The Real Young Master is Entangled by the Paranoid Fake Young Master - Chapter 10

The room was filled with a faint, lingering fragrance mixed with the sharp scent of medicine. Zhaoqing let out a silent sigh. He hadn’t expected that after all his struggling, he would end up right back here.

He sat on the edge of the bed, attempting to rotate his wrist to get some blood flowing, but the person gripping him was like iron, refusing to leave even the slightest gap. Frustrated and restless after a series of failed attempts, Zhaoqing slapped the culprit’s arm hard. A distinct red mark immediately bloomed on the other boy’s pale skin.

After the storm at the hospital, Zhaoqing hadn’t been sent to the secondary villa. Instead, he had been locked inside Song Yuening’s room. For the past few days, he had been confined with this “little freak.”

Servants hovered by the door at all times to prevent him from escaping, and his meals were brought in by specialized staff. Even showering was a logistical nightmare; he could only manage it during the brief windows when Song Yuening was fully unconscious. However, Song Yuening’s room was massive, equipped with its own bathroom and vanity. Still, if Zhaoqing was gone for too long, Yuening would start to fuss.

In short, these few days had been a blur of messiness, irritation, and humiliation for Zhaoqing.

Song Shicheng hadn’t kept Zhaoqing here out of any sudden fatherly love. It was because ever since Song Yuening had briefly woken up to stop Song Zhiyuan’s punch and fainted again, his memory had fallen into a state of severe chaos.

The doctors explained that while Yuening was out of the woods, a portion of his memory had been lost. Whether those memories would return, or to what extent, remained to be seen. Zhaoqing finally understood that when Yuening had run out to find him at the hospital, he wasn’t fully recovered; he was merely experiencing a moment of “lucid mania.”

Currently, though Yuening was stable enough to recover at home, he drifted between sleep and wakefulness. Even during his brief moments of consciousness, his memory was often scrambled. The doctors assured the family this was normal and that he would stabilize within a week or two. In the meantime, he might misidentify people or fail to recognize familiar faces.

It was exactly as the doctors said. Yuening went through cycles of waking and sleeping, and Zhaoqing became the primary victim of his unstable memory. During his lucid moments, Yuening’s personality underwent a drastic shift; he was hostile toward the Song family, becoming agitated whenever they approached. He only calmed down when he saw Zhaoqing.

He had become pathologically dependent on Zhaoqing. Even in sleep, he would death-grip Zhaoqing’s wrist to prevent him from leaving, even though he seemed to have forgotten exactly who Zhaoqing was.

Because of this, the Songs had temporarily put the “disobedient son” issue on the back burner. They treated Zhaoqing like air, ignoring him while simultaneously guarding him. For now, Zhaoqing’s role in the household was that of Song Yuening’s “comfort pacifier,” a human plushie sitting at the bedside with nothing to do.

I’m so sick of this, Zhaoqing thought furiously. The genius Song Yuening and the idiot Song Yuening are equally annoying. This guy was born to be my nemesis.

He truly suspected Yuening was just finding a new way to torture him. Or perhaps this was some kind of “compliance test.” Otherwise, where did a sickly person get this much strength?!

Staring at Yuening’s handsome sleeping face, Zhaoqing felt a wave of boredom. His thoughts began to drift, and his gaze involuntarily wandered downward.

This kid looks so weak, surely he doesn’t have abs?

Zhaoqing cautiously placed his free hand on Yuening’s stomach. I’ll just take one look. It should be fine, he told himself. He knew it was a bit unseemly, but he was genuinely curious.

However, when his hand actually made contact with Yuening’s abdomen, he was slightly shocked. In this sickly state, he actually has abs?!

Zhaoqing felt personally attacked. He could only comfort himself with the thought that Yuening ate and dressed well in the Song house, never had to eat spoiled food or do hard labor, so it wasn’t surprising he was fit.

After mulling over it for a while, Zhaoqing prepared to pull his hand away. Suddenly, his skin crawled. He looked up and met Song Yuening’s half-open eyes.

Zhaoqing gasped. No matter how thick-skinned he was, he couldn’t help but whisper a quick “sorry” and try to yank his hand back.

To his surprise, Yuening only gave him a lethargic look, grabbed his hand, and pressed it firmly back onto his abs. Then, he closed his eyes and drifted back into a coma.

This little freak is going to give me a heart attack!

Zhaoqing breathed a sigh of relief once he realized the boy wasn’t fully awake. But after that scare, he noticed several abrasions on Yuening’s arm, wounds that looked newer and more difficult to heal than the others. He suddenly remembered the arm Yuening had hidden behind his back after stopping Song Zhiyuan.

Did he get those then?

Zhaoqing thought for a moment and eventually pulled out a jar of ointment given to him by Grandpa Zhou, an old doctor from the slums. The ointment was black and smelled strongly of herbs; it stung like hell when applied, but it was incredibly effective. Zhaoqing remembered how, after every fight, he’d go to Grandpa Zhou’s clinic instead of home. The old man would buy him beef noodles and lecture him about fighting while applying this very ointment.

In his past life, before he even returned to the Songs, Lin Qi had told him Yuening was sickly. On his first night at the estate, Zhaoqing had summoned his courage and knocked on Yuening’s door.

That was the first time he had seen Yuening’s room. Unlike his own windowless cubicle at the gambler’s house, this room had soaring ceilings like a cathedral and a layout like a king’s palace. Song Yuening was the prince of this palace.

Zhaoqing had walked through the cold, lifeless suite, his eyes lingering on the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. He hadn’t read most of those books, but he was envious of their beautiful covers. He once had a book of his own, the only one that wasn’t a tattered hand-me-down from his “brother,” Chen Lian. It was a hardcover copy of The Little Prince, a reward for winning a long-distance race in primary school. He had cherished it, hiding it under his covers to read, until the day his adoptive father dragged him from bed in a drunken rage and tore it to shreds.

