Chapter 84

Fang Juexia wasn’t without fantasies of seeing him again. His heart was cold, yet he still imagined such moments.

He pictured a busy day when his mother would call, telling him “Father” had returned—that she’d finally waited him out. Now, every time his mother called, his feelings grew tangled, like anticipation mingled with dread.

　He’d also imagined perhaps encountering him at a future concert. He’d hide among the audience. Though Fang Juexia couldn’t see clearly, maybe he’d be down there, listening to him sing, watching him dance.

Then Fang Juexia would think to himself, Dad, look—I’m not a failure. Even if I can’t see clearly, even if I have a birthmark on my face, I can still have a stage.

　All those fantasies shattered in this moment.

Fang Juexia never dreamed their reunion would be so humiliating.

The person who’d been following him all these days wasn’t a stalker, nor a paparazzo, nor even his former company plotting to bring him down—it was his father.

　His so-called “great father,” aware of his night blindness, swung a steel rod at his back in the dim underground parking garage.

A dull ache radiated through his lower back. The pain and shock left Fang Juexia no room for thought.

　He stared silently at the face before him, now so different from his memories. Finally, he turned away coldly and instructed his private bodyguard, “Please handle this according to Pei Tingsong’s wishes.”

　“Understood.” The man’s professionalism was evident; without a word, he immediately prepared to take the vicious criminal away. But suddenly, the gaunt middle-aged man erupted with strength, struggling desperately while screaming, “You ungrateful bastard! You don’t even recognize your own father!”

　His mouth spewed an endless torrent of vile insults, a chaotic jumble of profanities that made no logical sense—he was no different from a madman. Fang Juexia didn’t want to hear a single word, but when the man finally cursed his own mother, he couldn’t ignore it.

So, in the instant he turned away, Fang Juexia froze. His back stiffened for a second. He walked forward, his steps halting before the thick steel rod lying on the ground. He bent down, picked it up, then turned and strode toward the madman.

When he reached the man, Fang Juexia pulled his phone from his pocket, flicked on the flashlight, and shone it directly into the old man’s face.

“Fang Ping, you’re high on drugs, aren’t you?” ” It was phrased as a question, yet his tone was certain, his expression calm, as if stating a fact entirely unrelated to himself.

The man before him seemed to freeze for a moment, but he couldn’t control his emotions. His facial muscles twitched, making him look extremely eerie.

Fang Juexia nodded, confirming his judgment. “You’re going through withdrawal.”

　When he first got hooked on illegal substances, Fang Juexia had believed there was hope. TV shows claimed people could reform after making mistakes, and he’d believed it.

Even after this person tried to vanish from their lives, Fang Juexia still clung to the fantasy that one day, Fang Ping might turn over a new leaf.

　But as time passed and he grew more rational, he understood that sudden redemption was a rare occurrence. Most people only repeated their mistakes, stubbornly refusing to change. Those addicted to drugs were especially dangerous, deceitful desperados capable of anything.

　Standing before him, Fang Juexia realized he was now taller than Fang Ping. The years of abandonment had spurred his rapid growth. Looking at this man now, he saw nothing but a pitiful, helpless shell—a withered husk drained of all vitality.

　He raised the steel rod abruptly. In that instant, Fang Juexia saw Fang Ping’s shoulders tremble.

He let out a faint, cold laugh. “Is this how you intended to treat me just now?”

　His gaze fell on Fang Ping’s crippled leg. Fang Juexia lowered the baton, gently patting the useless limb. His voice was utterly unruffled. “Or did you want to break one of my legs, just like yours?”

　“I didn’t!” Fang Ping’s body shook uncontrollably, each word trembling as it escaped his lips. “I didn’t. I just… I just wanted to knock you unconscious…”

　“Knock you unconscious,” Fang Juexia repeated his words. “And then? Kidnap you? Extort money? Use the cash to buy the drugs you crave?”

　Fang Ping fell silent. He could barely speak, his trembling legs unable to support him. He was barely held upright by the bodyguard, who dragged him along like a ragdoll stuffed with cotton.

　The bodyguard spoke up, “Mr. Fang, the young master arranged a place earlier. He instructed me to detain anyone captured there until he returns.” Seeing Fang Ping’s state, he judged it unwise to linger. “Perhaps I should take him there first. You should go back and rest.”

