleeding amber. The air was heavy with the scent of grass and river mist, the faint rustle of willow leaves whispering through the quiet. When Suowei was called to lunch, he found Chi Cheng waiting by the old stone bridge—the same bridge that haunted his dreams, the same one that had once swallowed his mother into the current and never returned her.

The light touched the surface of the water like trembling glass, catching the reflection of their figures as they sat side by side, legs dangling above the rippling current. Between them lay a small parcel wrapped neatly in cloth—simple, humble, almost reverent.

Neither spoke at first. The only sound was the rush of the river below, steady and unyielding, filling the silence with its low murmur.

Chi Cheng’s voice broke through it—low, almost uncertain. “Are you scared?”

Suowei turned his head slightly, startled by the question. His lips parted, but no clear answer came. 

Upon seeing the fact his husband could not spit out an answer, Chi Cheng nodded once, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “I prepared the meal.”

The admission caught Suowei off guard. He blinked, then unfolded the parcel with gentle hands. Inside were two small loaves of bread, modest but carefully wrapped, along with small packets of salt and pepper. A faint crease of confusion formed between his brows as he looked up.

“There once was a woman,” Chi Cheng began quietly, his eyes unfocused, as though he were watching the past unfold before him. “Her name was Madam Qiu. She passed away many years ago. When I was a boy—hungry, lost—she found me wandering through the streets. She didn’t ask questions. Immediately, she broke bread, sprinkled it with salt and black pepper, and told me to eat. It was the first act of kindness I’d ever known. I loved the taste very much,” his voice grew softer, roughened by memory. 

Suowei’s chest tightened. The simple story hung in the air between them like incense smoke, fragile and lingering. With quiet care, he opened the packets and seasoned the bread just as Chi Cheng had described. Then, without speaking, he handed one to him.

Their fingers brushed—just barely—but the contact was electric in its subtlety. Suowei felt a sudden, sharp skip in his pulse, as if the world had hiccupped around that fleeting touch. He could feel the warmth radiating from Chi Cheng’s hand, a quiet, steady reassurance that made his chest tighten.

Chi Cheng inclined his head as a way of saying thank you, a gesture so simple yet so intimate that it left Suowei’s thoughts scattered and his heart stubbornly aware of the closeness between them. For a long moment, neither moved nor looked away; the space between them felt suspended in time, heavy with unspoken words and fragile understanding, the river’s gentle murmur beneath them the only sound filling the charged silence.

But, when they did finally turn away, the couple ate in silence, the hush of fading daylight settling over them like a prayer. The river shimmered below, the world around them suspended in stillness. It was a simple meal, and yet there was something sacred about it—two souls, both broken in different ways, finding an unspoken peace in shared quiet.

“It’s delicious,” Suowei said at last, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Chi Cheng’s gaze flickered toward the river, his voice barely a murmur. “In my dream last night,” he began, “Or should I call it a nightmare? I saw a woman. She turned to me and said, ‘Your mother is gone.’ And when I woke, it felt as if I’d lost her all over again.”

The ache in his voice was almost imperceptible, a fragile fracture beneath the calm, but Suowei heard it. It lodged itself in his chest, heavy and sharp, like a splinter pressing into tender flesh. He swallowed hard, his throat tight, and whispered, “May you get better soon.” The words were small, fragile as glass, yet they carried everything—pity, care, quiet hope.

For a long while, they sat without speaking, the river beneath them murmuring steadily, brushing against the stones, while the wind teased the edges of the bag of food and stirred the few stray hairs against Suowei’s forehead. Even as the world around them prepared for dusk, a sort of sacred hush lingered in the space they shared—neither fully here, nor fully elsewhere, but caught somewhere in between.

Suowei’s voice came again, softer now, hesitant, as if afraid to shatter the fragile equilibrium. “Do you know the fable of the fisherman and the moon?”

Chi Cheng shook his head slowly, his dark eyes following the slow ripple of the river, betraying the slightest flicker of curiosity.

“There was once a fisherman,” Suowei began, his voice measured, almost melodic, “who tried to catch the moon in his net. Every night, he cast his net into the lake, believing the reflection was something real. He grew old waiting for the day he could hold and touch it—and when he finally died, people said the moon wept for him.”

