And something about that frightened him more than the illness itself.
The room was quiet, save for the faint trickle of spring water being poured into another ceramic bowl.
Miao Ruiming had just finished putting his needles away with near-spiritual precision. Now came the part he hadn't anticipated requiring so much of: the water. He placed the crystalline vial back in his bag and gently dipped his fingers in the bowl of mountain water. The water was cold to the touch, but there was something else—an almost imperceptible hum, as though the liquid carried memory, or intention.
As he dipped both his hands deeper into the bowl, he looked down at Yao Ziyang, still lying fever-warm and quiet against the soft bedding.
"This water is the purest I've ever handled…"
He murmured.
"It doesn't just cleanse—it harmonizes. It doesn't fight illness. It absorbs it. Watch closely."
Zhang Wei leaned forward, curious.
But Dong Yingming didn't move.
At first, he was still. Quiet. Watching.
He stood a few paces back, broad arms crossed tightly over his chest, his face carved from tension as he leaned against the wall by the bed. His gaze tracked Miao Ruiming's every movement—not like a superior inspecting a subordinate, but like a wolf forced to watch another man touch what was his.
Miao Ruiming gently pressed the flat of his damp palms against Yao Ziyang's collarbone, slowly spreading the cool water across the feverish skin. His fingers lingered with care, dipping down the smooth slope of the chest, moving slowly over ribs, tracing each rise and fall of breath like it was sacred scripture.
His touch was not mechanical. It was reverent. Controlled. Intimate.
The water left a sheen along Yao Ziyang's skin, turning his soft, fair chest into a canvas of glistening lines. Miao Ruiming dipped his hands again and moved to his shoulders, gliding his thumbs along the dips between tendons. His touch trailed languidly down the arms, fingers smoothing over the contours with precise, practiced pressure. Not too hard. Not too light. Just enough to melt tension and draw out internal fire.
With practiced care, he pressed his palms against Yao Ziyang's bare chest again, fingers spreading over his ribs and sternum, letting the cool water absorb into his skin. He moved slowly, massaging it in with delicate, clockwise circles along the boy's collarbones, then down the sides of his ribs once more.
To anyone else, it would have looked sensual. Erotic. And to Dong Yingming, watching with a storm rising in his chest, it might as well have been a violation.
His jaw tightened. A muscle in his neck ticked. Dong Yingming's fingers flexed at his forearms, knuckles white.
Then Miao Ruiming's fingers traced gently down Yao Ziyang's exposed arms, pausing at the wrist before moving back up, pressing over his shoulders.
'He's curing him…'
He told himself.
'Not touching him because he wants to. He doesn't care about him like that. He doesn't know what he is to me. He doesn't—'
Miao Ruiming moved down the bed, sliding Yao Ziyang carefully onto his side to rub the spring water into the small of his back. Afterwards, he gently lifted and adjusted Yao Ziyang's light robe to reveal the spine, then worked it gently into his spine, his lower ribs, the curve just above his hipbone.
Dong Yingming's breath hitched.
And the longer it went on, the harder it became for Dong Yingming to breathe.
He clenched his jaw tight.
Zhang Wei, oblivious to the growing tension behind him, began listing notes.
"He stabilized faster than I expected after the first herbal decoction, but that pales in comparison to this spring water. Do you think the spring water is drawing out heat or metabolizing it?"
Miao Ruiming, still calm and composed, spoke over his shoulder.
"Both. It behaves like a neutralizing agent… but it also behaves like something alive. It pulls rather than cools. If we see his fever disappear for more than twelve hours, I'll consider oral ingestion in diluted form."
Dong Yingming said nothing. But his posture had shifted forward ever so slightly.
Miao Ruiming sensed it.
He thought each pass of his hands were calculated, clinical, appropriate. There was no lust or indulgence in it. But that didn't matter. Not to Dong Yingming.
In his eyes, every touch was a trespass.
He felt it rising inside him—a primal, territorial fury that had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with ownership. Not just of Yao Ziyang's body, no—but of his trust, his warmth, his fragility.
He wanted to rip Miao Ruiming's hands away, to throw him across the room and shove him out. To snap that elegant composure like a branch. But he didn't.
He couldn't.
