Using his tongue, he parts Yao Ziyang's lips and allows some of the liquid medicine to funnel its way through. As time passed, Dong Yingming managed to feed all the herbal decoction to Yao Ziyang without spilling a drop.
Yao Ziyang's skin was pale, tinged with the faintest flush from lingering fever, and his dark lashes rested against his cheeks, damp with sweat. Outside the barred window, faint light filtered through—once seemed so dull, early gray now is lively and bright. Inside, the prison walls offered no warmth, no softness.
Until he came back.
Yao Ziyang curled beneath the blanket, his breathing slow, his body still aching faintly from the fever, from movement, from everything. But his heart—his heart felt strangely full.
Outside the room, the prison was the same as ever: cold walls, concrete floors, rusted bars that groaned in protest when touched. The corridors echoed with distant shouting, keys clinking, boots striking the ground like warnings. It was a place made to strip a person bare—of comfort, of hope, of anything soft.
But here, in this small room, he felt warmth.
Not from the blankets. Not from the herbal decoction. From him.
Dong Yingming didn't say much. He never needed to. But his actions said everything the boy hadn't realized he was starving for. The way he pulled the covers up to his chest without a word. The way his hands, so capable of violence, had touched him like he might break. The way he stayed.
Yao Ziyang's eyes fluttered open, gaze drifting to where Dong Yingming now sat at the edge of the bed again—shirt slightly wrinkled, dark hair, a little tousled, staring down at him like he was watching over something more valuable than territory or money.
And maybe, in this space, for just this moment, he was.
Yao Ziyang exhaled slowly and let his fingers drift toward the man's hand, lacing them together without asking. Dong Yingming didn't pull away.
'In this cold and lonely place,'
Yao Ziyang thought,
'He gave me warmth.'
Not just in the way he held him. But in the safety, he felt being by his side. The presence. The feeling of being wanted—even if it's for usefulness, or for amusement, he wouldn't complain as Yao Ziyang knew that was merely how the author made Dong Yingming be but it didn't stop him from wearing his heart on his sleeve for the only character he felt a connection to.
Was this love?
He hadn't felt that in a long time.
He closed his eyes again, heart racing, cheek pressed against Dong Yingming's palm where it now rested. And for the first time since arriving in this hellhole of a storybook, he allowed himself to believe—just a little—that maybe he wasn't entirely alone.
The room was dimly lit, golden afternoon light slipping through the barred window like a silent witness. The scent of bitter herbs still lingered in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of clean sweat and cotton sheets. The tray of food had gone cold moments ago, but the warmth remained—in the blankets, in the quiet, in the eyes of the man who sat watching.
Dong Yingming sat beside Yao Ziyang on the bed, one hand interlace, while the other carefully caressed and patted the youths tender head. His sleeves were rolled up, veins taut under tanned skin, but his usual steel-hardened stare was softened now by something quieter. Gentler.
On the bed, where Yao Ziyang lay, it could be seen his lips weren't as pale anymore. His breathing came easier. The fever that had clung to him for days had finally broken, thanks to the potent herbal decoction that is mixed with the magical healing spiritual spring water—provided by the female lead Ming Liuyi.
Now, his eyes fluttered open—still heavy-lidded and glassy but clearer. There was a flicker of confusion, then recognition.
"You…"
He whispered, voice hoarse and dry.
Dong Yingming leaned forward slightly, the springs of the mattress creaking beneath him.
"Yeah. Me."
Yao Ziyang shifted, wincing at the ache still pulsing in his bones. His fingers clutched the blanket tighter, like he was just now realizing he was safe.
Dong Yingming exhaled, slow and controlled. While patting his head, he took the opportunity to check Yao Ziyang's temperature. It had significantly decreased as if he was just about cured!
"You're better. Not well, but better."
His eyes scanned the boy's face, noting the lessened flush, the absence of sweat beading on his brow.
"That stuff that quack brought—filthy as it smelled— really worked wonders."
Yao Ziyang blinked slowly, head sinking back into the pillow.
"Still tired…"
"You'll be tired for a while. Your body's been through hell."
Dong Yingming muttered. Then, after a beat, added more quietly,
"You scared the shit out of me."
Yao Ziyang blinked again as if unsure whether he'd imagined the softness in that voice. Maybe he had.
Dong Yingming stood up, looming beside the bed, but not with menace—just presence. His hand hovered for a moment before settling gently against Yao Ziyang's damp hair, brushing it back with surprising care.
"Rest. A few more days and you'll be back to your old self again. I'll come back with lunch."
There was the ghost of a smile on Yao Ziyang's lips as his eyes drifted shut. He felt warm. Not burning with fever—but warm, safe, and wrapped in something unspoken.
And for the first time in days, Dong Yingming allowed himself to exhale fully.
And for the first time in days, Dong Yingming allowed himself to exhale fully. He got himself to pull away from his ill lover and goes towards the door.