Chi Cheng turned his head slightly, his gaze softening as he studied Suowei with an intensity that made the words weigh heavier than they had any right to. “And what does it mean?”

Suowei’s eyes dropped to the half-eaten bread cradled in his hands, his fingers tracing its edges absently, distant and reflective. “That sometimes,” he whispered, voice breaking ever so slightly, “we chase things we were never meant to hold. But… maybe the beauty lies in the longing itself.”

The words drifted between them, delicate and fragile as dandelion seeds, suspended in the gold-tinged air. Chi Cheng’s gaze lingered, quiet and searching, holding Suowei as if he could somehow contain the trembling vulnerability he saw there. For a brief, fleeting heartbeat, something tender surfaced behind Chi Cheng’s usual stoic mask—a glimmer of something unspoken, almost like warmth—before it was buried again beneath the layers he always wore.

Time stretched thin, elastic, until the sound of the river and the distant wind were the only witnesses to their silence. Then, measured but softer, Chi Cheng’s voice returned. “Did my aunt come this morning?”

Suowei nodded, his hands tightening slightly on the fabric of his robe, knuckles pale, a quiet tension pooling in his chest.

Chi Cheng’s jaw tightened, shadowing his face with a faint line of restraint. “Did they ask about last night?”

The younger nodded. “I didn’t say anything,” Suowei replied confidently, lifting his gaze to meet Chi Cheng’s, eyes earnest and trembling with a mix of shame and loyalty.

Chi Cheng studied him for a long moment, silence stretching between them like an unspoken confession. His dark eyes were unreadable, a mixture of something close to guilt, something almost like gratitude, and perhaps—though Suowei dared not hope—something softer, too. Then, without a word, he turned his attention back to the river, letting the sound of flowing water claim him again.

The sun continued its slow descent, spilling amber and rose across the rippling water. Their reflections quivered in the surface below—two figures bound together by unspoken fears and shared histories, tethered by loss, circumstance, and something fragile and growing that neither dared to name. They sat side by side on the edge of the bridge, a space both intimate and vast, the world around them fading to a quiet hush, leaving only the river, the waning light, and the subtle, unacknowledged pulse of connection that hummed quietly between them.

Suowei exhaled softly, the air trembling in his chest, and for the first time that day, he allowed himself to feel the faint stirrings of something like peace—a fragile, tentative thread weaving him closer to the man beside him, the man he was learning to understand, to trust.

Meanwhile, the house lay quiet once more, the golden light of late day spilling through the windows, casting long, slanting shadows across the furniture. For a moment, it felt as if the world had paused, the air suspended in lazy calm. But that calm was about to be broken.

The soft click of the door latch barely disturbed the stillness at first, but then the door creaked open, slow and deliberate. Wang Shuo slipped inside, his movements measured, practised—the ease of someone who knew he was intruding yet enjoyed the thrill. The stolen spare key from Li Wei’s study glinted faintly in his fingers, catching the sunlight and reflecting a mischievous spark across the walls.

His pulse quickened. Every creak of the floorboards beneath his shoes seemed impossibly loud. He paused, pressed his back against the wall, and scanned the empty rooms. The living room was spotless, bathed in the pale afternoon glow, the faint scent of cedar lingering in the air. A careful inhale reminded him that the house was truly empty—no servants, no occupants, only the echo of his own footsteps.

With a low, suppressed chuckle, Wang Shuo crept up the stairs, each step deliberate and cautious. His gaze fixed on the bedroom door, closed and silent, a perfect challenge. He drew a slow breath and pushed it open just enough to peer inside, eyes darting across the neatly arranged room.

The bed lay pristine, the duvet tucked carefully, no trace of the night’s activities. Wang Shuo’s grin deepened, curling like smoke. He reached forward, lifting the duvet with a swift hand, peering beneath as though expecting to find a secret (like a stain) written in the folds of linen. When his search yielded nothing, he allowed a soft hiss of frustration-tinged satisfaction to escape. His eyes glimmered with victory—the evidence was absent, just as he suspected.

