Chapter 9

Chapter 9

A long silence passed before Qi Yanyu finally answered.

His voice came out slightly raspy, likely from days of sleep without food or water:

"I just... don’t want to."

"But how can you not eat anything?"

"I just... don’t want to."

The younger boy coaxed again, "Do you want cake?" finally offering the one thing no one could turn down.

Cake...

At the mention of it, his parched tongue tingled with a sudden craving for sugar.

Qi Yanyu couldn’t resist the temptation. "What kind of cake?"

The boy paused briefly before quickly adding, "Like a jiggly, half-baked cheesecake—the kind with a custardy center. Want some?"

The kind that’s cloud-soft, meltingly smooth, with a rich, resinous sweetness like crème caramel.

"Ge, just eat some porridge first, and when you’re better in a few days, I’ll buy you lots of that cheesecake..."

For a second, Qi Yanyu’s eyes lit up—like he’d glimpsed cake-filled heaven. His voice wavered, thin but insistent: "Why... not now?"

The boy hesitated. "I’ll have someone go out and buy it for you. But first, you need to drink some porridge to settle your stomach. Then you can have the cake you want. Okay?"

After minutes of gentle prodding, the person on the sickbed finally nodded.

When he did, dimples popped in the boy’s cheeks, leaving the sick man dazed.

That night,

Qi Muyao returned from the company, knowing Qi Shaoli had been keeping vigil by Qi Yanyu’s side for over a week, even through the nights.

The shattered glass conservatory from that day had been restored to its original state. The broken porcelain vases were replaced with identical ones, and the trampled indigo sea urchin blooms exchanged for fresh ones with richer colors.

But that day, Qi Yanyu had turned to look at him.

His smile didn’t reach his eyes—just a detached, weary calm.

The image burned into his memory. Like the conservatory’s fractured panes, Qi Yanyu had cracked something inside him too.

So, he knocked on Qi Yanyu’s door. "Shaoli, go eat. I’ll take over."

After Qi Shaoli left,

Qi Muyao produced a cheesecake, its pudding-smooth top glazed caramel-gold, warm with the scent of chocolate.

Qi Muyao glanced at the cheesecake in his hand, then looked at Qi Yanyu lying in bed—his pallor warmed by the ghost of a flush.

Maybe Shaoli’s cheesecake promise had already lifted his spirits.

But upon seeing him enter, Qi Yanyu felt his hopes dashed.

He turned his head slightly away, yet Qi Muyao sat down on the chair by the bed, right where he had turned.

“Did the doctor say you could have cake?”

For days, Qi Shaoli had coaxed him endlessly, and the price for those few sips of barely tolerable porridge was tonight’s soufflé cheesecake.

The moment he saw Qi Muyao, Qi Yanyu lowered his head.

“You leave too. I don’t want to see you.”

When had he ever spoken to his brother like this?

Probably ever since he was returned home.

But Qi Muyao knew these were words he had long wanted to say to himself.

Without showing any anger, he still asked gently, “Has it been hurting these past few days? Have you taken your medicine?”

The younger man stayed silent.

In the past, Qi Muyao would have forcefully fed him porridge, getting it all over his clothes.

Qi Muyao thought to himself: Maybe he resents me.

He said slowly, “The medicine Dr. Wang prescribed for you a few days ago—have you finished it?”

Qi Yanyu closed his eyes, refusing to answer. Qi Muyao had anticipated this, so the second half of his sentence was what he truly wanted to say: “Where did you throw out all the medicine?”

The doctor had told him about Qi Yanyu’s condition—that if his stomach pain was still this severe, it was either the wrong medication or him not taking it properly.

“...” Qi Yanyu opened his eyes, but only blinked lightly, pretending not to understand.

How did Qi Muyao know he had thrown all the medicine away?

“I finished it,” he stubbornly replied.

Suddenly, his wan cheek was gently gripped by the other’s knuckles, making him look up.

“I mean the medicine Dr. Wang prescribed two weeks ago. Did you dump it or flush it down the toilet?”

“I took it,” he insisted.

“Starting today, I’ll watch you take your medicine every day.” Qi Muyao kept his fingers on that delicate cheek, forcing his eyes to meet his own.

Actually, all he wanted was eye contact. With that, he could tell if his younger brother was lying.

