Lu Zhuonian asked Chen Zemian, “How do you want to take responsibility?”
Chen Zemian had originally planned to confess, but it felt too abrupt to do so right away. He changed tack and asked for advice instead. “How about starting with a date? Let’s go out together tomorrow.”
Lu Zhuonian eyed him, skeptical about his physical condition.
Chen Zemian immediately reassured him. “Its not a problem at all.”
Two o’clock in the morning.
Lu Zhuonian stirred as he felt movement beside him. He wasn’t fully awake, but his body responded instinctively—he pulled the other into his arms.
Chen Zemian pushed away the arm around his waist and whispered, “Lu Zhuonian, I need to pee.”
Only then did Lu Zhuonian let go.
Chen Zemian climbed off the bed lightly, only to realize his slippers weren’t there. He tiptoed back and carefully climbed over Lu Zhuonian.
He moved quickly and silently, like a nocturnal animal, completing the maneuver without disturbing Lu Zhuonian in the slightest.
A few minutes after Chen Zemian left, Lu Zhuonian suddenly awoke.
He vaguely heard sounds in the hallway.
He walked out of the bedroom and found the guest room light on. The bathroom’s glass door was half open, and in the dim glow, a faint figure was reflected.
A bad feeling settled over him. “Chen Zemian?”
A low voice answered.
Lu Zhuonian pushed the door open. Chen Zemian was sitting on the toilet.
“What’s wrong with you?”
Chen Zemian straightened his back, but before he could reply, the smart toilet sensed movement and flushed automatically.
“I really need to replace that thing,” Chen Zemian muttered, head drooping. “I’m so sleepy.”
Lu Zhuonian reached out and touched his forehead. “You don’t have a fever. What’s going on?”
Chen Zemian leaned forward, resting his forehead against Lu Zhuonian’s. “I have a stomachache.”
Lu Zhuonian half-supported him. “Diarrhea?”
Chen Zemian shook his head.
Lu Zhuonian looked down at him. “Then why are you sitting here?”
“I used to get stomachaches after eating something bad. Going to the toilet would usually help.”
Lu Zhuonian paused for a few seconds. “You didn’t eat anything bad.”
“I did,” Chen Zemian confessed. “I secretly ate the fried chicken drumsticks in the fridge last night.”
Lu Zhuonian frowned. “You ate them cold?”
Chen Zemian gave a guilty “mm.”
Lu Zhuonian: “…”
Chen Zemian leaned on him weakly. “Don’t scold me. The chicken’s now stuck between digestion and indigestion. It won’t go up or down. I don’t even know if it’s my stomach or intestines that hurt.”
Lu Zhuonian sighed. “I haven’t even said anything.”
“Your silence is deafening.”
Lu Zhuonian helped him up. “Alright, I won’t lecture you. But don’t sit here. Go lie down for a bit. I’ll get you some medicine.”
Back in the bedroom, Chen Zemian curled up obediently in a corner of the bed, chin tucked into the blanket. He seemed to drift off, but his entire body was weak, and he occasionally whimpered in pain.
Lu Zhuonian returned with some medicine, filling his palm with red and green tablets.
Chen Zemian glanced at them without a word and swallowed them all, as if taking poison.
His hands were cold, forehead damp with sweat, and his abdomen felt like it was being twisted by an ice cone. He couldn’t tell if the pain came from his stomach or intestines and barely had the strength to speak.
Lu Zhuonian sat beside him, gently rubbing his abdomen. His warm palm moved in slow, steady circles, easing the cramps and discomfort.
Chen Zemian felt so relieved he almost wanted to purr.
After some time, Lu Zhuonian asked, “Feeling better?”
Chen Zemian was already half asleep. He vaguely remembered nodding, maybe even murmuring that Lu Zhuonian shouldn’t worry—or maybe he didn’t.
He was extremely drowsy, his eyelids heavy. In a daze, he thought he heard a puppy whimpering softly. Startled awake, he realized it was his own voice.
When people are in pain, they can’t help but make noises, as if whining might ease the discomfort.
It’s not just psychological—it has a physiological basis.
Chen Zemian was miserable all over. He had held it in before for the sake of dignity, but now that he’d already whimpered, there was no point pretending.
He glanced up at Lu Zhuonian through half-lidded eyes and whimpered again, deliberately.
Lu Zhuonian stroked his hair. “I’m rubbing your stomach. Why are you still whining?”
“My head hurts too.”
Lu Zhuonian let him lie on his lap and gently ran his fingers through the soft strands, reaching in to stroke his scalp.
There are places on the human body that feel completely different when someone else touches them, and the scalp is one of them.
The friction of fingers across the scalp provided comfort far surpassing massage. Chen Zemian frowned faintly and tilted his head to follow the movement of Lu Zhuonian’s hand.
Lu Zhuonian raised his palm to cover Chen Zemian’s eyes. “Sleep for a while. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”
Chen Zemian closed his eyes. “Cold.”