　This place could be compromised at any moment—Pei Tingsong had thought of everything.

“Don’t tell Pei Tingsong,” Fang Juexia managed a wan smile. “He’s got his hands full already.”

Compared to him, none of them were in much better shape.

　Fang Ping, overcome by withdrawal and semi-conscious, was taken away by private security. Fang Juexia decided to accompany them, intending to question Fang Ping again once he regained clarity. He had to piece together the entire story.

The steel baton in his hand felt heavy and solid. Fang Juexia glanced down at it. So long, so heavy—a blow to the head would likely do more than just knock someone unconscious.

　He could almost feel the dull ache in advance.

Tossing the steel rod into the trunk, Fang Juexia composed himself. He knew he was in no state to drive—an accident was inevitable. So he climbed into the private bodyguard’s car and left the underground parking garage beneath the company building.

　The entire journey felt like a haze. Sitting in the passenger seat, Fang Juexia listened to Fang Ping’s struggles and screams from behind the restraints. It all felt unreal, like some melodramatic soap opera—unpleasant and agonizing to watch.

　His forehead had been scraped raw, bleeding and itching as the blood trickled onto his eyelids. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and stared straight ahead. He thought he’d hardened himself into stone, but apparently even stone could feel pain.

　The private bodyguard led him to an apartment, tossed the bound Fang Ping into one of the rooms, and tied him to a single bed like a piece of livestock.

“Mr. Fang, you can rest now. Call me anytime if you need anything. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

　Fang Juexia opened his mouth like a puppet, a muffled, hoarse sound escaping his throat. “Thank you.” His only request was for a glass of water.

　Clutching the water cup, he stubbornly refused to rest. Instead, he went to the room where Fang Ping was confined, sat at a table less than three meters away, and silently watched him.

His throat was dry, raw, and itchy. He had only turned on the bedside lamp because he didn’t want to see too clearly.

　All night long, Fang Juexia listened to his screams and growls, like an emotionless bystander. The blood-soaked chaos of a mind and spirit controlled by banned drugs was laid bare before him. Fang Ping tore through the sheets, thrashing and struggling, foam forming at his mouth. The scene blurred in the night blindness, as if he were watching from afar a body consumed by flames—a living man melting in the flames of sin, turning to charcoal, to ash, to a pool of foul-smelling stagnant water.

After years of separation, their reunion had culminated in a nightmare.

　Yet as he stared at the scene before him, Fang Xia’s mind was filled with an incongruous series of flashes—images of Fang Ping, over a decade ago, radiant with confidence on stage. He danced to “Mad Song” and “Flowers by the Sea,” his movements graceful and mesmerizing. With every lift of his leg, his toes stretched taut, holding fast to his pride.

　Back then, the little girl beneath the stage would gaze up at his figure, afraid to even blink, terrified of missing a single brilliant moment of her father.

　He was a dance-obsessed soul, truly alive only when he danced. In those moments, he radiated such goodness—an inexhaustible wellspring of love and emotion that nourished Fang Juexia. He let his son feel the warmth of paternal affection, introduced him to the stage’s allure, and planted within him the grandest dreams of performing.

　At just four or five years old, Fang Juexia watched him in the practice studio, listening to his grand ambitions.

[Daddy will definitely become the brightest star on stage someday. Then you’ll be able to spot me instantly.]

He was clearly the first person to teach him what dreams were.

　Fang Juexia stared coldly at the man before him, now consumed by madness. A sudden wave of nausea washed over him. He wanted to vomit but couldn’t, forcing himself to drink water instead. The icy liquid slid down his throat, leaving his entire body chilled.

The sky began to lighten. Night faded from black to deep blue, then vanished entirely. The bound Fang Ping seemed to have briefly endured his withdrawal symptoms before passing out. Fang Juexia stood by the window, silently watching the streets come back to life. People walked along the roads, as small as ants.

Ants could be crushed so easily, so their dreams were even more fragile.

　His phone vibrated several times. It was a message from Ling Yi, asking why he hadn’t returned to the dormitory to sleep. Fang Juexia typed slowly, unsure what he had replied.

Fang Ping’s voice came from behind him again. His throat was hoarse, begging Fang Juexia to release him. He seemed to be repenting sincerely, his voice choked with tears.

