Chapter 1

Chapter 1

"Parents who could raise a ruthless scum like Bao Yiming—who takes what he wants by force and stops at nothing—what kind of decent people could they possibly be?"

"Bao Yiming was born wicked. His parents brought him into this world but failed to raise him properly. It's a downright societal disgrace!"

On the bed, a handsome young man with long hair lay with his eyes tightly shut. His eyes darted rapidly behind closed lids, and the corners of his eyes were damp with tears.

His dry, cracked lips parted slightly as he murmured a response to the voices in his head: "No... Yi Ming... he wasn't born evil..."

His voice, weakened by long illness, rasped like a saw grating on wood.

Aunt Zhong stepped into the room and, seeing this, rushed to steady Wen Cishu’s arm. "Second Master?"

Wen Cishu jolted, nearly toppling over, then abruptly opened his eyes, startled and disoriented, his chest heaving.

A silken cascade of ink-black hair spilled across the daybed from his shoulders, teetering precariously.

His congenital heart condition made him vulnerable to emotional strain, and his face turned ghostly pale.

Aunt Zhong rubbed his chest through the blanket, her tone soothing. "Easy now, don’t fret."

Gradually, Wen Cishu’s breathing steadied.

Yet in his almond-shaped eyes—imbued with an unmistakably Eastern classical charm—the ghost of his nightmare lingered.

When he recognized Aunt Zhong’s face, he pressed his bloodless lips tightly together.

He couldn’t begin to explain the sheer horror of the dream he had just experienced.

In it, Bao Yiming—the child he and his husband, Bao Tingyuan, had raised—was the smirking, manipulative villain of an over-the-top tragic novel.

Their excessive indulgence had led Bao Yiming to grow up willful and stubborn.

By his twenties, Bao Yiming had become a scoundrel who abused the protagonist, treating them as nothing more than a stand-in for his white moonlight.

In the end, Bao Yiming was defeated by the story’s hero, and he lost everything.

As for family, Wen Cishu had died of a heart attack when Bao Yiming was just twelve.

Now, his breaths came heavy, his heart hammered, sending blood rushing through his limbs.

Feeling returned to his numb limbs, and the weight crushing his chest seemed to lift slightly.

His mind felt as clear as glass washed clean by water.

Wen Cishu asked softly, "Aunt Zhong... how old is Yi Ming this year?"

"Nine, of course."

Aunt Zhong was startled—hadn’t they just celebrated the young master’s birthday in high spirits?

Hearing this, Wen Cishu lowered his eyelids slightly. *There’s still time.*

*Knock, knock, knock.*

"Aunt Zhong?"

A timid voice followed the knock at the door.

A young maid from the Bo family peeked into the room.

Wen Cishu turned his gaze toward the bedroom entrance.

Meeting Mr. Wen’s eyes, the maid immediately lowered her head.

Since joining the Bo household, she had never stepped into this restricted bedroom.

Inside, Chinese-style decorative lines framed the space like classical paintings, accentuating the ethereal beauty of the long-haired figure reclining on the chaise lounge.

There was a belief that hair grows by consuming one's vitality.

Despite Mr. Wen’s delicate health, his hair was unnaturally thick, jet-black, and lustrous—a rare sight indeed.

Beside the chaise lounge, Auntie Zhong bent down and carefully pulled the light blanket higher over him.

"Second Master, please keep resting. I’ll go see what’s going on."

Wen Cishu fixed his weak gaze on the somewhat unfamiliar face and asked softly, "What happened? Tell me."

Everyone in the Bo household prioritized Wen Cishu’s well-being, making sure no minor or troubling matters reached his ears.

The maid naturally dared not speak either, only glancing anxiously at Auntie Zhong for guidance.

Having watched Wen Cishu grow up, Auntie Zhong cherished him as if he were her own eyes.

"It must be some household issue. I'll handle it. Second Master should rest."

Though his breathing was feeble, Wen Cishu was surprisingly firm. "Auntie Zhong, I want to know."

With no choice, Auntie Zhong signaled for the maid to step forward.

The maid stole another glance at the strikingly beautiful yet fragile Mr. Wen and hesitantly explained, "It’s the young master… He—he says he wants to join a talent show…"

"Cough, cough..."