Opening it, his aura switched from gentle to fierce the moment he stepped out. His sharp eyes landed on the three men and elder lined up along the wall of the corridor doing what he commanded.
Zhao Heng and Zhang Wei were beginning to dampen their clothes with sweat. Wei Jiang and Chen Bo, on the other hand, still looked calm and relaxed, as if the 2 hours of horse stance was nothing but a warm-up to them. Chang Xiao stood across from them, close to the door but not eavesdropping, merely keeping watch and ensuring the men did as they were told.
Dong Yingming swept his gaze across the men. The seconds of silence feeling like hours. The air tensed, and even Chen Bo shrunk back, not daring to draw attention to himself.
Smack.
Then, without warning, a rough hand makes contact to the back of Chen Bo's head.
"Ouch!"
"That's for standing by and not stopping their nonsense. Go."
Chen Bo didn't stick around after getting permission to leave and bolted down the hallway. The same hand then curled into a fist and slammed into Wei Jiang's stomach.
"Cough, cough!"
"That's for looking at Yao Ziyang's body and preventing this mess in the first place. I expected more from you. Go and bring back a fresh meal."
Wei Jiang doubled over in pain for a moment before straightening up once more. With a hand over his abdomen, he gives a slight nod and begins to make his way towards the ground floor. His pace is not too fast nor too slow. However, he doesn't complain the whole way.
Seeing as it was his turn next, Zhao Heng began to shake. He could handle a few hits. However, he did not like pain and was trying to find the words to get him out of the mess he caused. Whilst thinking, it was already too late.
Zhao Heng didn't dare meet Dong Yingming's eyes as he shoved the trembling man to his knees in the dim corridor. The only decent light came from a single flickering bulb overhead, casting harsh shadows across the walls.
Dong Yingming stood overtop Zhao Heng, sleeves rolled up, top shirt button undone. He was silent. Still. But the air around him was dense—a pressure like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks.
Zhao Heng tried to speak.
"Boss, I—I didn't know—"
The crack of the backhand sent teeth flying.
"You stripped him."
Dong Yingming said, voice low and controlled. Too controlled.
"A boy burning with fever, barely able to move. You placed your hands on him."
Zhao Heng whimpered.
"I was just following orders—"
Dong Yingming crouched, slowly, until he was eye-level with the man.
"You don't touch what's mine. Not unless you want to lose what's yours."
Then, without another word, he stood and took the crowbar Chang Xiao offered to him.
Zhao Heng's begging started then—pathetic, choked, incoherent. Chang Xiao and Zhang Wei stepped back, pale face but expressionless. They knew better than to interfere.
The first break came fast. A sickening snap as Dong Yingming brought the bar down across Zhao Heng's right forearm, shattering bone with precision. Zhao Heng screamed, falling sideways, cradling the limb instinctively even as it bent wrong beneath his fingers.
The second strike was slower—personal. Dong Yingming stared into Zhao Heng's tear-soaked face as he raised the crowbar again. No warning. No hesitation. Just justice.
The left arm broke at the elbow, bone ripping through skin.
Zhao Heng howled.
"You touched him like he was nothing."
Dong Yingming said coldly, stepping back as blood began pooling beneath Zhao Heng's crumpled form.
"So now your arms are nothing."
He tossed the crowbar to the floor. It clanged against concrete and settled beside the broken man like a discarded thought.
Dong Yingming turned to Chang Xiao and Zhang Wei.
"Leave him somewhere no one will find him for a while. No painkillers. Let him remember every scream."
As they dragged Zhao Heng away, Dong Yingming wiped his hands on a towel Chang Xiao prepared beforehand, the heat of fury still pulsing in his jaw. But beneath the violence was something colder—protective. Possessive.
Because no one laid a hand on his man and walked away whole.
Outside, Wei Jiang pauses for a moment, staring down the hallway with a heavy breath. He had witnessed the brutal 'lesson' Zhao Heng received but didn't have much of a reaction. Peace must be kept — for now. But the storm is far from over.
After waiting for a moment, Wei Jiang approached Dong Yingming with an unreadable expression. He calmly handed over the new tray with chicken congee and golden milk. Fresh and steaming warm. On the side was a plate of chicken and turkey sandwich with a bowl of pumpkin soup.
Dong Yingming takes the tray then turns back towards the door while speaking, to Wei Jiang, without looking back:
"Leave. Now."
Wei Jiang hesitates. Then, without another word, Dong Yingming slips past Wei Jiang and shuts the door, the heavy silence following him like a shadow.
As the door shuts, Wei Jiang exhales — the sound almost pained — and he kneels onto the concrete floors.
…
Inside, Dong Yingming walks over to place the food on the nightstand near the resting Yao Ziyang. He kneels by the bedside but doesn't touch Yao Ziyang, just looks at him with something gentler behind the anger now.
"He won't do that again."
He says quietly.
"Not while I'm here."
But even as he says it, his hands are still clenched in his lap — knuckles white — still holding back everything he couldn't unleash.