Chapter 111

Chapter 111

Chao Cheyun was the first to let out a very faint snort, not bothering to utter a single word. He stood up directly, gave his sleeves a flick, and walked out the door without looking back, his steps brisk, as if staying a moment longer would be torture.

Seeing this, Xue Shechuan set down his teacup with elegance and rose slowly. Xue Shuyu immediately stood up as well, watching his brother make a polite bow in the direction of Nan Wuxie and Wen Buchi. "In that case, my younger brother and I will take our leave now."

He paused, took half a step forward. "Regarding that matter discussed with the Marquis some days ago, I have been doing my best to prepare. For now... no unexpected problems have come up."

Nan Wuxie was still basking in satisfaction; upon hearing this, he simply nodded, his smile unwavering.

Xue Shechuan took no offense and turned to leave with his brother. As Xue Shuyu passed by Nan Wuxie, he deliberately paused, reached out a hand, and patted him lightly on the chest. Then he quickly raised an eyebrow at him, his eyes sparkling mischievously as if to say, "Nice one!" before bounding off to catch up with his brother.

The two brothers had just stepped over the threshold of the study when they saw Chao Cheyun, who had just stormed out, suddenly come back.

His face expressionless, he walked straight to Chao Yunping, who was still in shock, and grabbed his brother's arm.

Chao Yunping said, "Marquis, you—"

"Brother!" Chao Cheyun interrupted him. "I heard there's a new blacksmith's shop in the Western Market. The craftsman there is said to be extremely skilled, and the weapons and armor he makes are quite good. Haven't you been looking for a good short blade? How about going to take a look now?"

He used the most obvious excuse in a coaxing tone.

Chao Yunping was still in a daze. "Huh? Blacksmith's shop? Now? But they—"

"Let's go, let's go."

Chao Cheyun used force, practically yanking his brother up from the chair.

"I happen to be free too, let's go."

Half-dragging, half-pulling, he unceremoniously led his still-oblivious, straightforward elder brother away from this awkward situation, leaving a hurried silhouette that still showed brotherly affection.

In the blink of an eye, only Nan Wuxie and Wen Buchi remained in the study, along with the complex atmosphere that still hung in the air—a mix of shock, speechlessness, understanding, and amusement—not fully dissipated yet.

Nan Wuxie's smile slowly morphed into a deeper, tender gaze, falling on the slightly red ear of the man next to him.

Before he could put his feelings into words, Wen Buchi thumped him on the chest in annoyance. Then, without looking at him, he turned and walked away, steps swift, shutting the door firmly, leaving him no chance to curry favor.

Wen Buchi was easily embarrassed, so Nan Wuxie couldn't get into the room that night. He stood at the door all night, begging.

Soft coaxing and pleading sounds came through the crack in the door, rising and falling in volume, until dawn.

Who knew this lord had such a delicate constitution? After spending a summer night standing in the warm breeze, he actually caught a cold!

It was a real cold.

Not faked.

The physician hurried in and out with his medical case. Nan Wuxie bundled himself up like a silkworm, only his head exposed, lying weakly on the daybed with a pitiful look.

"Lord Wen... cough cough... I feel so awful..."

"..."

Wen Buchi had been skeptical at first, but he couldn't argue with the physician's diagnosis—who nodded, prescribed medicine, and specifically advised that he should rest more and not exert himself in recent days.

How could anyone scold or hit him now? One could only take care of him.

Wen Buchi did not turn around, his tone flat as he said: "The medicine is already brewing in the small kitchen. After you take it in a moment, get a good sleep. The doctor said it's not a serious illness; probably from overworking yourself lately—body and mind. Rest more these days and take your medicine on time—"

Before Wen Buchi could finish his sensible speech, Nan Wuxie interrupted pitifully.

"Lord Wen..." he called out.

"Hmm?" Wen Buchi turned around to look at him.

"That's not right." Nan Wuxie shook his head, the brocade comforter bunching up in a lump with the movement.

"What's not right?" Wen Buchi frowned.

"The medicine is wrong."

"?"

Nan Wuxie's eyes suddenly lit up, like a star falling into a deep pond. The silkworm cocoon wriggled to the edge of the daybed, moving closer.

His moist eyes locked onto Wen Buchi.

"I want a kiss."

"..."

It was a waste of time to take him seriously. Wen Buchi ignored him, and before the other could respond, he had already walked out.

When Wen Buchi returned to the room with the medicine bowl, Nan Wuxie had already repositioned himself, burying himself deeper into the brocade comforter, revealing only a pair of glistening eyes, looking at him expectantly.

He was genuinely sick. Such a perfect chance to act spoiled and play the patient—how could one not exploit it?

As soon as Wen Buchi sat down by the daybed and scooped up a spoonful of medicine to bring to his lips, Nan Wuxie dove his head under the covers, letting out a muffled sound from under the edge of the blankets.