Before she could finish, Wen Cishu broke into uncontrollable coughing, his heart pounding violently as though trying to leap from his chest.

The phrases “born but not raised” and “born wicked” from his dream sent a chill through his blood.

Startled, the maid tried to soothe him. "Master, please don’t get upset."

Everyone in the Bo household referred to Wen Cishu as "Master."

After several coughs, Wen Cishu oddly regained some color in his face, his eyes glistening with moisture. He threw off the blanket. "I’m going to see for myself."

Before Auntie Zhong could protest, he gently gripped her forearm and comforted her in their local dialect.

"Auntie Zhong, it’s alright. Don’t worry."

Auntie Zhong said nothing further and carefully helped the Second Master to his feet.

The attentive maid quickly fetched the light blanket and softly draped it over Mr. Wen’s shoulders.

Wen Cishu pulled it closer. "Thank you."

The maid kept her eyes downcast, warmed by his gentle tone.

Auntie Zhong brushed aside the strands of black hair falling across his face before steadying him as they slowly walked out together.

At that moment, a chaotic mix of shouts and screams came from the living room downstairs.

Wen Cishu, who had been walking slowly, frowned when he realized what the noise was and quickened his pace to the corridor overlooking the living room.

In the extravagantly decorated classical living room, a little monkey was leaping up and down along the square-recessed Chinese-style sofa.

Holding a black remote control like a microphone, he chanted like a spell, belting out a relentless stream of noise.

And of course, this lively “monkey concert” had a full audience—three rows deep:

The family’s butler, maids, driver, and bodyguards.

The rowdy, shrieking little menace was none other than the future obsessive villain from the book, Bao Yiming.

Wen Cishu gripped the railing tightly as he watched the little rascal's triumphant display.

His chest tightened with a dull ache again.

The original author had just casually decreed someone as the villain;

As the villain’s parent, however, the burden was far heavier.

Wen Cishu slowly entered the antique elevator at the end of the corridor.

The elevator descended leisurely.

Afternoon sunlight filtered through the black wrought-iron grille, casting fragmented shadows on Wen Cishu’s flawless, porcelain face.

The commotion caught the attention of those on the first floor.

As the elevator doors opened, Wen Cishu stepped out slowly, supported by Aunt Zhong, his pale face creased with a faint frown.

Several people who rarely saw Mr. Wen were momentarily stunned, as if witnessing a movie hero’s grand entrance.

The Bao family’s butler, Uncle Xu, exclaimed in surprise, “Sir, you’re up?”

Only then did Bao Yiming notice his little father’s arrival.

Having just jumped onto the coffee table, he grinned and called out, “Papa! Isn’t my new rap fire? *[unintelligible screeching]*”

Bao Yiming had inherited some mixed genes from his Chinese-French mixed dad, combined with Wen Cishu’s Eastern genes, resulting in black hair and amber eyes from birth.

As a child, he had been an absurdly cuddly baby.

Who would have thought he’d turn into such a little terror?

Wen Cishu had to tilt his head up slightly to look at the nine-year-old rascal, his brows faintly furrowed, unconsciously revealing a trace of worry.

Noticing that his little father had to crane his neck to see him, Bao Yiming obligingly hopped down. “Papa? I want to join the entertainment industry! They say my face’ll blow up!”

His little father had never said no to him, so he spoke as if it were a given, like his debut was already guaranteed.

“What?”

Wen Cishu was already unsettled, swamped by the day’s chaos, his thoughts drifting uncontrollably. Hearing this, he blanked for a second.

“I want to audition for an entertainment show! My classmate said there’s a company scouting kid trainees (9–15)!”

True to form, he bounced back onto the sofa.

Butler Xu was so frightened that he rushed to catch him, trembling like a eunuch in an ancient imperial court.

"Good lord! Don’t fall!"

The maids couldn’t help but think—this rosewood tea table was a wedding gift from the old master of the Bao family.

Along with the entire set of luxurious Chinese-style chairs, tables, and long couches, each piece was priceless.

Seeing his wild antics, Wen Cishu spoke sternly for the first time to stop him: "Bao Yiming, come down this instant!"

