"What? Mr. Xie is gone?"
Shen Ji'an was shocked, the fish in his hand slipping to the ground.
Lin Mo had stepped out of the car first.
Shen Yihan and Shen Ji'an were retrieving items from the trunk.
Now, both of them widened their eyes in surprise.
The Butler's lips twitched. "Not yet."
Mr. Xie was perfectly fine!
He had deliberately phrased it that way to make Miss Lin feel a pang of concern.
His master was too honest—didn’t he know how to play the sympathy card?
He had assumed Miss Lin would stay home to care for Mr. Xie during the day, but she had been out all day instead.
One was oblivious, the other clueless about strategy!
It was driving him mad!
Lin Mo frowned deeply. "Where is he now?"
Butler: "The Private Doctor came to administer an IV, but his fever hasn’t broken, and he hasn’t woken up..."
Before the Butler could finish his sentence—
Whoosh!
A figure dashed past like a blur, sprinting into the villa.
The Butler’s lips curled into a knowing smile.
The Private Doctor had said Mr. Xie was simply exhausted.
He had been working nonstop all day, hopping from one video conference to another.
His wound had become slightly infected, triggering the fever.
With so little rest, the fever had knocked him out cold.
Nothing serious—the Private Doctor said he’d likely wake up once the IV finished.
He could only imagine how overjoyed Mr. Xie would be to see Miss Lin by his bedside when he opened his eyes!
Hehe.
But then—
Whoosh!
Another figure rushed inside.
The Butler’s outstretched hand froze mid-air. "Hey—!"
Don’t ruin their alone time!
The next second, a tall figure also entered.
This one moved more steadily—no running.
But his long legs were practically a blur!
Butler: "..."
"Trash begets trash!"
"Why even bring back someone from the slums? Disgusting filth!"
"Want food? Go fight the dog for it—if you can win, it’s yours!"
"Did you steal my things? It was you, wasn’t it? I knew it! You’re the only lowlife from the slums in this house!"
The slender boy, with a delicate mole at the tip of his nose, replied in a low, firm voice, "It wasn’t me!"
The slightly taller boy sneered and kicked him to the ground.
"Won’t admit it? Then I’ll beat you until you do!"
Lash after lash struck his chest.
The burning pain made the slender boy realize—
This was no ordinary whip.
It was lined with barbs.
Every strike tore flesh, leaving a trail of blood.
The agony was unbearable, as if death were imminent.
Eyes flashing with fury, he suddenly grabbed the whip.
Caught off guard, the attacker was yanked to the ground.
The slender boy pinned him down and rained punches on his face.
The boy beneath him wailed, blood smearing his features.
With blood dripping from his palm, the slender boy snarled, "Don’t. Test. Me."
"How dare you hit the Eldest Young Master! You’re dead!"
Servants rushed to pull him away.
The bloodied boy glared and cursed, "You filthy rat! How dare you lay hands on me!"
He snatched the barbed whip, ready to strike again—
But the slender boy’s icy voice cut through the air: "Hit me one more time, and I’ll kill you."
Their eyes locked. The mole on his nose was stained with blood—unclear whose—making him look like a demon from hell.
It might have been an empty threat.
But the Eldest Young Master wasn’t willing to gamble.
He was the heir to a fortune; the other was just a bastard dragged in from the slums.
He had everything to lose; the other had nothing.
"You’ll pay for this!"
The bloodied boy threw down the whip and stormed off.
The slender boy shook off the servants and staggered toward his room.
A trail of blood marked his path.
Along the way, he collided with a younger boy.
The child spat in disgust. "Get out of my house! Trash!"
Without hesitation, the slender boy kicked him hard.
The boy tumbled across the floor, howling.
Ignoring him, he kept walking.
The boy’s mother rushed out, livid. "How dare you rebel like this?!"
Just then, the Old Man returned from work.
The woman tearfully accused, "This is the filth you brought home! He attacked both my sons! How could you let a slum rat live with us?!"
The Old Man frowned.
Even seeing the boy’s bloody chest, he slapped him across the face. "This isn’t your place to act wild!"
The boy slapped him back and smirked. "I never asked to come here."
If it were the Little Princess in his place, she’d have fought back too.
The Old Man clutched his cheek, stunned. "Then get out!"
The command didn’t faze the boy.
He continued toward his tiny room—smaller than the servants’ quarters.
Pain. Everything hurt. His body felt like it was rotting.
Tears streamed down involuntarily.
Sometimes, death seemed easier.
No one loved him. No one cared.
But he couldn’t die. There was something—someone—he couldn’t let go of.
He packed his meager belongings. Staying here wasn’t worth it.
Life in this house was worse than the slums.
Among his few possessions, one thing was non-negotiable—
A white T-shirt.
The one he’d worn when he first met the Little Princess. It no longer fit, so he’d cut the fabric and sewn new pieces to extend it.
Over the years, he’d kept remaking it, preserving it like a relic.
Lugging his suitcase, he walked out.
Hours passed.
He reached a beach.
The shore was dark, the night breeze damp.
Exhausted, he collapsed onto the sand.
His head spun. His body burned.
Darkness, dizziness, pain—everything dragged him under.
It hurt so much.
Then—
A voice, light and melodic, the one he’d longed to hear, whispered in his ear:
"Wake up!"