"Hot."

Wen Buchi's hand paused. Patiently, he withdrew the spoon, gently blew on it several times, tested the temperature with his own lips, and then offered it again.

Only then did Nan Wuxie slowly move closer. He took only a tiny sip, immediately frowned, and began to act stubborn.

"...Bitter."

He looked at Wen Buchi with aggrieved, accusing eyes, as if the bitterness of the medicine was entirely the other's fault.

"Are you feeling uncomfortable or not?" Wen Buchi remained unmoved, bringing the spoon closer again. "Open your mouth."

Nan Wuxie refused to open his mouth, instead pulling the blanket up to cover half his face, leaving only his eyes exposed, mumbling: "Dizzy... no strength, can't lift my head."

Wen Buchi glanced at his tightly wrapped mouth, was silent for a moment, and finally relented.

He set down the medicine bowl, leaned over, gently cupped Nan Wuxie's nape with one hand to lift him slightly, and with the other hand picked up the bowl again, bringing it to his lips.

This time, Nan Wuxie cooperatively took a few sips along the rim of the bowl, but with each sip, he would take a light breath, his long lashes lowered, casting a small fragile shadow under his eyes, as if enduring immense torment.

It took nearly a quarter of an hour to finish the bowl of medicine, with frequent breaks: either complaining it was too bitter and needed a pause, or choking and coughing lightly, requiring Wen Buchi to pat his back.

Finally, the bowl was almost empty. Wen Buchi had just let out a sigh of relief and was about to take the empty bowl away when his wrist was suddenly grasped by a warm hand.

"Cold..." Nan Wuxie extended his hand from under the covers, weakly hooking Wen Buchi's wrist, though his palm was scorching hot.

He looked at Wen Buchi with eager eyes. "The blanket is not warm enough."

Wen Buchi glanced at the thick brocade comforter covering Nan Wuxie, and fell silent for a few seconds.

"Then what do you want?"

"If Lord Wen touches me, I won't be cold anymore." Nan Wuxie pressed his advantage, directly pulling Wen Buchi's hand into his quilt, pressing it against his own warm waist, and letting out a satisfied sigh.

Wen Buchi, for some reason, did not pull his hand back.

Nan Wuxie seemed satisfied, closed his eyes, and muttered, "My head hurts too... Lord Wen, could you rub it for me... okay?"

Wen Buchi: "...The physician didn't say you needed your head rubbed."

"But it hurts," Nan Wuxie said with utter conviction, opening his eyes a slit, his gaze moist and bright. "If Lord Wen rubs it, it won't hurt anymore. Works better than medicine."

Wen Buchi met his eyes for a moment and conceded defeat.

*Ah well, what's the point of arguing with a sick person.*

He thought to himself.

His fingertips gently pressed against Nan Wuxie's temples, rubbing in slow circles with just the right pressure.

Nan Wuxie immediately became like a cat being stroked, contentedly nuzzling closer to him, half his head resting against Wen Buchi's thigh, breathing in the crisp, pleasant scent emanating from the other.

"Mmm... Lord Wen is so good."

As he rubbed, Nan Wuxie's breathing gradually grew long and even, as if he were truly about to fall asleep. Wen Buchi's movements also slowly came to a stop.

After a long while, just as Wen Buchi was carefully trying to withdraw his hand—

"Don't go." Nan Wuxie, without even opening his eyes, precisely hooked Wen Buchi's fingers again. "Stay with me."

His tone was very calm and very sincere, completely devoid of any earlier whining.

Wen Buchi was momentarily stunned.

"Ever since my mother passed away, I've never felt this way again."

Nan Wuxie still hadn't opened his eyes.

"Stay with me."

He said it again.

Wen Buchi looked at his sleeping face—stripped of all sharpness and flamboyance, still bearing a childlike quality—and suddenly felt a strange, unfamiliar ache.

He finally remembered that this Nan Wuxie before him, who seemed omnipotent and always presented himself with a forceful or playful demeanor, had a past too painful to speak of.

Nan Wuxie's childhood had endured much hardship. This hardship was not one of hunger, cold, or displacement, but a more bone-deep loneliness and powerlessness, steeped in the bustling capital and the towering palace walls.

Nan Wuxie's childhood began amidst the remaining warmth of the Marquis's deep estate. His father, Nan Chunfeng, was stationed year-round at the northern border, so his mother was his whole world.

In his memories, his mother's embrace was soft and fragrant. She would hum gentle tunes to lull him to sleep, hold his little hand to teach him to read, and take him to chase butterflies in their vast courtyard in spring.

Wu Ye and Wei Qinghe had been by his side since then—playmates of that era, and also the only ones with whom he could romp without any restraint.

Within the mansion's walls, there was still a child's innocence and protection. But the world beyond the Marquis's gate was firmly closed to him.