Aunt Zhong and Uncle Xu, hearing his tone, exchanged puzzled glances.

Bao Yiming swayed his hips, showing off his newly learned dance moves, without a care in the world.

"Little Dad, tell me first—does my dancing look good?"

The mere thought of his future—"‘forced possession,’ ‘imprisonment and tragic love’"—made Wen Cishu wish he could cram the entire penal code into the boy’s brain.

Suppressing his palpitations, he spoke softly, "Yi Ming, at your age, you should be focusing on your studies."

Bao Yiming’s eyes widened slowly. "Little Dad, you don’t support me?"

He stomped his foot, but the sturdy, expensive sofa didn’t budge an inch.

Neither did the resolute expression on his Little Dad’s beautiful face.

Working himself up, he shouted, "I don’t care! I’m joining the idol audition!"

Hearing the commotion, Uncle Xu gestured for the maids, drivers, and bodyguards to disperse.

Bao Yiming bounced between the Chinese-style sofas. "I’m going to be a top-tier idol! Little Dad, don’t stop me! No one can!"

Wen Cishu felt short of breath, his heart aching again.

Glancing around and finding nothing suitable at hand, he managed to order, "Uncle Xu, bring me a frying pan—and two bodyguards."

His phoenix eyes narrowed at the lawless, hyperactive little troublemaker before adding, "Make it four bodyguards."

Standing atop the sofa, Bao Yiming looked down at his usually indulgent Little Dad in disbelief. "Little Dad? You misunderstood—I’m going to an idol audition, not a fight. No need for bodyguards!"

"Huh?"

Uncle Xu stared at Mr. Wen, who was swaying unsteadily and struggling to breathe, wondering if he’d misheard. He thought, *Am I dreaming?*

"Go get it," Wen Cishu exhaled heavily, leaving no room for argument.

"Right away, sir!"

Uncle Xu hurried toward the distant kitchen, his mind in chaos.

Since when did Mr. Wen want to *hit* the young master?

One of the maids followed him and whispered, "Get a small one. I don’t think the master really intends to hit him."

The Bao family had no tradition of hitting children.

Moreover, due to his delicate health, Wen Cishu had always doted on his only child, indulging his every whim without ever so much as scolding him, much less laid a hand on him.

The butler was well aware of this.

However, he was concerned about something else and sighed, "Sir doesn't have the strength to lift a heavy pot."

"That's true."

The maid was faster, stepping into the kitchen first and handing him the smallest milk pot available.

In the living room,

the little troublemaker had already realized his father was about to take action and bolted up the stairs in a flash.

"Daddy? Are you going to hit me? I'm your only little son! I'm so cute!"

Cute?

Wen Cishu almost laughed in frustration.

Bao Yiming had been spoon-fed since birth, doted on and adored by the elders of both the Wen and Bao families.

More than just confident—he was downright narcissistic.

He weakly raised his hand, pointing at the little troublemaker, and said to the four bodyguards, "Would you mind holding him down?"

The bodyguards looked at each other uncertainly.

Wen Cishu narrowed his long, phoenix-like eyes. "Can't I give you orders?"

The lead bodyguard in a suit hesitated, glancing at the nine-year-old young master, and said awkwardly, "Sir, this..."

Wen Cishu replied calmly, "I'll take responsibility if anything happens."

After speaking, as if unable to suppress it, he turned his pale face slightly and covered his lips with a light cough.

The bodyguards had no choice but to brace themselves and head upstairs.

Bao Yiming screamed and dashed to the second floor.

The little brat was indeed nimble, darting around like a mad rabbit, and having grown up spoiled, he was utterly fearless.

But the four bodyguards were highly skilled, towering figures—like eagles catching a chick—and soon had the little troublemaker under control.

They didn’t dare lay hands on the young master directly, fearing they might accidentally hurt him.

One cleverly grabbed a couch blanket, wrapped it around the flailing limbs of the young master, bundled him up, and carried him downstairs.

The nine-year-old Bao Yiming writhed wildly, howling at the ceiling, "I’m the future heir of the Bao family! I’m not some thief!"

The little troublemaker was pinned to the couch, unable to break free, and screamed, "Help! Auntie Zhong! Uncle Xu! Save me!"