Qi Yanyu tried to pull away, but lacked the strength. “Why are you so concerned? You’re not my parents.”

“Who said only your parents can care for you?” Though Qi Muyao’s knuckles gripped his cheek, his touch was tender, even teasing him with light strokes. “You’re sick—that's on me.”

“How could you fail? You’re always right.” The words came out sarcastic from his pinched, pouting face.

His tone dripped with irony, and Qi Muyao wasn’t fooled.

His gaze was both searching and patronizingly gentle. “So this is about you being mad at me.”

It could’ve been either—a question or a statement.

Qi Yanyu didn’t want to engage with him, closing his eyes and taking shallow breaths. His face was so pale it resembled a lark dusted with snowflakes.

Qi Muyao wanted to tease him further, "What’s got you so worked up?"

But seeing Qi Yanyu simply shut his eyes, blocking out his words and refusing to speak, he knew this was his silent defiance.

Qi Yanyu couldn’t maintain his sitting posture for long, so he wanted to sink back into the quilt and rest with his eyes closed.

Yet Qi Muyao reached out to wrap an arm around his waist—there was barely any meat on him.

Having barely eaten these past few days, his body felt fragile to the touch, just sharp bones and frailty.

His head, too, was too weak to hold up, drooping until Qi Muyao let it rest against his shoulder.

His voice softened again:

"Do you really need to eat this cake tonight?"

Mentioning the little cake Qi Yanyu had been longing for, his defiance wavered:

"Leave. I’m eating."

By "eating," Qi Yanyu meant that slice of half-baked cheesecake.

It was the dessert he’d earned by obediently drinking porridge these past few days, on his brother’s orders.

Qi Muyao knew how to get him talking.

He knew his little brother inside out.

"I’ll feed you."

With one hand, Qi Muyao propped Qi Yanyu up, who wanted to sit but couldn’t manage it alone. Qi Yanyu could’ve propped himself against the headboard, but that would leave him too far from the half-baked cheesecake on the nightstand.

Without support, his back wouldn’t hold him upright for long.

But Qi Muyao pulled him into his embrace, using his other hand to scoop a small, irregular piece of the cool, creamy, gelatinous cake with a silver spoon.

"Was this cake little brother’s doing?"

"Little brother" referred to the younger Qi Shaoli.

Qi Yanyu didn’t want to hear him speak, "Could you… just not talk?"

His voice was still weak, not its usual clear self.

A little rough, but still warm.

Qi Muyao rarely saw him ask for things so softly—even if the request was for silence.

"..." Qi Muyao smiled. "Sorry for disturbing you."

He could stay silent. As long as Qi Yanyu ate.

The powerful head of a corporate empire apologizing to him like this.

In the past, Qi Yanyu would’ve been floored.

But now—he accepted it without a word, like it was his due.

Qi Muyao supported him, watching as he slowly finished each bite before scooping up another small spoonful.

Qi Yanyu opened his mouth, his lips pale with a faint, washed-out color.

Qi Muyao lowered his gaze, observing his way of eating. Even in such a frail state, his composure remained graceful and refined.

All Qi Yanyu cared about was the cake—that half-baked cheesecake, smooth as pudding, melting instantly on the tongue, its texture soft and mousse-like.

After a few bites, it felt as if he had been momentarily brought back to life, given one more day to want to live.

Because he had eaten what he craved.

If he couldn’t have it tomorrow,

he didn’t want to live to see tomorrow.

Would he need to plead with Qi Shaoli again to buy it for him?

What if Qi Shaoli refused and conned him into eating nothing but porridge for days instead?

Qi Muyao fed him easily one-handed, holding the grown man steady while smoothly feeding him the cake. "What sort of porridge should we do tomorrow?"

The man refused to answer, silently rejecting the idea of porridge altogether.

Qi Muyao noted his still-unchanged pale complexion.

Having held him several times, he knew there was hardly any meat on his bones—even the baby fat on his cheeks had vanished.

"Still want more cake?" he prodded.

Qi Yanyu didn’t respond, only taking another spoonful of the semi-fluid cheesecake, chewing glumly.

Of course, he still wanted the cheesecake.

