Lu Zhuonian often marveled at Chen Zemian’s wildly leaping thoughts.
This time was no exception.
The moment he heard the words “worship heaven and earth,” Lu Zhuonian was stunned for half a second.
During that pause, Chen Zemian’s expression was firm, his attitude resolute, as if preparing for some sacred mission.
This was not what Lu Zhuonian had in mind.
The result was what he had longed for—but the process, absolutely not.
Chen Zemian was still asking, “So what exactly do we need to prepare?”
Lu Zhuonian looked at him quietly and said, “Go out and search for yourself. You’ll find out.”
Chen Zemian wasn’t fooled. He plopped down on the sofa, took out his phone, and began searching with the spirit of scientific inquiry.
He was always quick to act. After figuring out what was needed, he got up and headed to the cloakroom.
Taking advantage of Chen Zemian’s brief absence, Lu Zhuonian grabbed the medicine bottle from the bedside table and quietly slipped out of the room.
From inside the cloakroom, Chen Zemian suddenly stopped rummaging and dashed out. He scanned the bedroom—Lu Zhuonian was gone. So was the bottle.
Damn it. A classic diversion tactic!
He sprinted out and intercepted Lu Zhuonian in the living room, just before he could reach the door.
Lu Zhuonian: “…”
Chen Zemian pointed to the medicine in his hand. “Did you take it?”
Lu Zhuonian had, in fact, already swallowed it. But recalling the traumatic memory of Chen Zemian once forcing him to vomit it up, he replied slyly, “No.”
Chen Zemian narrowed his eyes. “Then where were you going?”
“To check if the door’s locked.”
Chen Zemian brushed past him, locked the door himself, and confiscated the banned medication on his way back.
Then he spotted the half-finished bowl of health-preserving soup on the table and downed it in a few gulps.
The paroxetine hadn’t kicked in yet. Right now, Lu Zhuonian felt like he had a high fever—his muscles aching, twitching, barely able to stand.
He sat first, then curled up on the sofa. It felt like a whip was lashing down his spine. Only by curling in on himself could he ease the pain and numbness.
For a brief moment, his mind blurred.
He opened his eyes, the narrow slits just enough to catch the scene before him.
Chen Zemian had crouched down on the carpet, tilting his head at a strange angle.
Because Lu Zhuonian was lying sideways, parallel to the floor, and Chen Zemian was vertical, he seemed to be trying to tilt his head 90 degrees to match his line of sight.
What kind of person even thinks like that?
Chen Zemian truly was one of a kind.
Wherever he was, no matter how bad the situation, he somehow made it absurdly funny.
Lu Zhuonian’s tense mind relaxed slightly. He couldn’t help but chuckle.
Startled by the sudden sound, Chen Zemian flinched. “I thought you’d passed out.”
Regardless of circumstance, Chen Zemian always prioritized making life difficult for others over wasting time on himself.
Now was no exception.
He nudged Lu Zhuonian. “If you’re not unconscious, then sit up. You’re lying all wrong.”
“…”
Lu Zhuonian paused two seconds. “Is it possible I don’t have the strength to sit up right now?”
Chen Zemian, believing Lu Zhuonian was genuinely weakened by illness, froze. After assessing the situation, he asked, from a very peculiar angle, “Then if you lose strength every time it gets bad, how are you supposed to complete treatment?”
A lightbulb went off in his head. Surprise and glee colored his voice. “Wait, could it be… could it be me?”
Was such good fortune even possible?!
Suddenly revitalized, Lu Zhuonian sat up and flicked Chen Zemian’s forehead. “Keep dreaming.”
In the span of a few seconds, Chen Zemian had watched him transform from a man writhing in agony to a cold, commanding figure seated upright like a mountain looming in the abyss—imposing, untouchable.
A true medical miracle.
Chen Zemian couldn’t hold back a laugh.
Lu Zhuonian lowered his eyelids and glanced over. “What are you laughing at?”
Chen Zemian, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, said, “You looked like you were being flayed alive just now. Now you’re so full of energy—this is more effective than a resurrection pill.”