Aunt Zhong couldn’t stand to watch and bent down, about to speak.

Wen Cishu lifted his gaze, watching the butler shuffling at a snail’s pace, and asked leisurely, "Uncle Xu, what’s wrong with your legs? Suddenly can’t walk?"

"Thank you for your concern, sir. It’s just arthritis acting up. It’s fine now."

Uncle Xu awkwardly resumed his normal stride and stepped forward to hand over the milk pot.

Aunt Zhong quickly placed a clean white cloth over the handle.

Wen Cishu took the handle, looking down at the small white porcelain pot.

He couldn’t help it—a second frustrated chuckle escaped him.

The flat bottom of the milk pot was only as big as his palm.

Not even an adult’s fist could fit through the small pot opening.

"Grandpa Xu!"

Bao Yiming spotted his savior and writhed like crazy.

But wrapped in the white blanket, he looked like a frantic caterpillar in a cocoon, twisting wildly.

"Quick, call my big dad! My little dad’s gone crazy!"

Xu was just about to step back when Mr. Wen gave him a slow look.

Those eyes—exceptionally deep and dark—naturally carried an air of refined elegance. Usually dimmed by illness, they now gleamed with razor-sharp intensity.

Xu dared not move, only urging patiently, "Young master, what’s so great about showbiz? You should focus on your studies. Your father loves you dearly—he’s not really going to hit you. Just apologize, and it’ll be fine."

He gave a meaningful look, signaling the young master to say something conciliatory.

Bao Yiming received the "advice," but chose to ignore it.

"No! This is my passion!"

Wen Cishu tightened his grip on the pot and told the bodyguards, "Hold him down."

The bodyguards broke out in sweat, pressing down on the young master’s legs through the blanket.

Though Bao Yiming struggled, he made sure not to kick toward his little dad.

Years ago, one summer afternoon, he had accidentally slapped his little dad’s arm.

A red handprint instantly appeared on the pale skin, every tiny finger mark clearly visible.

Although no adult scolded him then, the incident made a lasting impression on his young mind. From that day on, he instinctively avoided hurting his little dad.

Before swinging the pot, Wen Cishu took a steadying breath, waiting until his body was balanced, then gave Bao Yiming’s bottom a light tap.

"Ow ow ow—!"

Bao Yiming yelled bloody murder before the pot even landed.

When it did, though it didn’t hurt, the embarrassment was too much.

As the young master of the Bao family, how could he endure such humiliation—even from his little dad? He thrashed even harder.

The living room broke into chaos.

No one could believe it—Mr. Wen, normally so indulgent, was actually disciplining his treasured son today.

Then, someone quietly announced, "Sir, the eldest young master has returned."

"Eldest young master" was how the Bao family referred to their head, Bao Tingyuan.

A tall, broad-shouldered man marched in, radiating cold authority.

It was Bao Yiming’s big dad—Bao Tingyuan.

As a mixed-race individual, Bao Tingyuan's features were more striking than his son Bao Yiming's—his facial structure sharper, his frame exceptionally tall and powerfully built.

Most notable were his emerald-green eyes.

Balancing on a high nose, a pair of frameless glasses magnified the deep, mysterious glare behind them, giving him an ever-present cold, sharp, and unreadable aura.

At that moment, reflected in Bao Tingyuan’s piercing gaze was Wen Cishu—who was often sickly—swinging a small pot to smack their son on the butt.

Wen Cishu's black hair cascaded like a waterfall, sweat glistening at his temples, his shaky hand still gripping the pot.

Bao Yiming looked up at his towering father, backlit by the light, as if he’d just seen his hero, crying out for help.

"Big Dad! Quick, my little dad went crazy and hit me! He must have another son somewhere else, waaah... ow!"

Another whack came down.

Hearing this, Bao Tingyuan’s thick brows furrowed with displeasure.

He quickly stepped forward to steady Wen Cishu. His voice was oddly soft, clashing with his intimidating look and icy demeanor: "Why get so worked up?"

Thinking he was off the hook, Bao Yiming tried to scramble up.

The bodyguard started to let go.

But Bao Tingyuan snapped coldly, “Hold the young master down.”

