"…Xiao Yao?"
Dong Yingming rasped.
His breath caught in his throat.
His lover lay there—his body trembling faintly, bathed in sweat. But not just any sweat. His entire frame was soaked in an oily sheen that clung thick to his skin like blackened sap. It had soaked through the fine bedding, staining it dark. Even his hair was damp, matted to his cheeks and temples. His complexion had turned ashen, grey-blue around the lips. His chest rose and fell rapidly—shallow, desperate pulls of air.
His breaths sounded like a drowning man gasping through waterlogged lungs.
And then, suddenly, Yao Ziyang let out a faint choking sound.
Dong Yingming's heart stopped.
"Xiao Yao—!"
He scrambled closer and tried to shake him lightly by the shoulders. No response. The boy's head lolled slightly to one side, mouth parted, lips dry and cracked.
"Yao Ziyang!"
Dong Yingming's voice broke into a shout.
His mind blanked in pure horror. This wasn't fever. This wasn't illness. This was death, knocking at the door.
The smell—the decay—it was coming from inside Yao Ziyang. His body was expelling something vile, unnatural.
Dong Yingming didn't think. He surged to his feet, flung the door open, and bolted into the corridor barefoot, wild with panic.
"Miao Ruiming!"
He bellowed, voice echoing down the stone hallway like a whipcrack.
He didn't wait for a response.
He stormed down the corridor and kicked open the guest room door with such force it nearly came off the hinge.
Inside, Miao Ruiming sat upright in bed, hair loose, eyes sharp—but the intensity in Dong Yingming's expression made him forget propriety.
Dong Yingming didn't wait for permission. He marched straight to the bed and grabbed Miao Ruiming's wrist in a bruising grip.
"Come. Now."
"What's—"
"He's dying!"
Dong Yingming snapped, voice strangled.
"Something's wrong, I don't know what—he's not breathing right, he reeks like rot, he—just come! Now!"
Miao Ruiming didn't hesitate.
He was already up and grabbing his medical satchel, barefoot in his robe, racing down the hallway with Dong Yingming beside him, his face pale with dread.
"I woke up…"
Dong was muttering, like confessing to a crime.
"And I didn't even remember falling asleep—what if I missed something—what if—"
"Breathe."
Miao Ruiming ordered, though his own steps had quickened.
"Describe exactly what you saw."
Dong Yingming's voice shook.
"He's soaked—drenched—his skin's grey. His breathing—it's shallow, labored, like he's suffocating. And the smell—it's coming from him, it's thick, it's wrong."
Miao Ruiming's eyes narrowed, the calm of a surgeon taking over.
They reached the cell, and Dong Yingming shoved the door open so hard it slammed against the wall.
Inside, the stench struck them like a wave.
Miao Ruiming reeled for only half a second before snapping into action. He dropped his case at the foot of the bed and rushed to Yao Ziyang's side.
Dong Yingming stood frozen, fists clenched at his sides, jaw locked in silent fury and panic.
Miao Ruiming peeled the damp blanket away—and stopped cold.
"…My god."
Yao Ziyang looked half-corpse, half-purging vessel. The oil-like sweat was slick against his chest and arms, beading around his neck and under his jaw. His lips were purple-tinged. There were red rashes blooming across his shoulders and lower back.
But his pulse—Miao Ruiming touched his neck—was still there. Faint. Irregular.
Alive.
Barely.
"What the hell is this?"
Dong Yingming growled, voice cracking.
"What's happening to him?"
Miao Ruiming's eyes darted, already calculating, analyzing.
"He's… expelling something. His body's rejecting it. Something deep in his organs—something toxic. Not ingested. Internal."
He looked at Dong Yingming.
The scent of rot and iron filled the room like smoke. Beneath the layer of oil-slick sweat, Yao Ziyang's skin was burning and cold all at once—an impossible contradiction. His pulse fluttered like a panicked bird's, irregular, erratic, as though his body had no idea whether to keep fighting or surrender.
Dong Yingming hovered nearby like a loaded weapon.
"Well?"
He barked.
"Tell me you can fix it. Fix him!"
Miao Ruiming didn't answer at first. His eyes were locked on the rashes blooming beneath Yao Ziyang's skin. He pulled back the bedding further and checked the soles of Yao Ziyang's feet, his inner thighs. A pattern.
It was the same.
"…I've seen this before."
He murmured.
Dong Yingming's entire body went still.
Miao Ruiming looked up, face grim.
"His cousin. Yao Zizhou. Years ago. He had a reaction like this."
"What?"
Dong Yingming 's voice was hoarse.
"You treated him for this?"
"Not…quite…"
Miao Ruiming said, already reaching into his kit for rapid-stabilization herbs and injectables.
