Chapter 8: Isn’t He Infatuated with My Looks?

Chapter 8: Isn't He Obsessed with His Own Looks?

He was badly injured and low on energy. After waking and eating a bit, he drifted back into a drowsy haze, nearly passing out again.

"Rest well, I'll help you."

Li Zhiming gently removed Sang Yu's outer robe and hung it on the rack nearby.

Might as well go all the way.

Sang Yu sat weakly on the edge of the bed, while Li Zhiming crouched at his feet, playing nursemaid—he grabbed his ankle, about to take his shoes off for him.

"Ow..."

Sang Yu flinched.

"Oh, sorry, sorry." Li Zhiming quickly let go. "That hurt a lot, huh? I'll be gentler."

He didn't dare touch his foot again. After pulling off the shoes, he helped him lie down, and could see his ankle—swollen and red, bruised purple and blue.

There was a deep, dark purple ring around it, as if it had been rubbed raw for ages, circling his ankle like a shackle.

He knew it was from the chains that had held him captive.

It was horrifying.

Just looking at it hurt.

Poor kid, he's really been through it.

"Does it hurt? I'll have the doctor find some painkillers tomorrow. Just hang in there."

His voice seemed to pierce through the fog, through the darkness, cutting through the black like a tiny ray of light in his world of total darkness.

Sang Yu looked dazed for a second, and instinctively shook his head: "It doesn't hurt."

It was a reflex ingrained in his very bones.

In his memory, he was covered in wounds every day, with hardly an inch of good skin left.

They were right—he was a curse, someone who should never have existed.

Seeing him spaced out, eyes welling up, like he was holding back unbearable pain, Li Zhiming panicked a little: "What's wrong? Is it hurting that bad? I'll call the doctor to check on you again."

He started to leave, but as he turned, someone grabbed his wrist.

"You..."

Sang Yu grabbed his wrist, eyes shut: "It doesn't hurt. Sit here for a while."

He had no one. He was lonely.

This man before him had once given him a brief warmth, then abused him, shamelessly forcing him to sell himself.

But then he came back to explain himself.

It was those grunt soldiers who'd beaten him—he'd punish them.

And he'd come to get him out himself, hadn't he?

Sang Yu let out a bitter chuckle.

He hadn't realized the warmth he craved had sunk to such a low bar.

Li Zhiming was a little speechless. He wanted to say something, but seeing his state, he didn't dare, just quietly tucking him in.

"I'll set up a maid for you later. You're banged up all over right now, so it's hard to manage on your own—call for her if you need anything."

"Don't bother."

Awkward silence.

"I'm arranging it anyway. Don't overthink things for now—just make yourself at home here."

Sang Yu's robe hung off one shoulder, his breath coming in heavy pants, a telltale flush on his cheeks, tiny beads of sweat on his forehead catching the lamplight—oddly sexy and tempting.

What a damn tease.

How could anyone be this gorgeous?

If he were a girl, that'd be perfect—living together day in and day out, feelings would naturally grow.

Just the thought of it made Li Zhiming swallow hard.

Then he caught himself and pinched his own arm—the guy was in agony, and here he was, thinking dirty thoughts. It was seriously messed up.

Once Sang Yu looked like he was asleep, Li Zhiming snuck out fast.

The creak of the door shutting snapped Sang Yu back to awareness. He shoved the blanket off and slowly, painfully, dragged himself up.

A sharp pain stabbed through his chest. He tugged his clothes open—the bandages were still neatly in place.

They hadn't split open.

A wave of irritation hit him. In all these years, his wounds had never been treated with this much care.

He wasn't used to it.

And yet, he kind of liked it.

If he healed up, would this guy stop fussing over him?

Wasn't he obsessed with his face?

Why had he ignored him after bringing him back, then pulled him out and cared for him so gently? Was he waiting for him to heal before forcing him again?

His face went cold. He pulled a small slip of paper from his sleeve, got out of bed, and opened the window.

Cold wind rushed in, and a carrier pigeon flew onto his hand.

He calmly tied the note to the pigeon's leg, patted its head, and let it fly.

...

Li Zhiming returned to his own room, not daring to wander off. He had Feng Yin prepare the brush and ink, then began taking notes.

The script of the Li Kingdom was mostly the same as the current one.

But he couldn't write calligraphy with a brush.

He'd tried it. It was ugly.

So he whittled his own pen out of a small wooden stick, dipping it in ink to write a few characters at a time.

The characters were small, which also saved paper.

Feng Yin stared, dumbfounded: "Young Master, what kind of pen is this? I've never seen anything like it."

Li Zhiming arched an eyebrow, looking smug: "Of course you wouldn't get it."

He needed to jot down every key detail of each death—why he died, where he came back—so he could track the pattern.

He always felt his deaths and do-overs served some purpose, even if he didn't know what yet.

Feng Yin asked, curious: "Young Master, what are you writing?"

"Writing a story. Kids shouldn't be so nosy."

"Oh."

He wrote for half a day, and night crept in quietly.

Li Zhiming started getting nervous again, wondering if another throat-slitting assassin would show up tonight.

Whoooosh... whoooosh...

Oh crap.

At the sound of the wind howling outside, Li Zhiming hugged his pillow and swallowed hard.

Feng Yin, sword in hand, thumped his chest: "Young Master, I've got your back."

With you here... I'm not exactly feeling safer.

Li Zhiming gritted his teeth, mulled it over, and finally made for the door.

He pulled it open. Outside, ornate pavilions and towers rose up, a garden full of birdsong and flowers, all bathed in a hazy golden glow from the setting sun.

There was also a rockery in the courtyard, decked out with bright, vivid flowers.

It was stunning.

His face was just as pale, because he thought he saw a figure dart behind the rockery, seemingly waiting to kill him.

Feng Yin stepped up beside him: "Young Master, what's wrong?"

Li Zhiming's palms were sweating. He silently pointed at the rockery and shot Feng Yin a look. Feng Yin got it right away, gripping his sword as he crept closer.

Then came a flash of steel, and sure enough, someone was hiding back there.

After a brief scuffle, the dark figure bolted.

Feng Yin's face turned grim: "Young Master, that guy didn't seem to be going all out. No idea why."

Li Zhiming was even more in the dark. He waved a hand wearily: "Forget it. Should be safe tonight, right..."

"I'll keep watch outside the door. Don't worry, Young Master."

He really did stand there like a door god.

The night passed without incident.

The next day, word came that Sang Yu was up and no longer out cold.

After a moment's thought, Li Zhiming ordered meals to be sent to Sang Yu's room and went over to check on him.

The two sat facing each other.

Li Zhiming personally ladled a bowl of nourishing soup and set it before Sang Yu: "Please, eat."