Thank you so much, Yartizt & Mystic, for the ko-fis!!! :blobaww:

Zhu Ming’s breath was slightly heated. In an instant, his heart felt as if it had sunk into soft, warm clouds.

Hearing someone who had always preferred to avoid facing his own emotions—whose words were even harder than titanium—confess so directly was undeniably shocking.

It was as if he had finally revealed the deepest, most unspoken secret buried in his heart. Without any hesitation, Xi Xianqing looked directly into Zhu Ming’s eyes and said, “So, Zhu Ming, I don’t want to continue this assessment anymore.”

Zhu Ming’s chest tightened abruptly, unable to untangle the causal links between everything.

He instinctively raised his hand to grasp Xi Xianqing’s sleeve. “Why? Do you lack inspiration? But you have to draw, even if—”

Xi Xianqing shook his head and interrupted, “I won’t draw.”

“I know what you’re going to say—that even without inspiration, I can force myself to create a piece.” Xi Xianqing’s gaze was deep as he continued after a long pause, “But right now, it’s not that I can’t draw—I don’t want to.”

“A work of art requires emotions and devotion to be created. Shen Ying and Ji Rong’s shared past, Feng Jiachi and Tan Yu’s years of love—every stroke I draw is a reflection of my understanding and empathy for their life stories.”

Xi Xianqing stared at Zhu Ming’s face for a long time. “I can’t convince myself to create a piece that praises the so-called achievements of a sanctimonious man who exploits students, pursues status and power by any means necessary, and even—”

“Even a potential murderer who could render his own son unable to walk.” He took a deep breath and finally chose to continue. “I won’t design and create a work that glorifies his deeds.”

The color drained from Zhu Ming’s face, bit by bit.

He stood frozen in place. After a long time, his eyelashes trembled slightly. “Aren’t you supposed to be creating this for the Chief of District Seven…?”

“The current Chief of District Seven, Ruan Min, is just a puppet,” Xi Xianqing shook his head. “He gave this opportunity to his mentor, Qin Weisheng—the one truly pulling the strings behind the scenes.”

This was actually the first time they had formally discussed the District Seven evaluation face-to-face.

Zhu Ming might have known the name Ruan Min—after all, he was the nominal Chief of District Seven—but logically speaking, he shouldn’t have had any impression of the name Qin Weisheng.

Yet, the moment those three syllables were spoken, Xi Xianqing saw Zhu Ming’s pupils tremble imperceptibly. That was when he knew—his guess had been correct.

“Zhu Ming, from the very beginning, you refused to accompany me to the District Seven evaluation.” Xi Xianqing’s voice trembled faintly. “Was it not just because you didn’t want to face those people from the Research Institute, but also because—”

That rare Thousand-Star Tangerine, the fact that it too was a fox-type spiritual manifestation, and the information Ye Lu had gathered over the past few days—all of it had made the answer in Xi Xianqing’s heart clearer than ever.

But as he gazed at Zhu Ming’s pale face and realized the harm his next words would bring, he forcibly swallowed them back down, choosing instead to remain silent as he stared into Zhu Ming’s eyes.

A long time passed before he saw Zhu Ming nod. “Yes.”

“He probably knows my name, knows that I studied at T University, knows that I was the only one to achieve a perfect score in the medical exam, and knows that I was once in the running for Chief Researcher.”

Zhu Ming spoke softly. “But the one thing he doesn’t know is that I share this kind of connection with him.”

Xi Xianqing felt an unbearable tightness in his chest, to the point that he could barely make a sound. “When did you…”

He couldn’t even finish the question, because everything implied by it was far too heavy, too dramatic. So much so that even if Zhu Ming chose to evade, to refuse to answer, Xi Xianqing would have completely understood.

Yet, after a moment of quiet contemplation, Zhu Ming lifted his gaze and, surprisingly, gave Xi Xianqing a faint smile.

It seemed like relief, like nonchalance. But Xi Xianqing knew—Zhu Ming had always been this way, habitually curving his eyes into a smile, the expression light yet never truly reaching their depths. It was nothing more than the mask he had long used to conceal his true thoughts.

“After the car accident that year, I found out,” he said.