Lu Zhuonian gave him a sidelong glance, then shifted slightly to make room beside him. “The floor’s cold.”
Chen Zemian always wore shorts as pajamas. Now, seated on the carpet with bare knees against the fabric, he didn’t feel uncomfortable—but Lu Zhuonian noticed it before he did.
Because Lu Zhuonian was thoughtful and careful with him, even the most difficult things became bearable.
When the episode passed, Chen Zemian was so exhausted he could barely keep his eyes open. He mustered the last of his will to take a shower, then collapsed onto the bed the moment he came out.
The paroxetine had finally kicked in. The wave of withdrawal crested and faded, leaving Lu Zhuonian in a strange, consuming fatigue. He didn’t send Chen Zemian away. He lay down on the other side and fell asleep soon after.
The next morning, Lu Zhuonian woke up without any discomfort.
They both thought it had been a false alarm—loud thunder, little rain. It had passed.
Unexpectedly, when Lu Zhuonian returned to campus and was copying notes in class, his fingers began to tremble.
The shaking worsened, gradually spreading from his fingertips to his entire arm.
A precursor. He knew it well.
But until now, he had never experienced two severe episodes in such quick succession.
Last night’s symptoms hadn’t truly subsided. They had only been suppressed—by Chen Zemian’s presence and the temporary effect of the medication.
Paroxetine takes about five hours to reach peak concentration in the blood, then begins to decline, halving over the next twenty-four hours.
Now the effect had waned—and the storm it had held back was returning.
Lu Zhuonian quietly requested leave, walked out of the classroom, and called Chen Zemian to pick him up.
This time, he didn’t shut himself in the dorm.
Although the peak of the drug’s effect had passed, the side effects remained.
So, even though the surging desires within him kept tearing at his body, he was physically incapable of committing any crime.
That was why he didn’t return to the dormitory. Instead, he sat on the steps of the basketball court, watching upperclassmen with no morning classes play under the sun.
When Chen Zemian arrived, he searched the campus and finally found Lu Zhuonian.
The early summer sun was dazzlingly bright. Lu Zhuonian sat in the sunlight, yet his entire being seemed to be shrouded in a haze only visible to Chen Zemian.
That familiar, faint scent of death.
Why hadn’t he recovered yet? Why had he entered a state of self-loathing and guilt again?
Had the world skipped frames?
Chen Zemian would rather believe the world had glitched than accept that Lu Zhuonian had found any relief.
Panting, he ran toward him. “Ancestor, why are you sitting here? Don’t you usually hate basketball courts?”
“I used to love playing basketball in junior high,” Lu Zhuonian replied flatly. “I stopped after I got sick.”
Chen Zemian sat down beside him. “Because you hate physical contact?”
Lu Zhuonian smiled faintly. “I suppose so. After I got sick, I quit both the basketball and swimming teams and distanced myself from all sports that required contact or cooperation.”
“I skipped every swimming class throughout high school. When classmates asked why I never got in the water, I couldn’t tell them the real reason, so I said the water was dirty. They called me ‘Young Master Lu’ and ‘Prince’ behind my back. Later, when they found out who my dad was, they decided all my ‘criticisms’ made sense. Those nicknames gradually turned into a sort of honorific. It’s funny when I think about it.”
Chen Zemian was quiet for a few seconds. Then he said, “It’s not funny at all.”
Lu Zhuonian turned to look at him but said nothing—just looked at him like that.
Chen Zemian gently squeezed his arm. “It’ll get better.”
Lu Zhuonian shook his head. “It won’t, Chen Zemian. It’ll never get better.”
He had tried nearly every treatment available—scientific and otherwise.
None of them worked.
He had hoped this time would be different, but the outcome was the same.
The most despairing part of treatment wasn’t the lack of improvement—it was the relentless return of symptoms.
Each recurrence was a devastating blow.
In the two months since he stopped taking the medication, with Chen Zemian’s help, Lu Zhuonian had genuinely felt like he was improving, little by little. Each attack had seemed a bit less severe.
As he had once told Chen Zemian, there were several times he’d felt an attack coming, but he had been able to restrain himself—he just hadn’t wanted to.