The Nan family had great achievements, but they also attracted much envy and held a delicate position. Many noble families would explicitly or implicitly instruct their children not to grow too close to the young Marquis of the Nan family, to avoid trouble. Occasionally, an unsuspecting child would be willing to play with him, only to be hastily retrieved by their family.

Cui Shijie was the only friend outside the mansion from his childhood, one of the few whose family had some connection to his, and whose father's easygoing nature meant no such restrictions were imposed.

But during the Puzhao era, the court situation was complex, and they couldn't meet often. More often than not, little Nan Wuxie could only lie on the rockery in the Marquis's garden, gazing at the figures of other children chasing and laughing in the streets and alleys beyond the wall. The clamor reached him, muffled and distant.

When he was five, his mother died of illness. That last shred of intimate warmth and protection was abruptly torn away.

The sky turned completely gray. The vast Marquis mansion became even more empty and silent.

His father had petitioned the throne several times to return to the capital for a while, but each time the late emperor denied him. This only remaining blood relative remained far away. But the disaster of loneliness did not stop there. The true shackles came from that gilded imperial city.

The late emperor, Li Kegan, issued a decree citing "consoling the descendant of a meritorious official, the Emperor's heart is greatly pleased," and frequently summoned him to the palace. Ostensibly it was to receive imperial instruction, but in truth it was to keep him as a hostage in the capital.

For most of the year, he spent his time within the four-cornered palace walls. The grand, spacious hall designated by the late emperor was lavishly furnished yet utterly lifeless. Wu Ye and Wei Qinghe were mercilessly barred outside the palace gates. Those around him were reduced to eunuchs and maids assigned by the palace.

Their faces perpetually wore perfectly practiced, respectful smiles. They attended to his daily needs but never spoke more than necessary. They carried out orders but showed no warmth. They understood the "purpose" of this child and also knew how to "look after" him to satisfy their superiors. Whether he had eaten enough, was warm enough, was happy or afraid—that was never their concern.

He had just turned six then. Days in the palace were slow and oppressive. He couldn't move freely, couldn't speak loudly, couldn't even show too much emotion. He was like a strange commodity, placed as a target of everyone's scrutiny, stared at and judged by everyone without any means of resistance.

When the late emperor occasionally summoned him, he would always intimidate and subdue him, whether intentionally or not. While walking in the imperial garden, princes and their attendants often threw grapes at him and insulted him. It was from that time on that he gradually came into contact with the devouring rules hidden among these carved beams and painted pillars.

The nights in the imperial city were the most difficult to endure. The palace was far too large. The shadows cast by flickering candlelight seemed ferocious. There were no gentle stories from his mother, no clumsy yet genuine companionship from Wu Ye and the others. There were only the regular footsteps of nighttime patrolling guards outside the window and the ever-watchful eyes in the hall.

Every night, he curled up in a corner of the wide bed, eyes open, listening to the dripping of the water clock, counting the seemingly endless days until he might be allowed to go home.

The nights were so cold, so cold that he dared not even close his eyes to sleep soundly.

The nights were so dark, so dark that even with his eyes open, he couldn't see the moon in the sky.

That pain was the ice-cold sensation of being in the midst of a crowd yet isolated by an invisible force; the painful awareness of being placed as a bargaining chip on the chessboard of power; the precocious maturity and repression that came from having to conceal even one's joys, anger, sorrows, and happiness.

Year after year, he shuttled between the brief respites of the Marquis's mansion and the long confinement of the palace. Those days were a silent domestication. He learned to lower his head under the emperor's scrutinizing gaze, learned to remain silent under the watch of eunuchs and maids, and learned, during lonely, endless nights, to gradually flatten the surging emotions, grind them to dust, and bury them deep in his heart.

And those unspoken fears, those unexpressed yearnings, those suppressed grievances—all eventually turned into a void of silence.

He endured day by day, endured night after night, never ceasing.

He twisted and tenaciously adjusted the way he grew to survive in the oppressive environment. He struggled to grow wings and quietly sharpened his claws, until he finally had enough strength to break free from the seemingly unbreakable shackles.

He would take back the fate that others had so casually manipulated, inch by inch, firmly grasping it in his own hands, never to relinquish it again.

This path was lonely and long.

This path was one he was destined to walk without end.

Wen Buchi's fingers gently tightened around Nan Wuxie's hand in response. The warmth radiating from his palm seemed, at this moment, to carry all the longed-for warmth from countless cold, desolate palace nights.

He looked at Nan Wuxie's peaceful sleeping face and finally understood the source of that obsessive possessiveness, the deep scheming beneath his cynical exterior, and this rare, genuine vulnerability.

Only those who have walked through a blizzard-covered road and crossed a long night alone would be so persistent. It was a fear unknown to others, and a desperate yearning at all costs.

After a long moment, Wen Buchi swallowed the bitterness and spoke softly.

"Sleep now."

"Have a good long sleep."

"I'll stay with you."