“It smells so good in here,” the young Zhaoqing had said, following behind Yuening. He was captivated by the subtle fragrance in the room.

Yuening loved silence. Since no one was around and he didn’t need to act, he didn’t want to speak. Hearing Zhaoqing, he only offered a lazy, dismissive reply: “Good? It smells like medicine in here.”

“No,” Zhaoqing had shaken his head. “It really smells nice.”

Back then, he was too innocent to realize that Yuening hated the constant smell of medicine, so he burned incense every few days and secretly sprayed perfume on his clothes. Even someone as arrogant as Yuening had moments of midnight despair where he loathed his frail body. He hated it, and he was terrified of anyone discovering that hatred.

The innocent Zhaoqing hadn’t known that his simple comment, “It really smells nice,” had caused the first wave of panic in Yuening’s heart. Yuening was afraid of being seen, afraid of people discovering that the “Chosen One” had a weak and powerless side. He wasn’t trying to deceive others; he was trying to deceive himself.

But could the all-powerful Song Yuening really want to deceive himself?

The thirty-year-old Yuening might not, but the sixteen-year-old Yuening certainly did.

Being an “intruder” who had accidentally touched a nerve, Zhaoqing’s first attempt at kindness in the past life was a total failure. The sixteen-year-old Yuening, fully conscious, had coldly rejected the ointment.

Yet in this life, the sixteen-year-old Yuening, unconscious, was “forced” to accept Zhaoqing’s medicine. Zhaoqing smiled bitterly. Destiny is a cruel joke.

After applying the ointment, Zhaoqing’s gaze drifted to a gap at the top of the bookshelf. There sat an exquisite glass bottle filled with a purple liquid. This was the perfume Yuening used most often; Zhaoqing knew its name was Letters from the Abyss. Irony of ironies, he had first learned the name from the mouth of his ex, Xie Chengxuan. To care enough to recognize a person’s specific scent… it spoke volumes of how much Xie Chengxuan had actually cared about Yuening.

At the time, Zhaoqing had been oblivious, thinking it was just a casual mention. The liquid in the bottle looked like a witch’s brew, possessing a mysterious, abyss-like attraction. Zhaoqing stared at it, lost in thought, and his hand inadvertently pressed down harder on Yuening’s wound.

Even in sleep, Yuening’s brow furrowed in pain from the sting of the ointment.

Sting away, you deserve it, Zhaoqing thought. Who knows how many times you sabotaged me behind my back? Despite the thought, his movements lightened considerably.

He wondered what kind of miracle medicine the Songs had found for this bastard after sending him to Country E in the past life. When he returned years later, his frailty was gone; he was taller than Zhaoqing and far stronger. It was hard to believe he was the same “sickly child.”

Zhaoqing didn’t know how Yuening recovered. He only knew Yuening was born lucky. When he was sick, Zhaoqing had to accommodate him. When he got better, Zhaoqing still lost to him.

Like when the young Zhaoqing wanted to grow flowers, but the Songs ordered him to rip them all up because they feared Yuening’s allergies. Or the dog, Zhaoqing really did want to keep a dog. He had even hidden a puppy by the back wall of the estate. Three months later, Song Zhiyuan found it because Yuening had a sudden relapse after sitting in the garden. The Old Madam had slapped Zhaoqing, screaming that he had brought a “filthy” animal into the house specifically to kill Yuening.

He never saw that puppy again.

When will I have my own garden? When will I have a dog that belongs to me?

A wave of exhaustion hit Zhaoqing. He leaned against the bed, his movements stopping as he closed his eyes. In his dream, he was in a utopia. There was a garden that belonged to him, with puppies chasing butterflies. He stood by a fence, and someone called his name from behind. He turned, but no one was there, only a breeze tickling his face.

Zhaoqing tried to brush the “breeze” away, but it was persistent. He woke up in the middle of the struggle.

He opened his eyes and looked directly into a pair of beautiful, cold, glass-like eyes.

“You’re… Song Zhaoqing, right?” Yuening’s voice was hoarse from his long sleep.

Zhaoqing showed no emotion, neither surprise nor fear. He met Yuening’s gaze with total calm. After a moment of silence, Zhaoqing realized that the tumultuous obsession and infatuation in Yuening’s eyes were gone. He wasn’t looking at Zhaoqing like a stranger, but the intense heat from the moment of rebirth had vanished.

It was as if a different soul had been placed back into Yuening’s body.

Zhaoqing was momentarily dazed by those deep, unfamiliar eyes. Seeing that Zhaoqing wasn’t speaking, Yuening was the first to break the silence.

“You’ve been the one taking care of me these past few days, haven’t you? Thank you very much.”

Yuening spoke politely, but his clear, detached eyes held zero gratitude. In an instant, they were back to being strangers. He’s truly regained his senses this time, Zhaoqing realized.

“So, could you please call Lin Qi for me? I have something to discuss with him in private.”

The request was polite, but the subtext was clear: You’re in the way. Leave.

Zhaoqing had no feelings about being discarded the moment he was no longer needed. He wanted nothing to do with Yuening anyway. Without a word, he hopped off the bed and walked out of the room without looking back.

But as Yuening watched Zhaoqing’s retreating back, so decisive and devoid of emotion, his usually cold heart felt a sudden, hollow emptiness. He watched until the door closed.

Yuening felt a sticky sensation on his arm. He looked down and realized someone had applied ointment to his wounds. On the edge of the bed sat a small jar of black ointment, seemingly forgotten by its owner.

Yuening stared at the jar for a long time. Finally, he reached out and, with a thoughtful expression, placed the jar inside a locked drawer in his bedside table.