Zhang Wei nodded, then knocked on the door.
As it clicked open, Miao Ruiming prepared himself—unaware that behind that door lay not just a patient, but something that would shake his understanding of his world view.
The heavy door clicked open with mechanical finality, revealing Dong Yingming standing on the other side, his striking blue eyes rimmed in sleepless shadows, the dark hollows beneath betrayed his exhaustion. But behind them burned something fiercer—relief, intensity, and above all… urgency.
A silver clasp held his coat closed, it still draped over his shoulders like he hadn't taken it off all night. He stood tall and dressed in a crisp black shirt now slightly rumpled from a night without sleep. His knuckles were red where they'd been clenched too tightly for too long.
He was the picture of worn power—an emperor cracked, but still upright. The tension in his shoulders didn't hide his anticipation. His face, though mostly expressionless, briefly lit up the moment he saw Miao Ruiming standing beside Zhang Wei.
"Dr. Miao…"
Dong Yingming said, voice gravelly from sleeplessness and strained, a ghost of relief slipping past his usually controlled demeanor.
"Thank you for coming."
He stepped back immediately, ushering the two doctors into the cell with a kind of barely-contained desperation—an exhausted host pressed against time, willing to sacrifice pride if it meant his guest would save the most precious thing he had.
"I sent Chang Xiao to get tea and some light snacks for your arrival…"
Dong Yingming added, tone hurried and distracted, as they stepped in.
"But if he's late, so be it. I need you to see him now."
Despite the rush, Dong Yingming's voice carried weight—a rare note of pleading beneath the command.
Zhang Wei gave a casual wave.
"He means he sent Guard Chang away so he could rush you in."
Dong Yingming ignored the jab and turned toward Miao Ruiming.
"Dr. Miao. Please—this way. I've been waiting."
Miao Ruiming stepped inside.
And immediately, his breath hitched.
This was not what he had expected.
As soon as Miao Ruiming stepped in, instantly, the air around him shifted.
The lighting was soft and warm, nothing like the sterile white bulbs of the lower corridors. A delicate crushed petals and sandalwood aroma wafted faintly through the room, earthy and clean. A small tea set sat perfectly arranged on a lacquered table in the corner, beside a tall stack of poetry collections and medical texts, their spines unmarred.
A built-in bookshelf lined one wall. A large, reinforced window let in real daylight—sunbeams cast golden stripes across the plush carpeted floor. A writing desk stood near the foot of the bed, with a crystal ashtray resting on top with some scattered papers near it. Tucked in was an ergonomic chair, its dark blue color matched the cushion of the chair that was placed by the queen-sized mahogany framed bed.
There was more, a mounted flat-screen TV on the wall and a navy colored couch placed in front of it for perfect viewing. A tall mini–fridge by a counter with a dual coffee and espresso machine sat on top and next to those was a sleek microwave.
Miao Ruiming's eyes flicked to the detail: a small tea set on a side table, books shelved in proper order, the faint scent lingering in the air.
This wasn't a cell—it was a sanctum.
He blinked slowly.
Everything he'd expected from FirstPrison—rusted bed frames, grime-streaked walls, the lingering taste of violence in the air—none of it was here. Instead, he saw linen drapes at the windows, a real mattress with cotten bedding, warm-toned light fixtures instead of flickering fluorescents. There were handmade cushions, small plants nestled in clay pots near the wall, a woven carpet beneath their feet.
Even the air was even cleaner.
This wasn't just privilege. This was personalized. Controlled. Cultivated.
And at the center of it all: a low bed, draped in clean linen sheets.
Lying beneath them, deathly pale but breathing gently, was the patient.
The man.
"…This is your cell?"
Miao Ruiming asked slowly, eyes scanning the bookshelves again, the finely made bed, the lack of visible bars.
"Yes…"
Dong Yingming said simply, stepping around him and returning to Yao Ziyang's side. His voice lowered as he adjusted the blanket on his lover's shoulders.
"Ours."
"Ours?"
Miao Ruiming echoed, caught off guard.
"I stay here. With him…"
Dong Yingming replied.
"I'm not going to leave him alone again."
Miao Ruiming frowned, mind spinning.
"And the warden allowed this?"
"The warden…"
Zhang Wei cut in dryly.
"is very accommodating when it comes to Mr. Dong."
Miao Ruiming's gaze narrowed faintly.
"How does one—"
His eyes flicked to Dong Yingming
"—afford something like this? And more importantly… how does a warden allow it?"
Miao Ruiming couldn't stop himself from murmuring.