To outsiders, Zhu Manman—Zhu Yingying’s delicate and reserved older sister—had made many unwise choices.

—Unwisely choosing the niche field of botany, unwisely having a fleeting romance with an unknown man, and, in the end, most unwisely insisting on giving birth to Zhu Ming.

At six months pregnant, she was diagnosed with cancer. By the time she gave birth to Zhu Ming, the cancer had already spread uncontrollably.

Before passing away, she left behind a birthday gift for Zhu Ming for every year of his life—one gift per year, each accompanied by a letter, all the way until he come of age.

There were many gifts: flower seeds stored in small embroidered pouches, tiny socks she had hand-knitted and embroidered with a little white fox, and the first engraved fountain pen that every child in District Seven received from their parents when they started formal schooling.

Though she couldn’t personally give him these gifts, Zhu Manman tried her best to remain a part of the important moments in Zhu Ming’s life. She had even anticipated that he would be exceptionally intelligent and specially prepared gifts for when he skipped grades.

On Zhu Ming’s 18th birthday, he received the last birthday gift from Zhu Manman—a small diary.

It was evident that this diary, like the previous letters, had been written by Zhu Manman while she was holding on in her final days. When eighteen-year-old Zhu Ming opened it, he found that she still addressed him the same way she had in the very first letter she had left for him all those years ago—calling him “Baby.”

“Baby, you’ve grown up.”

Zhu Manman wrote in the diary: “Mom once thought it might be better to keep this a secret. But then I realized—you have a long life ahead of you, and you have the right to know who he is.”

Zhu Manman never revealed the man’s name, keeping all details vague.

She portrayed the story as short and beautiful. Through them, Zhu Ming learned that his father had been a university professor—an outstanding, gifted man.

Their first meeting had been a brief conversation about the cultivation of Thousand-Star Tangerine. The other party had never known Zhu Manman’s name and had likely long forgotten that conversation.

But for the young Zhu Manman, it marked the beginning of an unspoken, one-sided crush—one that she entered with full awareness. She knew he was a professor, and she was a student. Their story was one that could never work out.

Then, one night at a banquet hosted by the academy, Zhu Manman unexpectedly encountered him again—this time, drunk. On that summer night, with the sound of cicadas failing to mask the tremor in her heart, Zhu Manman made a choice. She used a false name and allowed herself to sink into that fleeting moment.

When morning came, she chose to walk away. The other party never sought her out either—perhaps because they both understood that their lives were meant to remain parallel, never meant to intersect. Returning to their original paths was the best choice for both of them.

What Zhu Manman had never expected was that, from that one night, Zhu Ming would come into existence.

At the end of her diary, Zhu Manman wrote an apology to both Zhu Ming and Zhu Yingying. She said she knew she should have made amends for her selfishness, but her life had turned out to be shorter than she had imagined. In this lifetime, she wouldn’t be able to repay them for much.

On the final page of the diary, there was a small, clipped-out photograph from a publication, a side profile of a refined, scholarly man—Yes, they didn’t even have a single photo together.

For the little Zhu Ming at the time, this diary and that picture didn’t give him the complete family he longed for, but they still meant a great deal.

He learned that his father had never deliberately abandoned him—he simply never knew of his existence. And in Zhu Manman’s words, his father had been an exceptional researcher.

This also gave Zhu Ming a lot of motivation—Though Zhu Ming possessed an extraordinary talent that set him apart, District Seven was a world filled with geniuses. The grueling years he spent enduring at the research institute—day after day, night after night—were all sustained by his desire to repay Zhu Yingying and the words left behind in that small diary.

Of course, Zhu Ming had always known that the man likely had a family and a new life by now. That was why he had never tried to seek him out, nor had he ever wanted to know his name.

He held onto a quiet hope—that one day, in the future, they might cross paths at a lecture or an academic conference. Even if only in passing.

Just exchanging a simple greeting as a stranger would be enough.

But Zhu Ming never could have imagined that he would learn Qin Weisheng’s name in such a way.

Later, many people asked him how the car accident had happened. Zhu Ming would always respond with a faint smile, saying it was just bad luck—that he had encountered a driver suffering from fatigue. Even when Xi Xianqing had sensed something was wrong, Zhu Ming had brushed it off lightly, saying there was no need to overthink it. Perhaps it truly had just been an accident.