If it happened at school or in some other public place, he probably could’ve gotten through it on his own.
It had clearly been getting better.
But last night’s prolonged, cunning relapse had shattered all his fragile hope.
It was as if time had been reset, dragging him back two months. The severity of the episode was no less than the one in Hainan.
Lu Zhuonian had never been the type to curse fate.
He had more than he lacked.
But after being battered again and again by his illness, even someone as strong as him couldn’t help revealing a sliver of vulnerability in front of the person he loved.
Because this illness didn’t just hurt him—it hurt the person he cared about.
He wanted so badly to protect Chen Zemian.
But the disease kept dragging his reason in the opposite direction.
He felt disgusting. He felt like he’d never get better.
Chen Zemian tried to comfort him. “Aren’t you minoring in philosophy? What’s the law of development again?”
Lu Zhuonian pressed his thin lips together. “Spiral ascent.”
“Exactly. So now you’re at a bend in the spiral. Once you turn the corner, it’ll go up again.”
Lu Zhuonian didn’t respond. He just gave a faint smile, as though slightly coaxed.
Chen Zemian slung an arm around his shoulders and continued to coax him. “It’s okay. The road is winding, but the future is bright. We’ll get better, little by little.”
“But I can’t control myself… I’ll end up hurting you.” Lu Zhuonian curled his fingers slightly and held Chen Zemian’s hand with a feather-light touch. “I don’t even dare tell you what goes through my mind when I’m seriously ill.”
Chen Zemian turned his head. “Tell me.”
Lu Zhuonian glanced around at the bright, vibrant campus. “It’s not appropriate to talk about that kind of thing at school.”
Chen Zemian raised an eyebrow with a suspicious look in his eyes, as if asking: Is it really that obscene?
Lu Zhuonian nodded.
Apparently, it really was.
Chen Zemian became even more curious—what kind of dirty thoughts could someone with Lu Zhuonian’s sense of moral integrity possibly have?
He wanted to know just how far it could go.
Leaning closer, Chen Zemian said, “Just whisper it. No one else will hear.”
Lu Zhuonian turned his head and whispered in his ear, “I want to lock you in a basement. No one else is allowed to see you but me.”
Chen Zemian: “…”
“Wait, your house has a basement?”
Trying to find a less awkward angle for the conversation, he added, “Didn’t you say the basement had a gym and a wine cellar?”
“There’s another room. Want to see it?” Lu Zhuonian asked casually.
Chen Zemian thought hard but couldn’t recall any such room. He had a strong hunch that Lu Zhuonian was bluffing and gave him a suspicious look. “Is that true?”
Lu Zhuonian smiled. “Not really. But if you want one, I can clear out a space for you.”
Chen Zemian immediately offered his thoughts on home layout. “If you’re clearing a room, it’s better to make it an audiovisual room. Move the gym upstairs for better ventilation.”
Lu Zhuonian nodded. “That’s reasonable. Anything else?”
“The kitchen and dining area are awkwardly placed. Every time I eat, I have to watch the chef rushing around. It’s awkward.”
He went on to point out a few more things: the faucet in the bathroom has a knob that’s annoying to use; the leather sofa looks nice but is too stiff to lean against; and the smart toilet is motion-sensitive—it lights up every time it’s dark, which is just bizarre.
“And it’s too sensitive. If I shift positions slightly, it flushes again!”
His biggest complaint was about the smart toilet. “I still prefer a normal toilet. Heated seat is enough. All those extra features are just gimmicks.”
Lu Zhuonian couldn’t help but laugh. Tilting his head, he looked at Chen Zemian. “Then I’ll install a normal toilet in the bathroom for you. Any other requests?”
After listing his critiques of Lu Zhuonian’s home, Chen Zemian suddenly realized he might be overstepping. He turned to look at Lu Zhuonian.
And he saw that warm smile in his eyes.
Lu Zhuonian was just looking at him like that, smiling, listening to his nonsense, his complaints, his ideas—things no one else would bother to hear, much less take seriously.
Chen Zemian’s heart trembled for no reason, and before he knew it, he blurted out:
“Can I put a bed in there?”
*****
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