"How… is this allowed at all?"
Zhang Wei, catching the edge in his tone, gave a faint, knowing smile.
"Mr. Dong has his ways. Let's just say the warden knows not to interfere."
Miao Ruiming's gaze drifted to Dong Yingming, who didn't respond. He was already standing protectively near the bed in the room. One hand resting gently on the edge of the mattress, the other hand resting lightly on the pale arm that lay limp against the blanket. His entire body was coiled, like a man bracing for war—but afraid the enemy was time itself. That posture—it wasn't for show.
He was guarding the patient.
Zhang Wei moved closer, gesturing for Miao Ruiming to join him as he set his worn leather satchel down on a nearby table.
"This is the patient…"
He said quietly.
"I haven't named him yet, as per Mr. Dong's instruction. Just assess first."
"Still not going to say who he is?"
He asked.
Neither of the older men answered immediately.
"Let's talk about his condition first."
Miao Ruiming sighed but opened the file and scanned the pages quickly, eyes narrowing as he read it again.
Miao Ruiming stepped forward slowly, his brain shifted into a physician's rhythm, sliding over him like a second skin. But before he even reached the bed, he was already scanning—skin color, breath pattern, an odd scent in the air.
The contrast between the elegant room and the prisoner before him was jarring. The patient—barely a young man, he guessed—was slender, delicate-frame, and had an otherworldly stillness to him. His wrists were too thin. There were fading signs of distress across his skin—recent bruises, stress flushes—but his breathing was tranquil, caught in sleep.
Zhang Wei began recounting everything like clockwork:
"The patient suffered a high fever earlier in the week. His vitals were stable but erratic. It came out of nowhere, accompanied by chills, weakness, fainting episodes, severe nosebleeds, intense full-body flushes, and cold-like symptoms not associated with infection. No known trauma or internal bleeding. Fever spikes without consistent cause, but each time I treated him, I used a combination of acupuncture and pressure point massage to ease circulation. I also prepared several decoctions using the formula you developed. The one based on the gift you gave me a month or so ago. His body responded—really well in fact—but the symptoms would return unpredictably."
Zhang Wei opened a paper packet and handed over a list of compounds.
"I also administered my fortified herbal pills—Batch 19B—and balanced them with vitamin infusions and a digestive tonic. He started stabilizing only after that last dose with the herbal decoction."
Zhang Wei continued calmly:
"and then he had a major episode two nights ago—nosebleed, collapse, unconsciousness. I stabilized him with fluids and pressure-point regulation."
"Elevated body temperature… spontaneous nosebleeds… extreme fatigue… periods of fainting accompanied by flushed skin, heightened heart rate, and…"
Miao Ruiming paused in his listing.
"Abdominal cramping?"
Zhang Wei nodded.
"I noticed he curls in on himself a lot, so I made a note. It doesn't follow any predictable cycle. No infection. No foreign substance. I treated him symptomatically—acupuncture to lower internal heat, circulation massage, pressure point regulation. I've used herbal decoctions, based on your formulas, and he responds… but like I said, only temporarily."
Miao Ruiming kept reading.
"Bloodwork shows mild anemia and electrolyte instability. His hormonal panel is—"
He paused again, brow furrowing,
"—inexplicably erratic."
"That's where I'm stuck,"
Zhang Wei admitted.
"There's no known condition that presents like this. I've seen fevers. I've seen poisoning. I've treated high-level qi deviation. But this? It's like his body is responding to something no one understands."
"He's anemic, is this new?"
Miao Ruiming asked, still reading through the notes.
"Yes, though mildly. I also administered supplements—B complex, folate, and iron."
"What about treatment before the collapse?"
Zhang Wei nodded.
"Acupuncture every day. The boy responds well to it, especially across the lower back, wrists and neck. I also tried a modified version of your Eight Treasures decoction, but the effects were weak. I think something's… off with his constitution. I even used the herbal pills you sent me last year—the Cleansing Moon blend."
Miao Ruiming looked up.
"And still no clarity?"
Zhang Wei exhaled.
"None. His symptoms don't align with any known disorder I've encountered. And there's something else—his body responds like he's reacting to a hormonal fluctuation, but his labs are always normal. There's no infection. No tumor. No trauma. But he still burns up like he's fighting something."
Miao Ruiming narrowed his eyes. Something in his chest stirred. That faint instinct of a healer that told him when he wasn't dealing with a normal case.
"Does he have a history of illness?"
"None that I could find. But…"
Zhang Wei added carefully.