Four words—as heavy and chilling as an iceberg dropping into the sea—made the bodyguard instinctively tighten his grip.

"Yowch—"

Bao Yiming yelped pitifully.

Bao Tingyuan helped Wen Cishu sit on the sofa, then picked up a glass of warm water and brought it to his dry but soft lips. "Drink some water."

Wen Cishu had become overwhelmed—his vision blurring with dizziness, unable to make out Bao Tingyuan’s face clearly. All he felt was a strong, icy presence wrapping around him.

He didn’t pull away, drinking half of it from Bao Tingyuan’s pale, slender hand.

Behind the lenses, Bao Tingyuan watched the slight part of his lips as he sipped the warm water.

His thin mouth slowly moistened, turning soft and pink.

After finishing, Wen Cishu turned his head away, a few black strands falling free by his ear.

Bao Tingyuan handed the glass to a maid, reached out to tuck the loose hair behind Wen Cishu’s ear, then slid a round cushion behind his back for support.

Only after these gentle gestures did he turn toward his son, looking down as he shrugged off his suit jacket, revealing a black button-up underneath.

Bao Yiming strained to look up, puzzled, at his father, who now loomed like a fortress.

Still defiant, he shouted, "Big Dad, what are you doing? Hurry up and tell them to let me go!"

Wen Cishu also lifted his head slightly, frowning at the man's broad back.

Then Bao Tingyuan tossed aside his jacket and bent closer to his son.

To others, the towering man resembled a fierce beast looming over a helpless cub.

"Yiming," he said quietly, "repeat what you just said."

One sentence made everyone but Wen Cishu and Bao Yiming feel a sharp sense of danger, drawing all eyes toward the father and son.

"Ah?"

Bao Yiming, clever but naïve, had been doted on since childhood.

He gave his naturally stern-faced father an innocent, blank expression, completely unaware of the subtle threat in those words.

Uncle Xu’s eye twitched hard as he recalled the young master’s careless remark—

"Little Dad must have another son outside!"

Just as he lifted his gaze to gauge the eldest master’s reaction, he saw him tear off the white handkerchief wrapped around the frying pan’s handle, grip it tightly, and raise it high—

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"

The shrill scream pierced their ears, making Wen Cishu, already dealing with tinnitus, wince as he sank back into the sofa.

"Second Master?!" Aunt Zhong hurried forward to steady him.

"No, I’m fine..." Wen Cishu took a breath to steady himself, though his pale face gave away his discomfort.

Bao Tingyuan tossed aside the small pan and immediately ordered Uncle Xu, "Call the doctor."

With that, he turned, bent down, and lifted Wen Cishu easily with one arm.

Wen Cishu was pulled into his embrace, his cheek instinctively nuzzling against Bao Tingyuan’s.

Standing at 190 cm, Bao Tingyuan had long, powerful arms, while Wen Cishu, though tall, was slender like bamboo.

One arm slid beneath Wen Cishu’s knees while the other, broad palm cradled his side, his shoulder firmly supported.

Wen Cishu’s long black hair spilled down like silk, blending seamlessly with Bao Tingyuan’s dark shirt as it draped over his strong arms.

Cradling him securely, Bao Tingyuan ascended the stairs.

His steps were so steady that Wen Cishu felt no jostling at all, his frantic heartbeat settling strangely.

Everyone in the living room kept their gazes lowered.

Every time the eldest master and Mr. Wen appeared together, they were in such a close embrace.

They should have long grown accustomed to it, yet the sheer visual impact of the scene still compelled them to "mind their manners—eyes down, thoughts inward."

On the sofa, Bao Yiming sobbed, tears and snot running down his face, his features scrunched in misery.

Born spoiled rotten, who had ever dared lay a finger on him?

Today marked his first real suffering—a well-spanked backside.

Uncle Xu and the servants rushed over, pulling the blanket aside and comforting him.

"Young Master, don’t cry. The eldest master has called for a doctor. You’ll be fine."

From the stairway landing, Bao Tingyuan rumbled in a deep voice, "I called the doctor for *Sir*."

Even steady Uncle Xu couldn’t help but blurt out, "Ah?"

Immediately after, Bao Yiming sobbed between gasps— "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH—!!!"