The sky was beginning to brighten when Murong Qiufeng left Zhao Xiru’s place and returned to his small courtyard, where Shangguan Ye was currently staying.
Just as he arrived, he saw Youxiang hurrying out of the room. Upon noticing her anxious expression, his heart skipped a beat. He couldn’t help but wonder if something had happened to Ye again.
Youxiang looked up and saw Murong Qiufeng standing there with a tense expression. Her eyes immediately lit up. She had been looking for him. “Ah, Young Master, you’re back! Perfect timing! I need to go prepare some medicine. Please take care of the master for me,” she said quickly.
“How is he? Has the wound worsened?” Murong Qiufeng’s face turned pale as he rushed toward her.
Youxiang froze for a moment, then quickly waved her hands. “No, no, it’s fine! Ah, wait, no… there is something… well, not really. The injury hasn’t worsened, don’t worry. Oh, never mind! Just take care of him for me. I’ll go prepare the medicine and check back at noon.” Her words were jumbled, and in the end, she simply gave up on explaining and hurried away.
In truth, there was nothing wrong. Her master was no ordinary person; his body was as tough as a wild beast’s, with incredible resilience and healing abilities. He’d probably be up and about soon enough. Still… poor Young Master Murong. Sorry, but this time, you’re on your own. Good luck!
Murong Qiufeng, unaware of Youxiang’s internal thoughts, became even more convinced that something had happened to Shangguan Ye. His body went cold with worry as he rushed into the room.
Pushing the door open, he quickly approached the bed. Shangguan Ye lay there, still asleep, his breathing steady. Qiufeng scanned his chest, noting the white bandages that hadn’t been stained with fresh blood. He breathed a sigh of relief.
His eyes landed on Ye’s exposed arm and chest. With a frown, he tugged the blanket up, but it didn’t feel sufficient. He turned toward the wardrobe, grabbed an extra quilt, and carefully tucked it around Ye until only half his face was visible.
Reaching beneath the quilt, he touched Ye’s arm and was alarmed by how cold it felt. He hesitated, then removed his outer robe, climbed into bed, and gently wrapped his arms around Ye’s waist, mindful of his injury. At that moment, Qiufeng felt no awkwardness—perhaps because Ye was unaware of his actions.
The icy chill radiating from Ye’s body made Qiufeng shiver. He quickly circulated his inner energy to share some warmth and silently berated Youxiang for not dressing Ye more warmly. “How careless,” he thought. “What if he gets sick?”
If Youxiang had heard him, she would’ve cried injustice—it was Ye himself who’d refused to wear clothes, not her negligence.
After a while, the warmth returned to Ye’s body, yet Qiufeng found himself wide awake despite his exhaustion. He listened to Ye’s steady breathing and drifted into contemplation.
Thinking back over the months since meeting Shangguan Ye, it struck him how deeply those memories had etched themselves into his heart. It had only been three months, yet it felt like a lifetime.
He realized something startling: from the moment they’d met, Ye had always been the one compromising, yielding to him. Even when Qiufeng had helped his sister deceive him, Ye had never truly blamed him. He’d gotten angry, yes, but had ultimately treated him with the same gentleness afterward—if not more.
Whether it was about their future or trivial day-to-day matters, Ye had always quietly taken note of Qiufeng’s preferences and accommodated them without drawing attention to it.
Yet Qiufeng, by contrast, knew almost nothing about Ye. He didn’t know his likes or dislikes, his habits, what worried him, or what brought him joy. In this relationship, he was always the one receiving; Ye, the one giving.
He felt an ache in his chest. The debt he owed Ye was immeasurable.
His gaze softened as he studied Ye’s face. It was the first time he’d observed him so closely and quietly.
Upon closer inspection, Ye’s features, when relaxed, lacked their usual sharpness. His face seemed softer, likely resembling his mother’s. Years of battle, however, had sculpted him into a fearsome figure, like a blood-soaked warrior’s blade—unyielding, dangerous, and lethal. The sharpness in his eyes often masked any gentleness.
Qiufeng’s hand trembled as he traced Ye’s features: the arch of his brows, the slope of his nose, the curve of his lips. His heart ached. Ye should’ve lived a life of comfort and privilege, yet he’d been forced into hardship, constantly bargaining with death.
Yes, Ye was a killer on the battlefield. But no one was born craving bloodshed—it was a burden forced upon him.
“He once said,” Qiufeng remembered, “that only on the battlefield can he be his true self.”
Qiufeng understood now. It wasn’t bloodlust, but rather the fleeting freedom of those moments, when the numbing brutality temporarily silenced his pain.
His eyes shifted to Ye’s exposed shoulder. He hesitated, then gently lifted the quilt. In the faint morning light, several scars of varying age marred Ye’s skin.
Qiufeng’s hand shook as he trailed his fingers over the scars. He could feel even more beneath the surface as his hand moved to Ye’s waist. His touch halted over a tiny puncture wound with branching scar tissue.
His breath caught. He wasn’t a medical expert, but he recognized the mark: a wound left by a barbed arrow.
Youxiang had always mentioned how Ye had often brushed shoulders with death. Qiufeng had never grasped the true weight of those words until now. Imagining the suffering Ye must’ve endured made his chest tighten.
Suddenly, a warm hand covered his own and gave it a gentle squeeze.
Startled, Qiufeng looked up to find Shangguan Ye awake, gazing at him with midnight-dark eyes that glimmered with warmth and tenderness.
Ye tightened his grip and shifted slightly, rubbing Qiufeng’s hand against his abdomen with a teasing smile. “Little one,” he drawled, “how could you take advantage of me in my sleep? If you want something, just say it—I promise to oblige.”
Outside the window, four cats who’d been eavesdropping froze mid-yawn and perked up, ears twitching in anticipation.
Qiufeng, unfazed by Ye’s teasing, buried his face against his shoulder. He knew Ye was trying to lighten the mood, as he often did when things got heavy. But Qiufeng couldn’t shake the sadness gnawing at his heart.
He whispered, “Those scars… they must’ve hurt so much.”
Ye’s expression softened. He stroked Qiufeng’s hair and smiled gently. “Not anymore,” he murmured. “I’ve long since forgotten the pain. It’s all in the past now.”