　“I was wrong, son. I truly didn’t mean to hurt you. I just wanted to talk… but I couldn’t control myself…”

“Really, Dad. I’m in so much pain. I’m dying, you know?”

“Dad knows you’ve made something of yourself. You’ve succeeded. You can help Dad, right?”

“All these years… I’ve missed you too.”

　Dad.

Such a distant word.

Fang Juexia’s emotions tugged at his reason. Emotionally, he felt both disgust and pity for the man, yet his rational mind dissected every word, sifting truth from lies.

He claimed he didn’t want to hurt him, yet ended up dragging a steel rod to find him.

　He missed him. All these years he hadn’t come home, yet the moment he became famous, he suddenly missed him.

Fang Juexia stood with his back to him, still staring out the window. His posture was straight as a tree. Every word he spoke was objective and cold, more like an interrogator than a son. “When did you start following me? Does anyone else know you’re back?”

　Fang Ping’s voice cracked as he rushed to answer the second question. “No one. Really, no one.”

“Answer me. When did you start following me?” Fang Juexia repeated the interrogation coldly.

　“Late April… I… I spent my last money to come to Beijing to see you. Dad was planning to return to Guangzhou, but I wanted to see you, kid. I…”

“Did you take any banned substances before coming?” Fang Juexia heard he hadn’t returned to Guangzhou and felt a slight relief, cutting off his emotional plea. “What did you intend to do to me? What did you want from me?”

Fang Ping gasped for breath, his entire voice sounding hollow and weak, like someone gravely ill. “I… I don’t remember, Juexia…”

“You remember.” Hearing him call his name grated on Fang Juexia’s nerves, so he exposed his lie. “Speak. What did you plan to do to me?”

　His voice was too cold.

“I just wanted to knock you out because I couldn’t find a chance to talk to you alone. I just wanted to talk to you, wanted you to help me, to help your father!”

Fang Juexia gave a cold laugh.

Stop lying. Do you even know what you look like after using drugs? Have you looked in the mirror? After that blow to the head, it’s a miracle I’m still standing here. Help? How can a dead man help you?

　His interrogation sped up, bullets flying from his mouth.

“Did you contact my company or my agent? What about other companies? Who else did you reach out to? Speak!”

Fang Ping’s words came out stuttered and trembling, unable to keep pace with Fang Juexia’s barrage.

　His drug craving had flared up again. His lucid moments were like a final burst of light before darkness. It lasted only briefly. With a sudden jerk, his body, which had been struggling to rise, collapsed. His nerves felt like they were being gnawed by maggots. He could say anything, curse anyone.

By this round, the good memories of Fang Ping had vanished from his mind.

　He remembered the fury when he learned he might be crippled in the hospital, remembered his alcoholism, how he treated him like defective merchandise. A chair snatched off a table slammed into his back, leaving his spine bruised and purple. Summer wore a substandard white school uniform shirt, faintly visible beneath.

Like the clothes were stained.

　Fang Ping started cursing him again. Fang Juexia could barely tell if the man raving after a fix was him, or if the sober one was the real him.

“Trash.” “Loser.” “No one would ever like a piece of shit like you.”

“Useless.” “Defective.” “You don’t deserve to be on stage.” “What gives you the right to succeed?”

These words felt so familiar. In a daze, Fang Juexia was transported back to childhood—to the days when he dreaded his father’s drunken return home. He dodged beer bottles that could smash his skull at any moment, but couldn’t evade the ashtray hurled at him. It landed squarely on his foot, his toes bleeding incessantly.

So he couldn’t practice dance anymore. The pain made standing impossible. When his teacher asked, he could only lie.

　He blamed himself.

Why can’t life’s experiences cancel each other out?

The genuine happiness of a childhood, followed by its shattering collapse—one positive, one negative. Add them together and they equal zero, as if nothing had ever been possessed. That’s too idealistic. Reality only offers the double pain of gaining and then losing.

　After struggling desperately, Fang Ping calmed down again. He was like this, fluctuating wildly, unpredictable and erratic. When he woke, it was with hysterical curses and screams; when he passed out, he was left with terrifying silence.

　Fang Juexia resembled a pristine piano lid, steadily accumulating dust, grime, and filthy fingerprints.

His back ached so badly he couldn’t stand. Clutching his knees, he sat on the floor, staring silently out the window. Occasionally, the room door opened. The bodyguard loyal to Pei Tingsong would bring him food and water, but Fang Juexia lacked even the strength to say thank you.