This man might be the only one who could save Yao Ziyang.
He gripped his arms tighter and swallowed the urge.
'He's the only one who can save him.'
Dong Yingming reminded himself, throat dry.
'If I interfere now, he might leave. Xiao Yao can't afford that.'
Still, the way Miao Ruiming touched his lover made his skin crawl.
Miao Ruiming, for his part, noticed. He saw the twitch in Dong Yingming's jaw, the tension in his neck, the subtle way his eyes never left the points of contact between doctor and patient. But he said nothing. He merely continued, voice low and professional as he addressed Zhang Wei.
"The water absorbs better along the nerve lines…"
Miao Ruiming explained softly, spreading more across Yao Ziyang's lower back.
"Especially in patients with irregular temperature distribution. His extremities are cold but the chest and lower abdomen are too warm. Almost like an internal summer trapped beneath a winter skin."
"Do you think it's a constitutional imbalance?"
Zhang Wei asked, watching closely.
"Not quite…"
Miao Ruiming said, rinsing his hands again before pressing over the man's solar plexus.
"It feels more like something… evolutionary. He's reacting to a rhythm the body isn't designed to follow. Like an instinct he shouldn't possess—but does."
Zhang Wei's brow furrowed.
"So it's not disease, but something inherent?"
"Exactly. And the more we try to suppress it, the more his body fights back."
Dong Yingming's grip on his arms tightened until his knuckles and fingertips whitened. Yao Ziyang lay between them, fragile, flushed, silent.
After a few more quiet minutes, Miao Ruiming stood up straight.
"I've done all I can for today. His temperature is lowering. The spring water will continue to circulate through the tissue for the next several hours. I'll come again tomorrow."
Zhang Wei nodded and began packing his satchel, handing Miao Ruiming the manilla folder again.
Dong Yingming finally stepped away from the wall and moved back to the side of the bed. His gaze briefly passed over the hand-shaped patterns left on Yao Ziyang's damp robe and back.
His voice was tight.
"Chang Xiao."
Chang Xiao had returned somewhere in the middle of the treatment and was waiting just outside the door.
"Yes, Boss Dong?"
"Show Dr. Miao to the guest room. Second door down from this one. He stays on this floor."
Chang Xiao hesitated, just a beat, then nodded.
"Understood."
Miao Ruiming looked up, a flicker of surprise in his face. He had expected to be allowed to stay nearby, perhaps even in the cell given the patient's volatility.
But then he saw Dong Yingming's expression—that icy edge of civility, sharpened by possessive undercurrents—and understood.
Dong Yingming didn't want him here any longer than necessary.
'He doesn't want me near him while he sleeps.'
Miao Ruiming nodded coolly.
"I'll take my leave, then."
He turned to Dong Yingming as Zhang Wei exited first.
"Keep his limbs warm. And if anything changes—even something small—wake me. I don't care what hour it is."
Dong Yingming inclined his head, just once.
Miao Ruiming bowed slightly, then followed Chang Xiao out, steps echoing softly down the clean hallway.
The golden lamplight flickered low against the cell's stone walls, casting soft shadows across the cotton-draped bed. The faint scent of sandalwood and crushed petals lingered in the warm air, but even that calming fragrance couldn't steady Dong Yingming's breath. The room fell into silence, save for the steady breath of the boy on the bed.
Dong Yingming had stayed behind.
He stood for a long time, staring at the space Miao Ruiming had occupied—remembering how those hands had touched Yao Ziyang's skin, how they'd pressed and caressed and studied, even under the guise of medicine.
And even though he knew it was necessary, his possessive rage hadn't lessened.
He sat on the edge of the bed, hunched slightly over Yao Ziyang's sleeping form, wringing out a warm cloth with one hand and pressing it gently to the man's temple. Beads of sweat still clung to Yao Ziyang's skin, but his fever had mostly broken now, his body limp but stable under the quilted blanket.
Slowly, he moved to sit in the chair beside the bed—the same chair Wei Jiang had sat in days earlier—and leaned forward. His hand reached for Yao Ziyang's wrist, fingers brushing over the cooling pulse point. The skin there was soft, warmer than expected. Alive.
'He's alive. He's breathing.'
