Chapter 32

Chapter 32

Clutching him like a bear cub, he even attempted to cover Qi Yanyu's eyes with his hand, afraid that Qi Yanyu might catch a glimpse of the gruesome wounds on his palms and the back of his hands as the bandages were unwrapped.

"It'll be done soon."

What the hell is wrong with you, Qi Shaoli?

With both hands held by the doctor and his younger brother, Qi Yanyu had no strength left. His struggles were pointless, reducing him to a helpless pet in his brother’s eyes.

But Qi Shaoli didn’t see it that way.

Qi Shaoli lowered his gaze, watching as the bandages were unwrapped from his brother’s hands. His palm bore a circular wound about 2 centimeters in diameter, its edges charred. A few shallow burns from electric shocks had yet to scab over, surrounded by dried yellowish ointment.

"Brother, don’t look. It’ll be over soon."

Just changing the bandages had left Qi Yanyu drenched as if he’d been dunked in water—or as if Qi Shaoli had tortured him.

Once the examination and bandage change were complete, the doctors left.

But the one who should have left the most was still there. The bearish boy was still checking whether the bandages on both hands were properly secured. Qi Yanyu had had enough: "...Get out."

"Brother, let me adjust them for you," Qi Shaoli said. The doctor’s knots were too loose for everyday use—any slight use of his hands would cause them to come undone. So, Qi Shaoli undid the freshly tied knots.

"...!!" Qi Yanyu gaped in shock as the slipknot the doctor had just tied was undone in a flash by Qi Shaoli.

"??"

"It’ll be quick."

Qi Yanyu watched as the boy swiftly rewrapped the bandages, finishing with a perfect little bow on the back of his hand. Pure white, like butterfly wings ready to flutter away. His brother then lifted his face, eyes shining, begging for approval as he asked:

"Isn’t this better?"

"You—get the hell out!" Just get out.

And don’t even think about coming back. Qi Yanyu meant it—he’d had it with his brother.

"Brother, why are you sweating so much?" Qi Shaoli sat by his bed, having just finished tying the bows on his brother’s hands, only to notice that Qi Yanyu’s hair was soaked, his face ashen like a faded pearl. Why was he sweating so badly? He leaned in again, intending to wipe the sweat away, but Qi Yanyu tried to evade him. However, weakened by prolonged illness, how could he possibly escape the grasp of a strong, energetic teenager?

With his hand held by the boy, a silk handkerchief smothered his face.

Afraid that this oaf might mess up his face, Qi Yanyu hurriedly tried to pull the handkerchief away.

This only gave Qi Shaoli a better grip on his arm, pinning him to the headboard as he wiped his face and hair.

His brother shook with fury—

"Butler, where’s the butler?" Now, instead of calling for Zhang Liu, he was summoning the butler.

"Brother, why are you calling the butler?"

To deal with you, of course!

The next day, Qi Shaoli was no longer allowed to enter Qi Yanyu’s room.

Fuming with no one to turn to, Qi Shaoli couldn’t understand why he was being barred again.

After pleading with Zhang Liu several times, Zhang Liu only smiled evasively and said, "I’ll certainly put in a good word for you with the third young master."

Just like that, the news went nowhere.

Qi Shaoli threw himself into baking cakes, burning his hands and raising blisters while unmolding the cake base. Yet undeterred, he discarded batches of milk paste and tried again.

As he simmered syrup, he wondered—Is this sweet enough?

Two weeks into Qi Shaoli’s baking spree, Qi Xizhi tried to curry favor when passing by the kitchen. "You've been busy in here lately—what delicious treats are you making?"

Qi Shaoli focused intently on piping pale gray buttercream onto his three- or four-inch cake, then garnishing it with dried fig pieces.

"Need any help?" Qi Xizhi asked with a playful smile, opening the fridge for water—only to find its shelves packed with an array of eye-catching cakes.

From awkward, brightly frosted attempts to refined, elegant designs, and finally to complex shapes beyond basic rounds—they were nearly indistinguishable from store-bought ones.

Qi Xizhi froze for a moment, surprised. Grabbing a water bottle, he stepped out, watching Qi Shaoli still simmering colored syrup. With a teasing tone, he remarked, "Planning to start a dessert company? Shouldn’t the chairman leave baking to the staff?"

The syrup-stirring youth blinked calmly. "You free to taste this for me?"

"Sure," Qi Xizhi agreed.

Qi Shaoli presented his latest creation—a modest four-pound cake, beautifully crafted in a grayish-cream hue, adorned simply with tiny green mandarins and mint leaves.

Qi Xizhi grabbed a spoon but hesitated. "It’s too pretty—where do I even start?"

Without hesitation, Qi Shaoli sliced off a triangular piece. Amused, Qi Xizhi put it on a plate and took a careful bite.

"Nice. The mandarin flavor is bright."