"How about some delicious meat porridge, with shredded shark fin and chicken thigh, simmered with just a hint of scallions and sesame oil? Or maybe some shrimp paste—you used to love that."

He remembered Qi Yanyu’s preference for porridge with a hint of sesame oil and scallions when ill. If shrimp paste was added, even the most reluctant Qi Yanyu would take a bite.

"..." The mention of those flavors tugged at something in Qi Yanyu, yet he still shook his head stubbornly.

"I could bring back the retired Chef Zhai to cook your favorites. Weren't you fond of his king oyster mushroom shrimp paste and shredded chicken salad when you were little?"

Qi Muyao’s words were carefully calculated to provoke memories, dragging Qi Yanyu back to childhood memories, when a certain Chef Zhai had worked in their home.

Chef Zhai had been kind, perfecting every dish he loved.

Yet he still felt no appetite. "I won’t eat. And I never liked those," he lied.

"Really? Chef Zhai visited recently and asked why he hadn’t seen Qi Yanyu. He still remembers your favorite slow-cooked desserts."

"..." Wasn’t Qi Yanyu absent from home because Qi Muyao had driven him out?

Qi Yanyu changed the subject, "I can hold the cake myself."

Qi Muyao’s last remark seemed to stoke the fires of old resentments.

Qi Muyao couldn’t possibly fail to guess what Qi Yanyu was thinking at that moment. Having cleaned up the once faction-ridden, tangled corporation in just a few years, wily as a fox, he said, “I was too harsh on you recently.”

This felt like empty words—without any real acknowledgment of wrongdoing, just placating Qi Yanyu.

Qi Yanyu thought so to himself.

He lowered his eyes, neither responding nor making a sound.

Only when eating cake did Qi Yanyu's heart feel alive.

At all other times, his heart was like a stagnant pond.

“Eating this might upset your stomach later,” Qi Muyao said, his controlling streak in full swing, not even allowing him to finish the entire piece of cake. “Just a couple bites.”

Qi Yanyu thought to himself:

The semi-soft cheesecake was a small triangle—just a few bites and it would be gone.

And now he was only allowed two bites?

What kind of monster was this?

“Have some porridge too. The kitchen made a fish maw and shredded chicken porridge tonight, and I heard they added a bit of soft shrimp balls,” Qi Muyao coaxed him gently.

Even though Qi Muyao’s arms were warm, Qi Yanyu still wanted to break free.

His words were firm: “If you won’t let me eat cake, get out.”

“Just two spoonfuls of porridge—that’s it,” Qi Muyao said. In the past, he wouldn’t have cared whether Qi Yanyu ate or not—a few days without food would’ve had him crawling back for meals.

Qi Yanyu wanted to shake his head.

“Just two spoonfuls, and then I’ll give you another small cake,” Qi Muyao said, having figured out his temperament—he responded better to coaxing than demands.

Qi Yanyu thought that was tempting.

Finally, the kitchen brought out a bowl of chicken and fish maw porridge, and Qi Muyao held the bowl, gently stirring it with a spoon.

The porridge contained some high-grade fish maw strips, tender chicken shreds, a bit of dried abalone and shrimp, and some shrimp balls Qi Muyao had the kitchen add. They kept the heavy tonics light so Qi Yanyu wouldn’t get overwhelmed.

“I don’t want to eat,” Qi Yanyu said, his stomach turning at the thought of his brother force-feeding him. He snapped, “I really don’t want to.”

He wasn’t doing it on purpose.

Just the smell made his stomach churn again.

Qi Muyao studied him for a moment—his face was ghostly pale. In a rare, sickeningly sweet voice, Qi Muyao said softly, “Then don’t eat. Do you want to sleep? Or wash your face?”

Qi Muyao didn’t know what young people liked these days, but cars, watches, and video games were a safe guess.

Though he had heard of Qi Yanyu’s notorious reputation—his taste for men.

“Or do you want to play games?” Qi Muyao asked. “I booked some pro gamers—they’re on call for you.”

“...S-seriously?”

Qi Yanyu didn’t understand why their attitudes toward him had done a complete 180 after he woke up.

Maybe they had a sudden pang of conscience—or perhaps this was their last performance before everything fell apart.

Perhaps it was a slap then a sugar-coating, to numb himself and keep himself under control so he wouldn’t run away. Otherwise, how could this tragic novel proceed?