"I only began treating him recently. He was under closer…observation by others."
Miao Ruiming nodded slowly, Dong Yingming moved to the other side of the bed for him, allowing him to get closer. He made his way over, kneeling beside the bed, fingers reaching to check the patient's pulse, then carefully opening one of his eyes to check pupil dilation.
But it was when he had stepped back, his eyes landed fully on the boy's face, Miao Ruiming froze.
"…Him."
His brow furrowed.
This wasn't a stranger. He knew this man.
The delicate features. The soft curve of his cheekbones. The shape of his lashes. The faint resemblance to someone he once knew well.
The moment Miao Ruiming saw the man's face—pale and still beneath a soft, embroidered blanket—he stopped cold.
Recognition dawned like a bitter aftertaste on his tongue.
"…Yao Ziyang?"
He murmured under his breath, almost in disbelief.
Zhang Wei raised an eyebrow.
"You know him?"
Miao Ruiming's jaw tensed, but his face remained composed.
Everyone once knew Yao Ziyang. Former vice president of Yao Corporation, polished star of every business magazine cover and keynote gala. Charismatic, articulate, and unnervingly composed, even among the nations notoriously cutthroat corporate elites. People had called him the gentleman prince of the financial world. Too poised to be real, too clean to be trusted.
And sure enough, they were right.
Everything had unraveled—embezzlement, charity funds diverted to offshore accounts, unauthorized grants, and scandal upon scandal. When the charges dropped, the media sank their teeth in and never let go. Yao Ziyang's elegant image had crumbled overnight. Once praised as incorruptible, he was now branded a disgraceful fraud, the kind of man who smiled while stealing medicine money from sick children.
Miao Ruiming had been among those disgusted. Still was.
He frowned deeply, a knot forming in his stomach.
"And I know of him…"
He corrected after a pause, tone cooling.
"He embezzled from charities run through his family's corporation."
Zhang Wei hesitated, casting a subtle glance toward Dong Yingming, who stood nearby—silent, but visibly tense. His hand remained on the edge of the bed, fingers unmoving.
"He's also the cousin of Yao Zizhou. A past patient I treated years ago. The one who was in a vegetative state."
Zhang Wei tilted his head.
"Small world."
"He's not what the papers say."
Dong Yingming said, his voice low but measured.
Miao Ruiming didn't respond. He focused back on Yao Ziyang's slack form. Now… he looked broken. Thin. Small. Fevered.
And yet somehow…notweak. Karma truly was something...
'Whatever he is…'
Miao Ruiming thought.
'He's still my patient now.'
Miao Ruiming didn't speak further on it, though his thoughts were racing. He pushed down his judgment the way only a doctor could—with the steel of professionalism and ritual precision, reminding himself this was no time to hold grudges.
Miao Ruiming began to work. He rolled back Yao Ziyang's collar to press three fingers to his neck, finding the pulse—shallow, quick, and slightly arrhythmic. Dong Yingming, silent before, leaned forward to observe. He watched as Miao Ruiming's brow furrowed.
"His qi is chaotic. This isn't the kind of disturbance you get from a typical fever or nervous collapse."
Zhang Wei nodded.
"Exactly. It's like his whole body enters a storm from the inside out. There's no external pathogen, no blockages—just… surges. Like something innate trying to force its way out."
The boy's pulse wasn't just fast… and strangely shallow. There was something underneath it, though. Something soft, distant, like water running under snow.
Miao Ruiming didn't say it aloud, but he thought:
'Like a beast trapped in a human cage.'
He began arranging silver needles across the bedstand, adjusting each with delicate fingers.
As he moved, he found his gaze drawn again to the side—to Dong Yingming—and for the first time, he saw something that startled him more than the boy's mystery illness..
This Underworld boss was quiet. He hadn't interrupted. He hadn't paced or questioned or demanded. Only responded when asked, only made short statements.
He just stood there, eyes on Yao Ziyang's face, exhaustion bleeding from every line of his body—but watching with total, unbroken focus, like he thought Yao Ziyang might vanish if he blinked too long.
Miao Ruiming had heard plenty about Dong Yingming: his ruthlessness, his rise through the underground ranks, his vice grip on First Prison. A brute. A strategist. A killer. But nothing had prepared him for the strange contradiction standing in this room:
How could such a man touch Yao Ziyang's cheek as if it might break beneath his fingers?
The warmth in Dong Yingming's gaze was unsettling.
Miao Ruiming broke the silence.
"I've been told you've been with him most nights."