"Too sour?"

"A little."

"Is the cake sweet enough?"

"It’s fine—the sweetness balances the sour."

Qi Shaoli remained expressionless, though a faint frown hinted at dissatisfaction.

"Still not happy?" Qi Xizhi assumed the perfectionism of an artist.

Qi Shaoli returned to simmering syrup, now infused with freshly squeezed mandarin juice. "If the cake’s too sweet overall, my third elder brother won’t like it. And he hates even the slightest fruit acidity. If only the mandarins were purely sweet and fragrant."

Third elder brother? Did he mean Qi Muyao?

Qi Xizhi smiled in surprise. "So, the eldest likes cake?"

The boy corrected him. "My third elder brother."

Qi Xizhi’s spoon froze mid-bite.

Biting back a scoff—oh, *him*.

Maintaining his friendly act, Qi Xizhi added, "Whatever you make, he’ll love it. Who could refuse such thoughtfulness?"

Qi Shaoli lowered his eyes, silently stirring the green syrup.

Qi Xizhi, sensing rejection, realized the cake was meant solely for Qi Yanyu. He left the dining room and tossed his slice in the trash.

Qi Shaoli ate all the failed cakes himself. The decent ones went to the staff. The most beautiful ones stayed in the fridge—so when he left for school in England, his third elder brother could still have them.

During this time, Qi Yanyu woke up one day unsure of the hour, his chest burning and drenched in cold sweat, unable to tell whether it was cardiac pain or a stomach flare-up. He wanted to call for Zhang Liu.

But as soon as he opened his mouth and managed a couple of weak calls, something—stomach acid or spit—dribbled from his mouth.

He quickly wiped it away with his hand, spotting streaks of blood, and weakly reached for the bedside drawer to search for medicine.

Usually, a nurse would be right there.

And if he so much as whispered Zhang Liu’s name, Zhang Liu would surely respond from outside and come in.

But today, for some reason, neither the nurse nor Zhang Liu was around.

Were they all stuck in some damn fire drill?

Qi Yanyu wondered, yanking weakly at the drawer, but his strength was too weak—he managed to open it slightly but couldn’t reach inside to grab the medicine.

Then Qi Muyao stepped in, helped him find the medication, and upon seeing streaks of blood at the corners of his lips, his chin, and the stains on his clothes, Qi Muyao knew exactly what medicine to look for.

Qi Yanyu shot him a venomous glare, but Qi Muyao remained silent, ripping open a pack of pantoprazole, handing them over, and even pouring him a glass of water.

Qi Yanyu refused to take the medicine and didn’t speak, just kept staring at him.

Qi Muyao, noticing the blood at his lips, set the medicine and water aside, unwrapped a tissue, and moved to wipe it for him.

Qi Yanyu jerked his head back, gasping faintly as he stared back in silence, blood still trickling faintly from his lips.

Qi Muyao observed that his face wasn’t actually as ghostly pale as it seemed—it was just that the dark streaks of blood trailing down his chin made his skin appear unnaturally white and his hair starkly black, amplifying his fragile, pitiable state.

That day, he had shoved Qi Yanyu into the car, and during their argument, slammed his head into the door before pinning him down on the footrest and kicking him twice in the stomach, then slapping him hard across the face several times.

Later, Qi Yanyu lost consciousness, blood pouring from his mouth and nose due to acute gastric mucosal damage.

The same force he’d used on Qi Yanyu, he later used on himself across the face.

His face swelled red at first, then turned purplish-blue, and finally faded into a corpse-like pallor.

He stared at that face for five full days.

That face used to be sweet, boyish, delicate—bright eyes, well-defined brows neither too thick nor too thin. Fortune-tellers swore that those with clear, refined features were destined for academic success. And indeed, getting into Kan Med wasn’t for slackers.

His lips, too, were lovely—not too thin, softly full, with a defined cupid’s bow. Fortune-tellers claimed those with such lips were argumentative. And sure enough, Qi Yanyu was the only one who ever argued with him.

His nose was elegantly straight, perfectly suited to his sharp features. From the side, his profile still carried a hint of charming sweetness.

But the wispy shadows of his lashes stole some of his vitality.

The man turned his face away, refusing to let him wipe it, still panting as he glared. "Why didn’t you just finish me off last time?"

His hands were half-clenched into fists, braced against the bed, as if preparing to defend himself—perhaps thinking that if he were struck again, he’d at least try to "return the favor" before "dying." Qi Yanyu never went down without a fight.

"..." Qi Muyao gazed at him calmly, holding his breath before exhaling heavily. "I’d rather it were me suffering like this," he said solemnly.

Who the hell says shit like that with a straight face? Qi Yanyu thought.

When the other man reached out to touch him, Qi Yanyu—blood still staining his lips—recoiled in revulsion, shrinking back until he was wedged into the corner between the bed and the cabinet.