Not content, he moved toward the laundry basket, tossing aside sheets and clothes, lifting each garment, searching for a clue, a mark, anything that could confirm or deny the topic that had piqued his curiosity. Again, nothing. His smirk widened, satisfaction tempered with the thrill of intrusion.

Wang Shuo rushed downstairs, eyes flicking everywhere, landing on the kitchen. The cupboards beckoned, promising secrets in jars and boxes neatly tucked away. He moved like a predator, careful yet excited, until finally his gaze fell upon it—a small, innocuous jar tucked on the top shelf. The jar Madam Lian had brought that very morning. His grin broadened, eyes glinting with triumph.

“Perfect,” he whispered under his breath, almost reverently, as if the object itself were a prize in a clandestine game. He cradled it for a moment, imagining the subtle chaos its discovery might cause, before placing it neatly on the coffee table in the living room, where it could not be missed by Chi Cheng’s eyes.

A final glance around the house—every surface, every corner—assured him that no one was coming. The jar stood as a silent testament to his mischief, gleaming in the fading sunlight. With the same careful stealth, Wang Shuo retreated, slipping back outside the door with the quiet grace of someone who belonged nowhere yet felt at home everywhere.

The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving the house once again empty, but now charged with a quiet, waiting tension—an unseen ripple poised to unsettle those who would return. Wang Shuo’s shadow dissolved into the late afternoon, and the house, oblivious to the secret planted within it, waited.

___________________________

By evening, the house was quiet once more, the kind of quiet that felt heavy in the chest, stretching through every corner and settling in the spaces between thoughts. Suowei moved through it like a careful shadow, the moonlight of the late evening spilling through the windows and painting the walls, but it did little to soothe the tension that had coiled in his chest all afternoon. 

He hummed a tentative, low melody as he prepared a simple dinner, the motions of chopping and stirring almost meditative, until a sharp, deliberate knock at the door shattered the fragile calm, sending a jolt through him that made his hands tremble slightly. He wiped them quickly on his robe, smoothing it around his waist as he hurried toward the entrance, heart picking up a nervous rhythm in his chest.

When he opened the door, Chi Cheng was standing there, tall and unyielding even in the softened dark, the exhaustion of the day etched deeply into his features, the faint shadows beneath his eyes accentuating the stern set of his jaw. “Good evening,” he said quietly, almost tentatively, as if the weight of what had already passed hung unspoken in the air between them.

“Good evening,” Suowei replied softly, stepping aside to let him in, his pulse hammering with a mix of relief and apprehension, the familiar sight of Chi Cheng somehow both comforting and intimidating in equal measure. “Are you hungry?” he asked, trying to offer warmth in his voice as he motioned toward the neatly arranged kitchen, though the words felt brittle on his tongue.

“I just need to check some documents first. You don’t—” Chi Cheng began, his voice steady but heavy, but Suowei cut him off gently yet firmly, his own words spilling out before doubt could root them in hesitation.

“I’ll wait for you,” he said quickly as a faint, reassuring smile formed on his lips, doing little to mask the tremor in his hands.

Chi Cheng paused for a long, measured heartbeat, studying him in a way that made the air feel heavier, then finally nodded and stepped into the living room. But the moment his gaze fell upon the coffee table where he had set some papers down, his entire expression darkened, the light in his eyes dimming as if a shadow had fallen across him. There, gleaming innocently under the soft glow of the lamp, sat the jar, its presence immediately setting his temper aflame.

He picked it up, fingers curling around the smooth glass as the weight of suspicion and disbelief pressed down on him. He had recognised the paste; it was a paste intended to make you more sexually active.

He turned to the shorter. “What is this? Who brought it?” His voice, low and controlled at first, gradually sharpened, threading with accusation and the hint of barely restrained fury.

Suowei froze, the memory of hiding the jar flashing vividly in his mind, his voice caught in his throat. 

“Who brought this?!” Chi Cheng slightly raised his voice after getting no answer.

“I—Madam Lian and Wang Shuo,” he managed to murmur, almost breathless, the words heavy with a mixture of fear and helplessness.

Chi Cheng’s grip tightened instantly, knuckles paling, and his tone rose in a sharp, cutting edge, slicing through the quiet of the room like a blade. “Did you say something to them?”