His fingers curled gently around the wrist and held it there, as if anchoring himself to proof that Yao Ziyang was still his to protect. Still here.
His eyes traced Yao Ziyang's face as if memorizing every curve, every flicker of color beneath the skin.
He reached out slowly, brushing a damp strand of hair from Yao Ziyang's cheek, his touch feather-light, reverent. His fingers trembled for a brief second—not from weakness, but from the sheer pressure of how much he wanted to hold him without hurting him.
"Why didn't you call for me…"
He whispered to the sleeping boy. His voice, when he spoke, was low—barely a breath.
"You called for Wei Jiang. Why did you call for him?"
The words left a bitter taste in his mouth, even now. His heart clenched.
He remembered when Yao Ziyang had once murmured his name in fevered delirium, clutching at his chest like Dong Yingming's presence was the only air left. Now he called for Wei Jiang, reaching with unconscious desperation.
His gaze dropped to Yao Ziyang's face, so heartbreakingly peaceful in sleep.
Dong Yingming leaned back in the chair and let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. His eyes flicked to the side of the bed where the blanket was folded too neatly. He reached out and pulled it up just a little higher, tucking it in under Yao Ziyang's chin.
He watched the man's chest rise and fall slowly, rhythmically, calmly.
But in his mind, he kept hearing that voice—that fevered whisper—not directed at him, but at Wei Jiang:
"Brother Way… don't go…"
The memory tightened like a noose around his throat
"I know you didn't mean to. You were sick… half-conscious. You probably didn't know what you were saying."
He swallowed hard.
"I don't blame you. I just…"
He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again, the blue in them dimmed with regret.
"I should've been the one you called for. I should have been here."
His voice cracked slightly.
"But I stayed away. I thought keeping my distance would protect you."
A long silence followed, broken only by the faint rhythm of Yao Ziyang's breath.
Dong Yingming leaned in closer, fingertips brushing gently through Yao Ziyang's hair, tucking a few strands behind his ear.
"You don't have to forgive me…"
He whispered.
"Not now. Not ever. Just… wake up. Be healthy. That's all I ask."
He exhaled shakily.
"If you wake up, I'll give you everything. The world, the skies, anything your heart desires. I'll burn every bridge and tear down every name that ever hurt you. I'll protect you from everything—even from myself, if I have to."
He reached down and kissed Yao Ziyang's knuckles, the gesture soft and wordless.
"I swear to you, Xiao Yao… I won't fail you again. When you need me, I'll be there. Always."
Hours passed and the soft breaths continued, he only felt one thing growing inside him:
A vow.
Even if it cost him his empire, even if he had to burn the world for it—he would keep Yao Ziyang safe.
Even if the boy never called his name again.
He got up from the chair and crawled into bed next to Yao Ziyang then exhaled. The exhaustion that had clawed at the corners of his mind for days finally surged forward now that the fear had ebbed, now that Miao Ruiming was here and Yao Ziyang's life no longer felt like it was teetering on a thread.
Dong Yingming meant to stay awake, to keep watching, to keep his promise.
But his body betrayed him.
His hand remained curled lightly around Yao Ziyang's, and his head slowly lowered until it came to rest against the pillow beside him. His breathing deepened. His lashes fell.
And just like that, for the first time in days, the Underworld boss slept—not alone, not guarded, not in dread, but beside the one person he had sworn everything to.
As the night wore on, the lamp flickered one last time before automatically turning off.
The two lay side by side—one sleeping peacefully, the other finally finding peace in sleep.
The cell was shrouded in darkness now, hours had passed with only the faintest hint of moonlight bleeding in through the reinforced window. The air, which had earlier been warm and still, had turned dense—thick with something foul.
Dong Yingming stirred first with a twitch of his brow, then flinched, blinking hard as the stench clawed at his nose. It was acrid—rotten, metallic, and sour. A sickly-sweet stench that didn't belong in this space that had become a sanctuary.
He sat up fast, instincts snapping him awake.
'What the hell is that smell?'
He turned his head, bleary from interrupted sleep, disoriented. The scent was worse now—so pungent it turned his stomach. His sharp eyes scanned the room automatically, then stopped—dead center on the boy beside him.
"…Xiao Yao?"