To him, the man looked like a two-week-old kitten, freshly born into the damp filth of a sewer, wet and dirty, hissing, fur on end.

Qi Muyao halted his motion of offering the tissue, no longer leaning forward. His fingers worried the tissue, loosening and tightening their grip. His gaze remained fixed on the person who was now tense but frail, gasping for air.

The man seemed to grit his teeth between breaths: "Kick me in the chest this time. So you won’t let this drag on."

Qi Muyao watched him—his face ashen, wincing through stomach pain, beads of sweat forming. His speech was broken by gasps.

His knuckles tightened, and as he watched, his heart felt as though gripped by an invisible, constricting hand.

The calm in his eyes maintained the image of a stoic, commanding eldest brother: "How could I ever...?"

I wish I could take this from you. I wish I could be the one lying unconscious instead.

"You’re not in my position. You don’t understand me." Qi Muyao’s tone lacked its former authority, but to Qi Yanyu, it still carried the same condescension of someone used to looking down on others.

"How could I ever reach your position... If I lived as shamelessly as you, I’d have bashed my head in long ago..." Qi Yanyu sneered, spittle dribbling from the corner of his mouth as he laughed.

Qi Muyao gave a humorless laugh, watching him huddled in the corner of the bed, his back trembling slightly from discomfort. He kept his face blank and reached out to pull him back, at least to get him to take the medicine.

But the moment his fingertips brushed against him, the man shrieked: "Get out! Don’t touch me!"

"Is your stomach hurting again?"

"Go... just go..." The man, muffled into the pillow, coughed weakly. "Get out, get out..."

Seeing him curled up, unsure whether from violent coughing or retching, Qi Muyao flinched back, not daring to manhandle him upright to check if he was coughing up blood or worse. The man’s wrecked condition left Qi Muyao’s heart clenched for a good ten seconds before he managed to say through the pain, "I’ll get Zhang Liu in here!"

By the time Zhang Liu entered, Qi Yanyu was already collapsed over the bedside, vomiting uncontrollably, his hands clutching his stomach as if on the verge of passing out.

That night, Qi Yunpu sat by his bedside, observing the new sheets already speckled with scattered traces of blood.

At the head of the bed, Qi Yunpu regarded the unconscious Qi Yanyu calmly, while another figure sat at the foot.

One at the head, one at the foot—only the man in the middle slept soundly. Finally, Qi Yunpu lifted his gaze and said lightly, "Go rest."

Qi Muyao remained silent, staying until early morning light around five or six in the morning before finally rising to leave.

·

Qi Yanyu spent a full month recuperating. Only in the last few days did he turn on his phone.

To his surprise, someone had actually called him.

Opening the call log, he found over a dozen missed calls, most from the same person.

Qi Yanyu thought he was mistaken—why would *he* call *him*?

Logging into WeChat, files flooded his chat in a barrage.

Only then did Qi Yanyu realize it was Huang Shaoze who had been sending him lecture notes and assignments every day.

At the top of his friend requests, a stranger’s messages spammed him relentlessly. Later, he learned it was Qi Yuanhan. The friend request notes read:

"Are you coming back to class?"

"Why aren’t you in class yet?"

"Huang Shaoze is busy today and can’t send the notes. Hurry up and accept me so I can send them to you!"

*Where* are you???

"Both Huang Shaoze and Gu Jinglan are busy, so accept my request already!!!"

"I can't even. You're unbelievable, Qi Yanyu."

"Last chance—accept me. They're both tied up today, and no one's sending you the lecture notes!"

"I swear I want to curse. Did you block me or something?"

Qi Yanyu checked Gu Jinglan's WeChat chat history and found that the earliest records from the past week were all of Gu Jinglan sending him lecture notes.

Later, it was Huang Shaoze who sent him assignments and lecture notes, almost every day racing against time before the dorm Wi-Fi cutoff at curfew.

Qi Yuanhan was making a fool of himself, spamming friend requests until he finally flew off the handle and accused him of blocking him.

Qi Yanyu clicked into Gu Jinglan's WeChat, thinking he might have shown some concern. But there wasn't a single message asking why he hadn't been to class.

Only records from the first week of sending lecture notes—the chat was nothing but file attachments.

Meanwhile, Huang Shaoze faithfully sent daily lecture materials and assignments, even adding words of concern like "Hurry back to class."

But Gu Jinglan hadn't sent him a single WeChat message.

He then opened his text messages, unaware that Qi Muyao had deleted some. He saw Gu Jinglan's message history was painfully blank.

His left pinky went slightly numb as his fingers tightened.

Each night after work, Qi Muyao would ask the caregiver and Zhang Liu about Qi Yanyu—how many steps he had taken that day, whether he had gotten a massage, his mood, how much he had eaten, if he had taken his medicine, his temperature, whether his asthma had flared up, his heart rate, if he had coughed up blood, and so on.