Lu Zhuonian lay beside him and wrapped him in his arms.With his cheek pressed against Lu Zhuonian’s chest, surrounded by a warmth like spring air, Chen Zemian let out a contented sigh.
Something in Lu Zhuonian stirred.
Before Chen Zemian had discovered he was sick, Lu Zhuonian had maintained his abstinence and restraint—an aloof favorite of fate, surrounded by admiration, cold and noble. Even after his illness was revealed, he was a patient with pride. Though afflicted, he remained composed, cutting off desire and minimizing burden on others.
But now, he realized he had overestimated himself.
Human biological instincts are tenacious—almost cunning. Since deepening his bond with Chen Zemian, it seemed every cell in his body remembered the comfort and indulgence the other offered and knew that being close to him brought pleasure.
The self-control he’d imagined as a wall of iron was, in truth, no more than rice paper—easily torn.
Strangely, even as his rationality ebbed, the primal impulse didn’t overwhelm his mind.
In the past, these two forces rose and fell against each other.
The restrained divine nature and the raw, animalistic impulse would clash in constant battle.
But not tonight.
His reason dissolved, desire coursed through his blood—but he didn’t want to act on it. He simply wanted to hold Chen Zemian.
It felt as if his soul had been pulled apart into three segments, each at peace with the others, reaching a strange harmony.
Balance. Calm. Comfort. Stillness.
A new internal order was emerging.
He no longer needed reason to battle instinct—something else was tempering it.
Because of Chen Zemian, Lu Zhuonian had found equilibrium between the divine and the animal.
He had become human.
*****
The next morning, Chen Zemian still hadn’t recovered.
Their planned date was replaced by working from home.
Chen Zemian half-reclined against the headboard, laptop on his legs, analyzing game data.
Battlefield of Peace had been on the market for several months, and the studio had gathered substantial player feedback to optimize the game.
Overall, players preferred team-based modes—duo and squad—but ironically, those also had the worst user satisfaction. Aside from random issues like players quitting mid-match or trolling, the inability of random teams to coordinate was a major factor in the negative experience.
It was a hard problem to solve.
Chen Zemian called Lu Zhuonian over to brainstorm optimization strategies.
“Since it’s a team game, the only way to get strangers to work together is through system assistance,” Lu Zhuonian said, scanning the keywords Chen Zemian had extracted. “From an algorithmic standpoint, this solution makes sense.”
Chen Zemian’s eyes lit up. Lu Zhuonian had hit on a key word—algorithm.
At its core, every game is just a mathematical problem.
Health points, damage values, enemy locations, reload times, attack ranges, armor buffs, debuffs—they’re all numbers. If you memorize those numbers and keep calculating, victory isn’t about probability, it’s about algorithms.
Whoever calculates faster—and more accurately—wins.
“Everyone talks about skill training, but I think math is more important,” Chen Zemian said, looking at Lu Zhuonian. “Weird, right? Studying math to play games.”
He’d discussed this theory with many people. Most agreed in theory.
But in practice, it was tough.
The pace of gameplay was too fast, too dynamic. Active and passive effects appeared constantly. Who could keep track?
People played to relax—not to do math in real time.
Even in professional e-sports, players mostly handled simple calculations: cooldowns, flash differences. Being able to count a few seconds’ difference could mean winning or losing.
Talking about his area of expertise, Chen Zemian was animated, almost glowing. “Just like math problems—there are many possible answers, but only one optimal solution.”
Lu Zhuonian looked at him seriously. “You’re a science student?”
Chen Zemian blinked. “Aren’t you?”
“My major was finance, kind of a mix. And philosophy—that’s liberal arts.”
Chen Zemian’s eyes widened. “What the hell, you’re a liberal arts student?”
Lu Zhuonian raised a brow. “Something wrong with that?”
“Well, just speaking from an employment standpoint, science has better prospects,” Chen Zemian muttered as he picked up his phone and sent a WeChat message to Yan Luo, urging him to choose a science major. “But really, it doesn’t matter what you study.”
Lu Zhuonian smirked. “Are you a science supremacist?”
“It’s not about superiority—it’s the environment. Liberal arts only had an edge during specific historical eras.”
“Like when?”
“The Song Dynasty.”
Lu Zhuonian: “…”
Chen Zemian continued working on the game optimization proposal while texting Yan Luo about majors. After a while, he found typing too slow, so he shut the laptop and made a voice call.
Yan Luo picked up quickly.
Chen Zemian put on his headphones, chatting as he cleared unread notifications.
In the process, he accidentally tapped too quickly and closed a message he hadn’t read—and now he couldn’t find it again.
He gave up almost immediately. “Whatever. If I missed it, we’re not meant to be. I’m not looking.”
Lu Zhuonian glanced at him. “You still have to put in the effort you’re supposed to do.”
Chen Zemian only caught the word do and looked over in confusion. Covering the microphone, he asked, “Huh? Now?”
*****
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