Dong Yingming nodded once.
"Did this episode happen when you were away?"
There was a pause.
Then:
"…Yes."
Miao Ruiming's eyes flickered with thought.
"And the last episode before this one—when did it begin?"
Dong Yingming hesitated.
"After we… were intimate. I distanced myself right after. Could this be my fault?"
That earned him a longer glance.
The infamous Dong Yingming, the man whispered about in political scandals and underground networks as a war-hardened brute, was now watching over this unconscious boy with a quiet, focused tenderness that didn't match anything about his public reputation.
He tucked the blanket tighter around the ill man, adjusted a small pillow beneath his head, then sat again on the edge of the bed, never more than a breath's distance away.
Not like a jailer. Not like a master.
But like a man who had been sitting there all night, fearing the world might end if this boy didn't wake up.
The way this man—this notorious, feared, powerful man—was watching Yao Ziyang.
It wasn't only possession. Not quite.
It was grief. Guilt. Love, if he dared name it.
'Emotional instability triggering physiological collapse, perhaps? No, there are real symptoms manifesting in more than just the body…'
Miao Ruiming didn't say anything, but something shifted in his mind. This was no ordinary illness—no natural ailment or environmental imbalance.
This was something else.
Something unknown. Maybe… never-before-seen.
He refocused, slowly lowering the first silver needle into Yao Ziyang's collarbone point. Then another along the wrist. Three more in the chest, spiraling toward the heart line.
Miao Ruiming's fingers moved with elegance and intuition, though his thoughts buzzed.
He had no name for this condition. No precedent. No textbook prepared him for it.
But if something this strange existed in only one bloodline… then perhaps this boy really was born different. A kind of genetic mutation, a forgotten branch of humanity.
A secret.
Miao Ruiming glanced back at the sleeping boy—delicate, not built for the filth or violence of a prison—and struggled to piece it all together. He continued to stare quietly at the fragile, sleeping face of Yao Ziyang, and felt a chill crawl up the back of his neck.
Dong Yingming gave an exaggerated cough, snapping Miao Ruiming back from his wandering thoughts.
Miao Ruiming, embarrassed by his lapse of focus, quietly reached into the inner lining of his doctor's bag and pulled out a stoppered bottle—clear glass, filled with pristine, shimmering water.
Uncapping the small, glass bottle, he gently poured a stream of glistening spring water into a ceramic bowl on the side table. The air around it cooled instantly, as if the water retained its mountain chill.
"This is mountain spring water…"
He said softly, holding it up for Zhang Wei and Dong Yingming to see.
"Gifted to me from Madam Yao. She gave it to me to study its properties. I've tested it—its restorative properties are extraordinary. Borderline miraculous. There's something stabilizing about it—cellular, perhaps energetic. I like to use it as a base for my decoctions. No added heat. Cold extraction. However for this, I will apply it directly by hand in a form of message treatment."
Zhang Wei's eyes lit up and he gave an approving nod.
"Perfect for someone with this kind of constitutional disruption. However, this 'MadamYao'... Is she…"
"She's another reason I've just agreed to treat him…"
Miao Ruiming said frankly.
"She's the wife of Yao Zizhou."
Dong Yingming didn't speak. He just nodded, the tension in his throat visible.
Miao Ruiming looked back to the boy on the bed, voice softening again.
"I'll treat him. But I'll need silence. Full cooperation. And—"
He looked directly at Dong Yingming.
"—honesty. If anything else happens… if he worsens, if he reacts strangely, I need to know immediately."
Dong Yingming's voice was rough.
"Whatever you need. Just… save him."
"…I'll stabilize him first…"
He said finally.
"Then we'll begin observation."
He spoke to Dong Yingming, expression sharp and clinical.
"Let me be clear again, you're not to leave this cell. If anything changes—even his scent, his temperature, his breathing—you will tell me immediately. Understood?"
Dong Yingming nodded silently.
Miao Ruiming nodded once and took out his silver-tipped tools, gently rolling up his sleeves.
Yao Ziyang's breathing remained steady.
But everything else in the room had shifted.
The war to save him had finally begun.
After placing the needles away, Miao Ruiming turned and gently touched one hand to Yao Ziyang's chest. His eyes softened—just a little.
'Whatever this boy is…I'll be the first in the world to uncover it.'
But even that triumph, he realized grimly, may not matter in the face of what he was beginning to feel stir in the room—a bond, terrifyingly tender, between a man built to destroy and a patient who seemed made to fall apart.
And something about that frightened him more than the illness itself.