But from the very first moment he regained consciousness after the coma, Zhu Ming had been certain—this was no simple accident.

It was too much of a coincidence for it to happen just before the final round of the Chief Researcher selection. It was too strange that the police had suddenly become evasive.

So, he began his own investigation, step by step. Yet, there were too many people who envied his talent—even narrowing it down to just those within the research institute had been an arduous task.

Half a year passed this way. By then, he had no choice but to accept that he would never walk again. Forced to learn how to use a wheelchair, forced to come to terms with the reality of spending the rest of his life with a half-paralyzed body—only then did he finally trace everything back to Ruan Min.

From there, he dug deeper, uncovering the research team from K University that had backed Ruan Min. He sifted through one person after another until, at last, he arrived at the name Qin Weisheng.

That night, he trembled as he looked at Qin Weisheng’s face on K University’s official website. Beside him lay Zhu Manman’s old diary, its pages open, the small photo within worn at the edges from years of his touch.

He hadn’t wanted to believe it. He had clung to the faint hope that it was just a resemblance—that perhaps the photo had aged too much, distorting reality.

But with every new piece of information he uncovered about Qin Weisheng, the details aligned ever more closely with the biological father described in the diary.

Then, Zhu Ming found a video recording of Qin Weisheng’s university lecture from years ago. He watched as Qin Weisheng stood on stage, full of ambition and eloquence, and at his feet—stood his red fox spiritual manifestation. At that moment, Zhu Ming suddenly found life incredibly absurd. So absurd it was almost laughable.

In that instant, he realized that, in the hands of fate, he was nothing more than a tiny, insignificant pebble—one that could be toyed with without dignity, turned over and over, and then, in the very next moment, be hurled mercilessly to the ground, shattering into countless pieces.

Zhu Yingying had thought that his collapse back then was because of his legs. Zhou Zhou had believed that he had given up on scientific research because of the betrayal from those at the institute.

But only Zhu Ming knew—the most fatal blow had come from his own biological father, the man to whom he was bound by blood.

“At the time, I kept thinking—why did it have to be such a coincidence? Why did it have to be so dog-blooded? Why was it him? And why did it have to be me?”

A faint smile tugged at Zhu Ming’s lips. “Later, I figured it out. Fate isn’t something that can be explained. Life doesn’t always follow a plan. Compared to others, maybe I was just a little less lucky.”

He was still smiling, as if by keeping the corners of his mouth lifted, he could somehow offset all the bitterness behind his words.

“I know you don’t want to make this piece for him because you care about me. You don’t want him to receive that kind of honor.”

Zhu Ming looked at his face. “But most of the time, life isn’t about making choices based on passion or justice alone. The most rational decisions come from calmly assessing the situation and looking at the bigger picture before acting.”

Xi Xianqing stared at his face and said, “Zhu Ming…”

“Xi Xianqing, if you had been just another patient, and if I had only ever seen our relationship as an agreement, then I wouldn’t have divorced you.”

Zhu Ming didn’t give him a chance to continue. His voice trembled despite himself. “Because if that were the case, then your success, your future, and your life would have nothing to do with me.”

“But it’s precisely because you matter to me—your dedication for so many years, your feelings for your sister, and because I understand exactly why you’re struggling right now.”

Zhu Ming’s eyes burned, his blood boiled all over his body, and his breath came hot, so hot that his vision blurred. But he forced himself to keep his eyes wide open, trying to see Xi Xianqing’s face clearly. “I don’t need you to think about who Qin Weisheng is. I don’t need you to fight for my sake right now. I just want you to complete this assessment and fulfill your own dream—because right now, that’s what matters most to me.”

“So… can you not give up on this assessment? Can you keep drawing and fighting for what belongs to you? Please?” he asked.

The voice had clearly come from Zhu Ming’s throat, yet for a moment, he felt as if his own words sounded distant and indistinct as if they were coming from somewhere far away.

He lifted his head and found Xi Xianqing staring intently at him, lips slightly parted but saying nothing.

Zhu Ming wanted to ask—why was Xi Xianqing looking at him strangely like that? Why hadn’t he responded for so long? He was saying something important.