He dared not close his eyes. The moment he did, he would see the original Fang Ping—the radiant, gentle, considerate Fang Ping. He feared that man was himself, feared his own soft heart.

　Day turned to night. Clouds gathered, heavy with ash. Thunder roared, lightning flashed, and suddenly, a torrential downpour began. The earthy stench of churned soil filled his nostrils, making him feel nauseous once more. He steadied himself against the wall and stood up, heading for the bathroom. But all he could manage was dry heaving. He bent over, retching as if trying to vomit out his very guts, yet nothing came up.

　In the mirror, his forehead was swollen and bruised, the broken skin crusted over with dried blood. Fang Juexia even felt relieved he hadn’t had any work recently—how could he have faced the stage, faced the cameras? The moment that thought surfaced, Fang Juexia felt a wave of dread. He had spent so many years convincing himself that the birthmark on his face wasn’t a flaw in a defective product. Yet the moment this person appeared, those nightmares resurfaced.

The seeds of self-doubt his own father had planted deep within his very being had merely been dormant.

　Fang Juexia avoided the mirror, trying to banish the negative emotions with reason, but his entire body trembled subtly. He needed Sudoku, needed to think—that would calm him. If he could just solve a few puzzles, get his mind working, he should feel better.

Anxiety crept into his heart, and Fang Juexia felt lost.

　Emerging from the restroom, he heard a door close. Following the sound, he looked up to see someone standing there, half-drenched.

Was it a hallucination?

　It looked like Pei Tingsong.

Pei Tingsong stared at Fang Juexia, his heart clenching painfully. He was pale as a withered flower, stubbornly holding his shape, yet fragile enough to shatter at the slightest touch. His eyes were extinguished, as if he couldn’t see himself at all.

　He hurried forward, calling out “Juexia,” ready to pull him into an embrace. But just a step away, he saw Fang Juexia’s lowered eyes and froze. As if afraid this embrace would seem too abrupt, might unsettle Fang Juexia further.

　So Pei Tingsong hesitated, his outstretched hand retreating.

Fang Juexia slowly raised his hand to touch Pei Tingsong’s chest. It was warm, with a heartbeat.

“You’re back.” Only then did he confirm this wasn’t an illusion, finally uttering those words like someone who’d waited for their lover’s return as if nothing had ever happened.

　He even attempted to say more words he’d prepared long ago, his voice carefully calm. “…How did things go over there? Did your mother give up?”

Pei Tingsong grasped his hand, staring at the wounds on his face. Anger and sorrow welled up inside him, his heart feeling heavy and constricted. He didn’t answer Fang Juexia’s question. “I rushed back as soon as I got the news.”

　“He hit you, didn’t he? I’ll break his…”

Fang Juexia shook his head weakly. “He didn’t succeed.” Afraid of worrying Pei Tingsong, he repeated, “I’m fine. I’m okay.”

　Pei Tingsong naturally didn’t believe him.

He’d already learned from the bodyguards that Fang Juexia hadn’t slept a wink all night, watching Fang Ping’s frenzied state for the entire night. He dared not imagine Fang Juexia’s current state of mind. He only wanted to comfort him, to take him away from this scumbag.

“Juexia, will you come back with me first?” “ His voice was soft as he raised his hand to touch Fang Juexia’s cheek. ”Let’s rest, get some sleep. I’ll have the right people handle things here. Don’t worry.”

“Sleep?” Fang Juexia seemed to catch only fragments, his eyes unfocused. He shook his head. “I don’t want to sleep here. It’s too dirty.”

　“I know.” Pei Tingsong rubbed his hand. “Let’s go back. To my place. Okay?”

Fang Juexia gave a slight nod.

Originally, for the convenience of interrogation, Pei Tingsong had arranged an apartment in his luxury residence. Returning now was simple enough, but soothing Fang Juexia proved difficult.

　Fang Juexia’s head felt heavy and uncomfortable. As soon as they entered the apartment, he drifted unconsciously toward the empty living room. The scent of rain flooded his nostrils, clogging his breath and thoughts, making him feel miserable and unable to think clearly. Even Pei Tingsong’s voice seemed muffled, as if filtered through the patter of rain—faint and feeble.