“No,” Suowei whispered, barely audible, his gaze dropping as his chest tightened painfully.

“Then why would they bring it?” Chi Cheng’s words came faster now, a tremor of anger and disbelief shaking the carefully constructed composure in his voice. “Did you tell them about the secret?”

“I didn’t—” Suowei tried again, but the sound was swallowed by the tension between them.

“Have you broken your promise to me?!” Chi Cheng’s roar shattered the fragile calm, and the jar, caught in the violent thrust of his arm, flew from his hands and shattered across the floor, shards scattering like fractured stars that reflected the lamplight in a cruelly beautiful pattern. Suowei flinched, every nerve on fire, his heart hammering as if it might tear from his chest, and the sound of breaking glass lingered far too long in the silence that followed.

Before either could recover, another knock sounded at the door, slicing through the oppressive tension. Chi Cheng ran a hand through his dark hair, exhaling sharply in frustration, before moving to answer. “Uncle Li Wei,” he said flatly, his voice carrying the brittle edge of someone who had been pushed to the limits of patience.

“Chi Cheng, come on,” Li Wei urged, breathless, his own urgency evident as he stepped forward. “We need to go.”

“I’m busy,” Chi Cheng said sharply, each word a warning, his stance rigid, immovable.

“Don’t be stubborn, boy—come,” Li Wei said as he grabbed his nephew’s arm.

“Uncle,” Chi Cheng’s voice tightened, low and dangerous, a warning threaded through the words that left no room for argument. “Let go, otherwise it’ll be bad.”

Li Wei tugged harder, insistent, but Suowei, driven by instinctive fear for the man he cared for, rushed forward, placing his hands gently but firmly on Chi Cheng’s shoulders. “Please, Mr Li Wei—he’s angry right now—”

“Don’t interfere!” Chi Cheng shouted, jerking violently, and the force sent Suowei sprawling backward onto the floor. Pain flared up through his knees and arms as he landed with a thud, the air knocked from his lungs, his heart slamming against his ribs as he struggled to rise.

The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence, broken only by the ragged breaths of the two men and Suowei’s shallow, trembling inhalations.

Chi Cheng froze for some seconds, and then turned to the door, slamming it shut in his uncle’s face.

When he turned back to his husband, his eyes widened as he took in Suowei sprawled on the floor, and for the first time, the rigid control in his expression cracked just enough to reveal the shadow of horror and regret beneath. “Are you okay?” He asked, carrying the weight of guilt despite the lingering anger.

Suowei swallowed hard, his throat raw, and avoided Chi Cheng’s gaze, the tears he had held back threatening to spill. 

“Are you okay?” Chi Cheng slightly raised his voice.

“I’m fine,” he whispered, voice barely above the sound of his own heartbeat. His words carried the fragile weight of someone trying desperately to hold themselves together.

Chi Cheng’s voice, though tempered, remained hard. “Then go pack your things.”

“Chi Cheng, I didn’t—”

“You don’t want to pack? Fine, I’ll do it,” Chi Cheng interrupted, the sound of his footsteps heavy and resolute as he strode up the stairs, leaving Suowei’s protest echoing faintly behind him.

Minutes later, he returned, descending slowly with deliberate steps, carrying a bundle of Suowei’s scattered belongings wrapped in a blanket. “Is there more?” he demanded, voice tight, controlled, yet uncomfortably close to breaking.

“Chi Cheng…” Suowei began, his voice trembling, tears brimming in his eyes.

“Is there more?!” Chi Cheng pressed, jaw clenched, eyes hard and unreadable.

Suowei fell silent, defeated, and Chi Cheng thrust the bundle into his arms with an almost imperceptible tremor in his hands, the weight of unspoken emotions heavier than the fabric.

“Where am I supposed to go?” Suowei asked quietly, the question barely audible over the tumult of his racing heart, the chill of the night pressing against his bare skin.

“You should have thought of that when you betrayed me and told everyone our secret,” Chi Cheng said bitterly, his voice a mixture of pain, anger, and regret.

“I didn’t do anything,” Suowei whispered through trembling lips, one stray tear finally spilling freely down his cheek. “They set a trap.”

“I was the one trapped,” Chi Cheng said, voice taut, bitter, the confession slipping out despite himself. “You became the bait.”