However, in the next second, Zhu Ming saw Xi Xianqing raise his hand.

—He felt his face being cupped in Xi Xianqing’s palms, his chin gently tilted upward, and then he felt the dry pads of Xi Xianqing’s fingertips brush across his cheek.

“…Don’t cry, Zhu Ming.” He heard Xi Xianqing say this.

Cry? Who was crying?

He blinked in confusion as if he didn’t understand what Xi Xianqing meant.

Raising a hand to his face, he finally realized—at some unknown moment, warm tears had already streamed down his cheeks.

Every time a tear slipped down, Xi Xianqing would wipe it away, but they wouldn’t stop. And in the end, he couldn’t bear to see Zhu Ming cry any longer.

So he reached out his hand and directly took the person in front of him into his arms.

Why was he crying? With his cheek pressed against the warmth of the young man’s chest, Zhu Ming thought blankly—he hadn’t cried when he got into the accident, hadn’t cried when he thought he’d never walk again, hadn’t even cried when he found out who Qin Weisheng was.

Why was he crying in Xi Xianqing’s arms at this time?

But emotions weren’t something one could pull back the moment they wanted to. He wanted to explain himself, but when he opened his mouth, his voice came out so broken it was barely comprehensible. “I don’t know why I’m crying, I just—”

From above, he heard Xi Xianqing’s voice. “I know.”

Zhu Ming was tempted to ask, I don’t even know myself, so how could you know? But in the next moment, he felt Xi Xianqing’s hand settle on his shoulder, whispering beside his ear, like a quiet promise. “I promise you, I’ll complete this final assessment piece.”

Zhu Ming didn’t say anything else—suddenly, he no longer felt embarrassed. In fact, he felt like crying had been worth it.

Resting his face sideways against Xi Xianqing’s firm, broad shoulder for a while, Zhu Ming sniffled and then, a little worried, added, “Not just finishing it. You have to take it seriously, and design it properly. No scribbling.”

The young man above him was silent for a long time before finally, as if gritting his teeth, he promised, “…Alright. I’ll draw it seriously.”

Only then did Zhu Ming let out a soft breath. His head nudged slightly against Xi Xianqing’s chest, and the warmth of his lingering tears slowly seeped into the fabric of Xi Xianqing’s shirt.

After a moment, Xi Xianqing hesitated. His hand hovered in the air for a while before finally landing lightly on Zhu Ming’s head, fingers brushing through his hair in a soft, hesitant caress.

A long time passed before the person in his arms murmured, “Xi Xianqing.”

His voice was thick with emotion, and the ending note stretched out just slightly, making it sound almost like he was acting spoiled. Something stirred silently in Xi Xianqing’s chest. The hand on Zhu Ming’s head retracted as if nothing had happened. “Hmm?”

“Your pecs are pretty firm.”

“…”

Zhu Ming still didn’t lift his head, his face continued to be buried against Xi Xianqing’s chest. “How much did this shirt cost? I think I might keep crying for a while, but I don’t really want you to see. Can I bury my face here a little longer?”

After a moment, he heard Xi Xianqing say, “It’s fine.”

Zhu Ming was quiet for a while as if weighing whether “it’s fine” meant the shirt was expensive or not. He struggled to lift his head. “It’s not actually really expensive, right? I think I caught a glimpse of some engraving on the buttons. Maybe I should switch to another…”

—A large hand pressed his head firmly back against Xi Xianqing’s chest.

“Just cry,” came the voice from above. “I don’t lack it.”

Author’s Notes:

The ever-cheerful little fox shed tiny pearls, and the big peac0ck clumsily offered his strong chest muscles for comfort!

Babies with the book signings + the start of the school term + jet lag made me struggle a bit these days. After wrapping up this final plot point, we’ll have some sweetness, and then the story will be nearing its end. I want to handle everything carefully and properly, so if I can’t update, I’ll leave a notice in the comments section in advance oh. Sorry about that~

Jie Jie: This chapter was posted last October 5, 2024. So, the author was busy that time. No worries, the novel is completed—for the main text. There’s an update for an extra chapter last month. Let’s see if there’ll be more extras as days go by!