"He was admitted to a hospital. It happened during one of my visits—I'm sure even you heard he had gotten into an accident that left him blind and crippled. He had also become a vegetative person when he and his wife fell down some stairs. In order to wake him, Yao Gui sent for me to come and treat him. However, after one visit, when I came back the next day, he was…like this. Sweating like poison was being drawn from his bones. The same deathly pale skin. The same shallow breathing. We got him stabilized, but…"
"But?"
Miao Ruiming looked him dead in the eyes.
"I never figured out what it was. He was cured and woke up fine right after being admitted. His family covered it up, but I had a feeling the issue may lie with the Yao bloodline. I don't know what this is, but I've been preparing for something like this to happen ever since I saw it's Yao Zizhou's relative."
"You knew this might happen?"
Dong Yingming's voice dropped into a dangerous register.
Miao Ruiming didn't flinch.
"I suspected. But I didn't know how fast it would manifest."
For a moment, silence.
Then Dong Yingming moved.
He surged forward, grabbing Miao Ruiming by the front of his nightshirt and slamming him against the wall with a snarl. The teacups from earlier clattered off the table, one smashing to the ground.
"You let him sleep beside me like that—you let me think he was stable—when you knew something like this was coming?!"
Miao Ruiming didn't resist.
"I didn't know when, or how severe. If I'd rushed treatment without understanding his body, I could have killed him faster."
Dong Yingming's grip tightened. His blue eyes blazed, fury battling against fear. He could feel Yao Ziyang's life bleeding out of him with every second wasted—but also knew this man, this arrogant genius doctor, might be the only one who could save him.
He let go—roughly—and Miao Ruiming fell back a half step, straightening his collar with clinical detachment.
"What now?"
Dong Yingming demanded.
Miao Ruiming responded without hesitation.
"He needs full external monitoring. Continuous oxygen flow, organ-level scans. We need a hospital—immediately."
Just then, the door to the cell burst open.
Chang Xiao, still in sleep clothes, sword strapped awkwardly over his back, eyes wide.
"Boss! I heard yelling—what happened?!"
Dong Yingming snapped toward him.
"Xiao Yao's being moved to a hospital. Now."
Chang Xiao stared, blinking rapidly.
"Tell Warden Liu I don't give a damn what he wants—give it to him. Money, favors, names. I want Xiao Yao transferred before sunrise with no questions asked, and I'm going with him. Understand?"
Chang Xiao was already turning.
"Got it!"
"Use my name. Use yours. Use blood if you have to!"
Dong Yingming shouted after him as Chang Xiao sprinted down the corridor.
"Just make it happen."
Back inside the cell, Dong Yingming turned back toward the bed.
Miao Ruiming had already inserted his emergency needle into Yao Ziyang's wrist and was pressing an herbal poultice onto his chest to ease the spasms in his lungs. The room still stank of sickness, but the lines on Yao Ziyang's face seemed just slightly less strained—a thread of hope amid the chaos.
As Miao Ruiming unwrapped clean cloth and prepared his acupuncture needles again, his gaze lingered for just a moment on Yao Ziyang's face.
'What are you?'
And more urgently—
'can I keep you alive long enough to find out?'
Dong Yingming sat beside him, wiping Yao Ziyang's cheek with shaking fingers.
"Hang on…"
He whispered.
"Just a little longer."
His mind swirled with the fury of betrayal, the guilt of negligence, and one single thought repeating in his chest like a drumbeat:
'Don't die. Not now. Not when I've just learned what you mean to me.'
The thick silence outside the luxury cell was broken by the pounding of boots and the rustle of thick fabric as Chang Xiao burst back into the corridor, panting.
"Boss! The ambulance is here—it's waiting out front, engine running!"
Dong Yingming didn't speak. He didn't hesitate. He had already stripped off his shirt and frantically buttoned up one that had been tossed aside then grabbed the new black blanket Chang Xiao had brought with him just in case.
Yao Ziyang lay still as death—unmoving, drenched in the poisonous sheen of his own expelled impurities.
Dong Yingming gently, carefully scooped him up in both arms, wrapping the blanket tightly around his frail, sweat-drenched form. He cradled Yao Ziyang to his chest, one arm under his knees, the other supporting his back and shoulders, as if he were made of porcelain.
His face was stone, but his arms trembled.
"Open every door…"
He barked as he started walking, fast.
"Now!"
They moved like a storm. Chang Xiao ran ahead, shouting at guards to clear the way. Warden Liu was nowhere in sight, but someone had been paid well enough to make the ambulance come without questions.
Down the stairs. Past the guards. Through the echoing stone halls that reeked faintly of disinfectant and secrets. Out into the frigid air of the night.
The ambulance's red and white lights spun wildly, splashing color across the dark yard.
As Dong Yingming approached, paramedics jumped down, ready to receive the patient. One of them opened the back doors, another rolled the stretcher forward.
"Male, mid twenties, cardiac distress—"
Miao Ruiming followed closely, rattling off symptoms.