He felt his hand being taken, felt himself being led toward the bedroom. His senses were both hypersensitive and dulled.

　He said he wanted to bathe. Pei Tingsong was uneasy, but couldn’t persuade him otherwise. Reluctantly agreeing, he filled the tub with hot water. Fang Juexia turned his back to him as he removed his shirt, revealing a bruised patch across his lower back.

Pei Tingsong’s fists clenched.

　The hot water saved him, slowly melting the ice encasing his body. Fang Juexia leaned against the side of the tub, staring at the ceiling as Pei Tingsong carefully cleaned the wound on his forehead. Throughout the bath, Fang Juexia didn’t utter a word, as if deep in thought or simply lost in a daze.

　The only words he spoke were to ask Pei Tingsong to leave—he wanted to wash himself.

Pei Tingsong had no choice but to step out, leaving clean clothes behind. He stood guard outside the closed bathroom door, his heart in his throat.

He regretted returning to the United States at this moment, regretted not being by Fang Juexia’s side when it happened. Yet he knew clearly—even if he had been there, what could he have done?

　He would only have witnessed Fang Juexia reliving his nightmare.

This man had overcome immense obstacles to be with him. It had taken immense effort to persuade him to try, to convince him to step out of the shadow cast by his biological father and his distrust of love, and into his arms.

Would he regret it now?

　The bathroom door opened. Fang Juexia emerged barefoot, wearing Pei Tingsong’s pajamas, his body still damp with warm steam. He walked over to Pei Tingsong and lay down on the bed without needing to be urged.

　“Then rest.” Pei Tingsong tucked the blanket around him, eyes lowered, voice soft. “Call me if you need anything.”

Just as he turned to leave, Fang Juexia sat up, grabbed his hand, eyes reddened.

“You’re back, but you haven’t held me yet.”

　Hearing those words, Pei Tingsong suddenly realized he truly was a bastard. He claimed to love him, yet showed him so little confidence.

He was too anxious, too fragile—as if hearing Fang Juexia say one word of refusal would shatter him completely.

　Pei Tingsong pulled Fang Juexia into his arms, his nose stinging as he fought back tears. “I’m sorry.”

Fang Juexia didn’t understand his apology, so he didn’t respond. He simply lifted his arms to embrace him back, his voice gentle. “You haven’t answered my question. How was it over there?”

　Pei Tingsong shook his head, stroked the back of his neck, and kissed the top of his head again. “It’s fine now.”

“That’s good.” Fang Juexia nestled deeper into his embrace and closed his eyes.

They were two wounded animals. Bleeding lowered their body temperatures. So they had no choice but to cling to each other, borrowing each other’s warmth to survive.

　Fang Juexia had grown accustomed to years of emotional management, to suppressing sentiment with reason. Even his pain refused to erupt hysterically. Memories and emotions, mangled and bloody, remained forever separated by frosted glass—incomplete, indirect.

“You know, sometimes I feel pretty dark myself. When I found out it was him who followed and attacked me in the parking lot, guess what my first reaction was?”

　Fang Juexia fought to keep his voice steady. “I wanted my mom to come right over. To see with her own eyes what kind of man she’d been waiting for all these years.”

Pei Tingsong could hear the despair in his heart.

　“I watched over him all night, listening to him rant, cursing me and my mom. Every so often, that thought would surface. I even wanted to record him like that, film the steel pipe he was about to smash over my head, send it all to my mom. Make her see clearly, end her delusions.”

　His emotions finally fermented in Pei Tingsong’s embrace, teetering on the brink of eruption.

“Every time I considered doing that, I’d remember my mother sitting at the table, staring at the door. No matter how heartbroken she was, her face was always filled with hope. It was as if…”

　Like waiting for spring to come every year.

He didn’t know how she’d react if he told her there would be no more springs in the days ahead.

At that thought, Fang Juexia’s tears finally fell, big drops rolling down like stones too heavy to bear, tumbling down from an iceberg.

　This was the first time Pei Tingsong had ever seen Fang Juexia truly cry since they’d known each other—not for himself, but for his mother’s love. A story that had once been beautiful had ultimately become a shackle, a life sentence of suspended execution.

Yet even as a suspended sentence, Fang Juexia still couldn’t bear to shatter his mother’s illusion with his own hands.

Suspended execution was better than immediate execution.