"I don’t like playing games," he lied, mouthing agreement while inwardly rejecting it. He just wasn’t appreciative of the gesture.

Mainly because he had neither the energy nor the inclination for it.

"Let me play a couple of rounds with you," Qi Muyao said, knowing full well his words didn’t match his intent. "What game do you want to play?"

Qi Yanyu thought to himself that this novel would inevitably make him suffer in turn sooner or later.

Might as well enjoy himself before the torment began.

"League of Legends."

Qi Muyao carried him to the computer desk, where two PCs were neatly arranged on the surface, looking as if they had just been brought in. Had his elder brother already planned to play a few rounds with him after he woke up?

Qi Yanyu clicked the mouse, though he was terrible at the game.

And with little strength left, his clicks were slow—missing every last-hit, missing 90% of his skill shots.

Yet he insisted on playing jungle, leisurely farming jungle camps before embarking on a long journey to aid the top laner in battle.

Qi Muyao had hired three carry players to back him up.

Meanwhile, Qi Muyao played midlane, often ignoring minions and instead wandering the jungle at a leisurely pace with Qi Yanyu, then heading top to contest herald. When they finally encountered enemies, they would ineptly dogpile the isolated opponent.

The other three carry players mopped up their mess, handling minion waves or providing backup.

After messing around for a long time, Qi Yanyu finally realized that the one diligently following him and joining his fights was actually Qi Muyao.

Qi Muyao rarely played games, but once he started, he grasped mechanics quickly, stringing together smooth combos on his own.

So, he gifted Qi Yanyu kills, who, despite dealing pitiful damage, excelled at last-hitting. After snatching a few kills, the chronically sick young man actually had a decent score.

The carry players also willingly surrendered kills to Qi Yanyu’s jungle Xin Zhao.

Qi Yanyu wasn’t particularly skilled at much, but when it came to leeching lane minions, clearing camps, and securing kills, he was unmatched.

Qi Muyao glanced at him from the side. Qi Yanyu sat reclined against a pillow while gaming.

He didn’t care much about winning or losing, but whenever he secured a kill, a tiny spark lit up in his eyes.

Who could resist going on a rampage in-game?

No one could resist the joy of victory.

Not even this sick little punk.

Unintentionally, Qi Muyao noticed that Qi Yanyu remained unhurried, taking his sweet time farming jungle camps before roaming like a headless chicken across the map.

His fingers, operating the silver-gray mouse, were fine-boned, his pale hand still marked with faded IV-track bruises.

His hair was clean—Qi Muyao had bathed and washed it for him during his days of unconsciousness.

When asleep, Qi Yanyu’s lashes rested closed, revealing a fragile face. His skin was dry and sallow, often bruised from repeated falls.

Now awake but still frail, his lashes fanned like a phoenix’s plumage, his dark eyes mirroring the neon flicker of the dim screen, his face cast in a wan monitor glow.

"Thirsty? Want some porridge?"

His elder brother kept pestering him.

Even though Qi Muyao was playing a mage by his side, he still managed to accompany Qi Yanyu throughout—farming the jungle, watching fights in the top lane, and even "picking up" dead teammates in the bottom lane.

Because their accounts were high-tier, they faced skilled opponents as well.

The reason Qi Yanyu was feeding might have been his recent recovery from a serious illness.

Yet, not a trace of guilt for throwing the game could be found on Qi Yanyu's face.

Qi Muyao's tone sounded like babying a game-obsessed kid.

"Don’t want to."

What a pampered brat.

Despite Qi Muyao’s patient, borderline pleading tone, the eldest of the Qi family got zero appreciation.

A little while later.

"Hungry? Want some delicious shrimp congee?" The kitchen had kept it warm.

Undeterred, he pushed again.

The patient, his fingers pale and bony, tapped the mouse to guide his character’s path, his voice calm and unhurried:

"Later."

Qi Muyao smirked. His handsome face turned toward the sickly man, who, though deeply engrossed in the game, still looked worn-out and sickly.

Told you—still won’t eat.

Gaming addiction is unbeatable.

An hour passed after finishing one match.

The servant reheated the congee—it was the chicken shreds, fish maw, and shrimp congee Qi Muyao had mentioned.