"Severe unknown metabolic collapse, possible respiratory failure—he hasn't responded to traditional treatments. We need him stabilized with full respiratory and cardiac support."
Dong Yingming laid Yao Ziyang gently on the stretcher, still wrapped in the black blanket.
But then—
"No pulse!" one paramedic barked.
Dong Yingming froze.
The paramedic's hand hovered over Yao Ziyang's neck.
"No breath—he's stopped breathing!"
"CPR—now!"
Another shouted, already clambering into the back of the ambulance.
Dong Yingming's heart dropped.
"No—no, no, no—"
He whispered, staggering back a step as the medics launched into action. One began chestcompressions while another opened an airway and prepared the defibrillator.
Yao Ziyang's delicate body jolted with each compression.
Dong Yingming gripped the edge of the ambulance door so hard his knuckles turned white.
"Please…"
He whispered, under his breath at first.
"Please. Please don't take him. Please don't do this."
He didn't know who he was begging. Heaven. Hell. Fate. Some long-forgotten god.
"Take anything else…"
He whispered hoarsely, voice shaking.
"Take me. Take everything I built. Just—please—don't take him."
His knees nearly buckled when the defibrillator pads were placed.
"Clear!"
Yao Ziyang's body jumped.
Still no pulse.
Dong Yingming staggered forward, lips trembling.
"Please…"
He whispered again, raw and broken.
"You can hate me. You can never look at me again. But please—wake up."
And then—
"I've got a pulse!"
A medic cried.
"We're good—he's breathing, shallow but steady!"
"GO!"
The doors slammed. Sirens screamed to life.
Dong Yingming had climbed in beside the stretcher without permission, gripping the metal rail with one hand and his lover's hand with the other, eyes wide, jaw clenched tight against the chaos inside him.
His chest still hurt from the terror.
But Yao Ziyang's fingers, even now, were faintly warm.
And that was enough to keep him from falling apart.
The ambulance peeled out of the prison courtyard, into the night, tearing toward the hospital with everything Dong Yingming had ever cared about in the world laying broken but alive right in front of him.
And he swore again—if the boy lived, he would never, ever let him suffer alone again.
In mere minutes, the emergency lights of the medical van flickered against the tall steel gates of the private hospital, casting jittering shadows over the tiled lobby as Yao Ziyang was rushed inside on a wheeled stretcher. His skin was pale, but the worst of the poison-like sweat had already been cleared on the ride over, with Miao Ruiming and Zhang Wei, who was sent over by car, working side by side to keep his vitals stable.
Inside the pristine white halls, the soft murmur of medical staff layered over the subtle mechanical hum of the machines. Everything smelled of disinfectant and cool metal.
Miao Ruiming and Zhang Wei swept into the restricted care ward with the medical team, directing nurses and rattling off dosage instructions like twin commanders on a battlefield. Their movements were sharp, purposeful. Zhang Wei moved with an old soldier's steadiness, while Miao Ruiming's precise hands barely trembled even as he demanded a full-body scan and rapid liver and lung assessments.
Meanwhile, Dong Yingming, still in a hastily fastened shirt and dark trousers, stormed toward the entry of the ward, every muscle in his body coiled with tension.
He didn't make it more than three steps into the corridor before a nurse held up a hand to block him.
"I'm sorry, sir. Restricted access. Only medical staff or family members are allowed beyond this point."
Dong Yingming blinked slowly, as though he hadn't heard her correctly.
"Move."
The nurse's tone remained polite, but firm.
"Sir, please understand—this is for the safety of the patient. You can wait in the family lounge. The doctors will give you updates as soon as—"
"I said, move."
His voice sharpened, low and dangerous.
He made to step past her, but just as the temperature of the air shifted, Chang Xiao's arm slid in between them.
"Boss Dong."
Chang Xiao's voice was calm, but full of quiet authority.
"Not here."
Dong Yingming's eyes flicked to him, burning with fury.
"They're keeping me out."
"I know. And I don't like it either."
Chang Xiao gently pulled him back a step.
"But right now, he's got the best people he could possibly have working on him. You got him here in time. Don't mess that up by losing your temper."
Dong Yingming clenched his jaw. The nurse, clearly rattled, moved away with a short bow and disappeared through the ward doors.
Left standing outside, Dong Yingming's hands balled into fists at his sides.
"I shouldn't have fallen asleep. If I'd been awake… if I hadn't—"
"Stop that."
Chang Xiao's voice was firm, but not unkind.
"You stayed with him for days. You fought to get Master Miao here. You carried him to the hospital yourself. You didn't fail him, Boss. You saved him."
Dong Yingming didn't respond. He just stared at the sterile white doors as though trying to burn a hole through them with his eyes.
Chang Xiao reached out and put a steadying hand on his shoulder.
"Come on. Waiting room's this way."