　Pei Tingsong stroked Fang Juexia’s cheek, gently kissing away his tears.

Fang Juexia looked at him. “What do you think? Should we let her keep waiting… for a lover who no longer exists? Wouldn’t that… be less cruel?”

　“We won’t say anything. We won’t tell her.” Pei Tingsong pressed his forehead against Fang Juexia’s. “I’ll send him where he belongs. He won’t appear before you again. He won’t hurt you anymore.”

For the first time, he learned to love someone. For the first time, he felt a desire that consumed both body and soul. For the first time, he learned to surrender his resistance. And for the first time, he tasted the agony of heartbreak for another.

　Yet he would gladly trade this experience for Fang Juexia’s recovery.

“He wasn’t always like this. He used to protect me.”

Fang Juexia’s body trembled in his arms. “He used to hold me, take me to the practice hall to watch him master the basics, watch him dance. My mom said when I was just a few months old, I cried constantly. I could only sleep if someone held me, so he’d stay up all night, rocking me in his arms and humming the tunes he danced to. He’d tell me I was the most beautiful child in the world. When I had a fever, he’d stay up all night watching over me. On the Pearl River cruise, he’d let me sit on his shoulders and feel the river breeze.”

　None of this is false. He did show paternal love.

“Before he fell, before I learned of his night blindness, he said…”

He took a deep breath. “He said I and Mom were the people he loved most. He said I was his pride.”

“But really, compared to his own pride, I was nothing, right?”

Pei Tingsong stroked his hair. “No, Fang Juexia, you are the best and most precious person in the world.”

　“You must remember: failure, alcohol, and drugs—these things have long since corroded him. He is no longer a normal person. No matter what malicious words he utters, they are wrong. Don’t listen to him.”

That’s right, Fang Juexia silently repeated Pei Tingsong’s words in his mind.

He is not a normal person. All his talk of missing me was a lie.

　After all these years, all Fang Ping gave him were bruises and wounds.

He lay down, nestling into Pei Tingsong’s embrace, feeling his hands gently stroke his hair and back.

Pei Tingsong could sense the turmoil within Fang Juexia. It was an inexplicable feeling, yet he felt it. All these years, he couldn’t make a decision, which is why he was suffering so now. And every time he saw his father again, endured another round of his insults, Fang Juexia felt excruciating pain.

“Is there still that conflict in your heart? The father from your childhood, and the one you encounter now?”

　Fang Juexia couldn’t deny it.

He kept telling himself, just as he’d told his mother, that the man before him wasn’t the same person anymore. Letting him be was the best choice. Yet the pain remained deep within him, especially when dreams of the past surfaced—dreams of holding him in his arms as he saw the stage for the very first time.

Each time he woke, his face was wet with tears.

　Pei Tingsong understood his silence. “Everyone in this world changes every moment, for all sorts of reasons, in all sorts of circumstances. Even when we accept that change, it’s often hard to tell if this person is still the same one from the beginning.”

　As he spoke, he brushed Fang Juexia’s cheek and asked softly, “Have you heard the story of Theseus’s Ship?”

Fang Juexia shook his head, holding back his emotions. “Another philosophical paradox?”

“You guessed it.” Pei Tingsong clasped his hand. “It’s an ancient thought experiment. Suppose there’s a ship that can sail forever as long as people continuously repair and replace its parts. Every time a plank rots or a sail tears, it gets replaced with a new one. After centuries of this, the ship no longer has a single original part. Is it still the same ship?”

　Fang Juexia pondered, two answers battling in his mind. Through constant replacement and renewal, the ship no longer possessed any of its past components, having lost everything of the original vessel.

Yet it lost these elements gradually, not by being replaced with a new ship outright. It still bore the name Theseus, still sailing ceaselessly across the sea.

　After careful consideration, Fang Juexia spoke, attempting to offer his own answer. “This question depends on how we define the ship, doesn’t it?”

Pei Tingsong nodded, leaning closer until their noses touched. “Juexia, do you remember? You’ve already defined it.”

　“You said a person’s essence is the self they strive to preserve.”

Fang Juexia nodded, tears welling in his eyes—the realization born of his painful struggle.

Fang Ping had long since lost the self he once fought so hard to protect.

He struggled to articulate his answer to Pei Tingsong, “So… he is no longer the man he once was.”

