Zong Zhao stood frozen in place.
Not just because Zong Yan had finally called him "brother," nor because he had confirmed that Zong Yan had never truly lost his memory—but because this scene, this voice, had appeared countless times in his dreams.
Ever since their parting at the cliff, he had dreamed of Zong Yan covered in blood, whimpering about how much it hurt. He had thought it was just his imagination, a fabrication of his subconscious.
But now, he heard it clearly.
He saw it.
This was Zong Yan crying out to him—and it wasn’t even the first time.
Yet across two lifetimes, he had never once doubted that Zong Yan was still alive, nor had he ever gone looking for him. All those days he hadn’t known, Zong Yan had suffered so much, pleading for help.
And he had been oblivious, deaf to it all.
Zong Zhao’s heart was breaking.
Suppressing his tears, he soothed, "I’m here, I’m here. Don’t be afraid. No matter how potent the toxin is, I’ll find a way to neutralize it."
Zong Yan groaned in pain, his body trembling uncontrollably. Unable to bear it, he turned and bit down on Zong Zhao’s wrist.
Teeth pierced flesh, blood trickling down his arm.
Zong Zhao didn’t make a sound, letting him bite. "Go ahead. If it eases your pain even a little, bite as hard as you need."
Zong Zhao’s voice was always cool, even when speaking such tender words—a detached tone that dredged up every memory.
Tears spilled from Zong Yan’s eyes. Not only did he release Zong Zhao’s wrist, but he also nuzzled his face against it, trembling and broken as he whispered, "Brother… go. Just go. I don’t want you to see me like this—so ugly."
Zong Zhao’s heart ached. "You’re not ugly. Not at all. No matter how you change, you’ll always be our beloved Zong Yan. You have no idea how overjoyed everyone was to hear you were alive. Not just Father and Mother, but also—"
Zong Yan shut his eyes and turned away, unwilling to listen further.
Zong Zhao didn’t press him. Instead, he grabbed a cloth from the bedside and gently wiped the blood from Zong Yan’s face and hands.
Zong Yan stayed still, letting him tend to him.
The room was well-stocked. After cleaning him up, Zong Zhao applied medicine and bandaged his wounds. As an elder brother, he was always meticulous, even as his own arm continued to bleed—his focus entirely on his younger sibling.
Zong Yan glanced at his brother’s still-bleeding wrist. He wanted to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he curled in on himself, putting more distance between them.
Noticing his calm, Zong Zhao asked, "Has the pain passed? What was that—some kind of toxin? Have you always suffered like this? Is that why your body is covered in scars?"
Zong Yan didn’t answer.
Especially at the mention of his scars, he shrank further back, his self-loathing deepening.
When Zong Zhao got no response, he sighed and tended to his own wound. Once finished, he lay back beside his brother and extinguished the bedside lamp. "Sleep."
Zong Yan remained curled in his corner, motionless. The darkness soothed him, especially with his brother sleeping nearby.
After a while, he finally pulled the blanket over himself and lay down, pressing himself into the far edge of the bed—avoiding contact but not rejecting Zong Zhao’s presence.
In the dark, Zong Zhao’s lips curved faintly.
The night passed peacefully. Zong Yan slept late into the morning. Zong Zhao had woken much earlier but stayed still, not wanting to disturb his brother.
"Morning, Zong Yan," Zong Zhao said, trying to sound conversational.
Zong Yan blinked awake, disoriented. When his gaze landed on Zong Zhao, his pupils dilated, and he jerked back, the chains on his ankles clinking.
Zong Zhao startled, but hearing the noise wasn’t too loud, he teased, "Practicing iron-head skills this early? Though I think you’re supposed to use your forehead, not the back of your skull."
His brother had learned to joke.
But Zong Yan couldn’t laugh. He lowered his eyes, silent.
"I’ll get you some food," Zong Zhao said, rising.
Before he could leave, Zong Yan grabbed his sleeve, his deer-like eyes brimming with reluctance and dependence.
Pausing, Zong Zhao asked, "You don’t want to be alone?"
Zong Yan didn’t answer, but his grip didn’t loosen.
Understanding, Zong Zhao nodded. "Alright, I’ll have it brought in."
Servants entered with trays of breakfast and washing supplies, then quickly withdrew.
Zong Zhao turned to Shunzi. "Has the imperial physician come to check on Xu Wan today?"
He was still worried about the fright she’d suffered the night before.
Shunzi replied, "Yes, Great General. The physician said the mistress’s pregnancy is stable—no issues. She told you not to worry about her and focus on the young master."
"Good."
Once the servants left, Zong Zhao arranged the dishes by the bed, cheerfully sharing, "In a month, you’ll be an uncle. You’ll have to play with them someday."
Them?
Zong Yan looked puzzled.
"Twins," Zong Zhao explained. "Just like us."
Zong Yan stilled, memories surfacing.
As a child, he’d been proud of being a twin—having a brother who was his mirror, unlike ordinary siblings. They had been conceived together, bound by something deeper.
But now, his brother had his own children.
Twins.
Like they once were.
His eyes stung. He couldn’t tell if he was happy for Zong Zhao or envious of his nephews.
Zong Zhao handed him a bowl. "Need me to feed you?"
Zong Yan took it, clearly unwilling to be fed.
Too embarrassing.
Zong Zhao stayed with him all day, even when the Old Marquis came to relieve him in the evening. But Zong Yan recoiled from the old man, sending him away in a huff.
Blood couldn’t compete with brotherhood. The Old Marquis’s pride was wounded, but with Zong Yan in such a fragile state, he dared not lose his temper in front of him.
Zong Zhao sent word to the palace that all memorials should be delivered to the residence. He set up a desk where Zong Yan could see him and spent the entire day working in the same room.
As for Xu Wan—they began a long-distance relationship.
Though they lived under the same roof, with courtyards side by side, he couldn’t leave. So he wrote her a letter every day instead.
After that night, Zong Yan’s pain never returned. But he remained withdrawn, speaking only to plead, "Let me go."
Zong Zhao would never agree.
A month passed like this.
Then, on the day Xu Wan went into labor, Zong Zhao told Zong Yan he’d be gone for the day to attend to his wife. Zong Yan showed no reaction. Zong Zhao left the Old Marquis in charge, instructing him to call if needed.
Meanwhile, in the palace’s study—
The little devil was howling. "Let me out! I need to go home! Mother’s giving birth—I have to protect her!!"
The twelve-year-old Young Emperor, who had grown increasingly composed, ruling with practiced ease, finally cracked under the restriction. Jin Cheng was in full meltdown.