Suowei’s chest tightened as he swiftly wiped away the tear, trying to look unaffected and composed. “Don’t wrong me—you’ll regret it.”

“I already regret it,” Chi Cheng said coldly, voice breaking even as his face remained an impenetrable mask of stoicism.

With a trembling sigh, Suowei turned away from the house, his chest tight and his vision blurred with unshed tears, stepping out into the biting night. The door swung shut behind him with a sharp, final click, a sound that seemed to echo through the hollows of his very bones, reverberating like a judgment he could not escape. 

He didn’t make it more than a few steps before the weight of everything—the anger, the betrayal, the humiliation—collapsed over him, and his knees buckled beneath him. The bundle in his arms slipped to the ground, tumbling open as books, clothing, and small belongings spilled in disordered testament to his shattered night. Sobs ripped from his chest uncontrollably, wracking him in waves, his body shivering in the cold while the deserted street stretched endlessly, indifferent to his pain. Each trembling hand that scrambled to gather his scattered belongings seemed to grasp only the fragile fragments of trust, safety, and hope that had been so violently torn from him.

The familiar warmth of his parents’ home loomed ahead like a fragile promise, and with shaking fingers, he knocked at the door, the sound weak and timid against the silent night. “Mother…” His voice cracked, fragile as porcelain, carrying exhaustion, fear, and despair all at once.

The door swung open, and Wu Ma’s arms were around him instantly, strong and protective, enveloping him as though her embrace could shield him from the sharp edges of the world. Her breath caught in a gasp. “Suowei!” she whispered, clutching him tighter, her voice laced with panic and relief. He buried his face into her shoulder, the sobs spilling freely now, his tears soaking her robe.  “What happened?” she demanded softly, but with an edge of fear that mirrored her son’s own turmoil.

“Chi Cheng…” Suowei choked out, the name breaking as he clung to the only solid anchor he had left.

“Did he hurt you?” she pressed, her hands caressing his back in frantic circles, searching for wounds she could mend.

“No… Li Wei came, they argued… and he told me to leave…no, he didn’t tell me to, he drove me out,” Suowei gasped, the words coming in ragged bursts as the memory of the confrontation pressed down on him in heavy, suffocating waves. His whole body shook, wracked with grief and a lingering fear that the world might collapse around him.

Behind her, Mr Wu appeared, frowning deeply, his posture rigid as if the night itself demanded discipline. “What’s happening?” His voice was firm, sharp, an edge of disbelief underlining the words.

“Master Chi Cheng threw him out!” Wu Ma exclaimed, holding her son protectively as though sheer force could keep him from harm. “Look at him! Look at what they’ve done to him!” Her voice quivered, a mixture of anger and fear, and she pressed her forehead to Suowei’s hair in a protective gesture, as if her presence could heal the invisible scars etched into him.

Wu Pa’s expression hardened, cold and unyielding, a wall of authority rising between mother and child. “He cannot come in.”

“What?!” Wu Ma’s voice cracked with disbelief, anguish spilling through each word. “He is our son!”

“He who leaves in wedding attire will only return in a shroud,” Wu Pa said flatly, his tone carrying the weight of unbending tradition. “To come back after being married is disgraceful.”

“Are you insane?!” Wu Ma cried, her hands clutching Suowei tighter, as though she could physically shield him from the cruelty of a world that often felt too cruel, too merciless. Her tears fell freely, mingling with his own, and she pressed her face to the crown of his head.

Mr Wu exhaled heavily, the sound of surrender mingled with command as he slipped his coat over his shoulders. “Come with me, son. Now.”

And so, trembling and exhausted, Suowei and Wu Ma followed, each step weighted with grief and fear, Suowei’s heart dragging him forward even as it ached under the crushing knowledge that trust, and the fragile illusion of safety could shatter in an instant, leaving nothing but raw, exposed pain. 

Behind them, the night swallowed their silhouettes, the cold air pressing against them like a reminder of how small and fragile they were, while inside the couple’s new house, the remnants of the day lay scattered—the shattered jar on the floor glinting faintly in the lamplight, silent witness to the night’s betrayals and the heartbreak it had wrought.