He asked every day, frowning each time. Eventually, Zhang Liu was equal parts amused and annoyed, wanting to joke, "You might as well install surveillance in the third young master's room."

One day, Qi Yanyu received a text from an unknown number.

"Classmate Yanyu, are you feeling any better? We've all been concerned about you during your illness. Hope to see you back in class soon."

Qi Yanyu didn’t know who sent the anonymous message—it sounded sweet, probably some girl from class.

But aside from Room 413, he hadn’t interacted with any classmates. It was probably just some teacher going through the motions or a class officer checking in.

The sender texted again: "Are you feeling any better today?"

Finally, Qi Yanyu replied: "Thanks. Please stop texting me."

The sender was surprised and texted, "Why?"

"No reason," Qi Yanyu said.

The sender texted again: "Time heals all wounds, and the wind will blow your troubles away. Don’t lose heart, friend. Keeping your spirits up helps healing."

This sounded so cheesy. He texted back, "Who are you? Stop texting me."

"Illness is just a test. Face it bravely and accept the challenge. Don’t get worked up—keeping your spirits up helps healing."

This made Qi Yanyu laugh. He texted, "You sound just like my big brother." Total 'older brother pretending to be cool' vibes.

There was a long pause. Sure enough, hearing that he sounded like his brother, they stopped texting.

After a long silence, they finally replied:

"Then your brother must care about you as much as I do :)" with a tacky text smiley.

But this cheesy smiley face felt more like a dig in Qi Yanyu's eyes.

Qi Yanyu: "..."

That evening, the person messaged him again: "Have you eaten, classmate Yanyu?" along with a photo of their school's cafeteria tray—snagged from who-knows-where—bearing Kan Medical University's emblem.

The food looked painfully bland: just cabbage, peas with corn kernels, and spinach with mushrooms.

Whoever this was clearly had boring taste.

"Why aren't you replying? Are you in a bad mood, or feeling unwell?"

Then came another photo of themselves studying in the library.

Qi Yanyu suspected someone was messing with him, so he kept ignoring it.

"The midterms are coming up soon, so the library's more crowded than usual. Classmate Yanyu, when are you coming back to school? You can sit next to me when you return to study. Let’s improve together!"

The awkward phrasing made Qi Yanyu laugh. He sent a medical question: "What’s the most common infection route for pyelonephritis? Answer me."

Unhurried, they replied: "Trying to quiz me? Why don’t you come to the library tonight—fourth floor, row K, seat 49."

Qi Yanyu smirked and typed: "Be there in 40." But he had no intention of going; it was just a lie.

Yet right on the 40-minute mark, they messaged: "Are you here? I don’t see you."

"I’m here. No one's at 49," Qi Yanyu fibbed.

"I’m right here. You're full of it. Liar liar pants on fire," came the reply.

Qi Yanyu felt thrown—was this Gu Jinglan messaging him?

But he quickly dismissed the thought. Had to be some joke, or maybe his eldest brother Qi Muyao pretending to be a classmate.

Qi Yanyu asked: "What kind of flowers grow below Building 13?"

They answered swiftly: "Not flowers, dumbass—it's plane trees. Why? Want to study under them together?"

"You're so lame." Qi Yanyu decided to block this number.

Then came a photo: his whole lab class during an experiment, including him. "Miss that time we worked on the isolated frog heart experiment together."

Qi Yanyu’s fingers curled tight. He zoomed in—no Gu Jinglan, just himself.

Another message followed: "The xx02 class of Lin Medical wants you back to campus to learn and grow together."

"I can’t grow," Qi Yanyu muttered hollowly at his own typed words, feeling hollow.

"Are you facing difficulties?" Whoever was texting tensed up as they asked.

"Mainly, I’m already doing well. It’s you all who need to improve," Qi Yanyu shot back.

Came the sarcastic 'Hah.'

Qi Yanyu tapped out lazily with pale knuckles: "What if I smashed all the hydrangeas in the greenhouse?"

Came the confused reply: "Why would you do that?"

If this was Qi Muyao... well, he'd beaten him before. Now Qi Yanyu wanted to wreck Qi Muyao’s greenhouse.

He'd hesitated to let Qi Xizhi wreck the greenhouse earlier—the flowers were blooming so nicely.

Now he regretted it.

"Will you hit me again if I trash your greenhouse?"

The other person sent a "?".

Qi Yanyu chuckled lightly, "I've had it up to here with those blue, purple, and pink hydrangeas for a long time." He just hadn’t found the right moment to act.

"Why didn’t you do it earlier?"

"I was afraid the glass shards from the greenhouse would fly into my eyes." Even if just scraping by, Qi Yanyu was still terrified of pain.

The other person replied: "..." and "You're quite the comedian."