　Nor the father who had once truly loved him.

Pei Tingsong understood this pain, for he had experienced it too. Admitting that one’s parents didn’t love them was incredibly difficult, but clinging to illusions only caused more harm.

“Let that ship of the past remain within your heart. It has no physical form, yet it exists eternally, forever unchanged.”

　His restrained tears fell once more. Yes, no matter what, he had to admit it—the father he once knew had vanished long ago. The moment he fell from the stage and could never rise again, that father had disappeared.

That fall shattered the self he could never protect.

　Admitting he was no longer loved was excruciatingly hard. All these years, he had fled from facing it, refusing to confront the truth. The father who once loved him and this madman now overlapped into a single shadow, deepening the terror that already made his steps through darkness tremble.

He feared losing control, feared being swallowed by the shadows himself. So he clung to every ounce of sanity, fighting to stay lucid every single moment. This fear made him refuse to be loved again, refuse to love anyone.

Because he didn’t want to create more nightmares for himself.

Pei Tingsong’s face was inches away, their bodies pressed together. Fang Juexia finally emerged from that obsessive “sobriety,” truly waking up.

He admitted he was wrong.

　When surrounded by malice, he’d instinctively believed he needed Sudoku puzzles—the brutal diversion of logic and reasoning to distract his attention and emotions. Only now did he realize how crude that emotional restraint had been.

Pei Tingsong’s open embrace stripped away his mask of strength.

He simply needed love.

　Fang Juexia never imagined the cocoon he’d spun from years of pain could be so easily unraveled by Pei Tingsong. Even moments ago, he’d nearly pushed Pei Tingsong away instinctively, convinced he could digest this ordeal alone.

　Suddenly, he recalled Pei Tingsong’s disappointed gaze when they returned to bed. It seemed he wanted to be left alone.

　Fang Juexia shifted his perspective. Perhaps Pei Tingsong feared that after witnessing Fang Ping’s pitiful exit, he might regret throwing himself into a love affair.

If it were the old him, he might have done just that. Because he was too afraid.

“Tingsong,” Fang Juexia murmured softly, calling his name, “Thank you.”

　Pei Tingsong smiled, feeling his heartache ease considerably. He should be the one thanking Fang Juexia—it was Fang who had saved him.

“I know there are countless failed examples in this world,” Fang Juexia said, raising his hand to gently rest it on Pei Tingsong’s cheek. The rain outside seemed to have lessened, its sound softening.

　“But I’ve never doubted the inevitability of true love.” Fang Juexia’s gaze was unwavering, his eyebrow arching slightly. As if to say, see, Fang Juexia is talking about that headache-inducing inevitability again.

And indeed, Pei Tingsong’s heart spasmed for a moment at that word “inevitability.”

　“Besides, I’m changing too. I’m genuinely trying to calculate the odds of success now, I swear.” Fang Juexia knew his thoughts were muddled, but he hoped Pei Tingsong could understand his heart. “So don’t fear I’ll give up. I’m no coward.”

“Mm, I know you’re brave.” “ Pei Tingsong kissed the tip of his nose, his touch tender beyond measure. ”It’s me who’s become anxious and insecure. I’ve changed.”

The Pei Tingsong of the past faced everything with confidence, as if there was nowhere in the world he couldn’t go, nothing he couldn’t do. He could effortlessly step into countless forests, live any life he desired. He was free and fearless.

　Until he fell for Fang Juexia.

The harsh edges of his spirit were softened by Fang Juexia’s gentleness, and he finally understood the fear of loss. Now, he could no longer simply gamble on the possibility of success; he began to consider the consequences of failure.

Pei Tingsong was truly afraid that one day, Fang Juexia would tell him—this point was wrong, you’re still an irrational number.

　Though he’d been crying moments ago, Fang Juexia now found himself smiling involuntarily at Pei Tingsong’s wistful face—his first smile since seeing Fang Ping.

“We’re becoming more and more alike. It feels strange.”

Looking at him was like looking at himself—a mirror image of symbiotic opposition and unity.

　Pei Tingsong clung tightly to him, kissing the side of his neck.

“It’s not strange. We’re two ships of Theseus sailing the ocean, meeting by chance, afraid of parting. So you traded your parts for mine, and I traded mine for yours. We are no longer who we once were.”

“We have become each other.”