The storm raged on, relentless sheets of rain hammering against the wooden shingles of the inn's roof. The howling wind seeped through the cracks, carrying the scent of wet earth and distant thunder. The downpour had trapped the trio for yet another day, much to Xue Laohu's dismay. He rationed his anti-erection pills carefully, confining himself to his room as much as possible to avoid casualty.
Downstairs, the cold wind swept through the inn's entryway as the door creaked open, ushering in a drenched figure. The newcomer was tall, broad-shouldered, and clad in simple black robes, the fabric clinging to his lean frame. His face was obscured beneath the wide brim of a bamboo hat, droplets of water trailing down its edges.
"Welcome, welcome," the innkeeper said, stepping forward with a well-practiced smile. He retrieved a towel from behind the counter and extended it toward the guest.
"One room, please." The young man's voice was quiet, smooth yet edged with weariness. He reached into his lapel and produced a silver tael, placing it on the counter with a practiced motion. The wind stirred his sleeve, lifting the fabric just enough to reveal the shocking absence of an arm.
The innkeeper's breath hitched, his eyes widening slightly before he quickly averted them. He recovered with a warm, practiced smile. "Of course, right this way," he said, his tone light as he gestured toward the stairs.
At that moment, Xue Tuzi emerged from his room, carefully balancing a bowl of congee in one hand and a small plate of pickled vegetables in the other. Jiao Jiao had been starving, and Xue Tuzi had promised to bring him food. He descended the stairs with hurried steps, intent on returning quickly, when—
He collided with the young man.
Xue Tuzi gasped, the bowl teetering precariously in his grasp, but before disaster could strike, the stranger's hand shot out and steadied him. The touch was brief, but something about it sent a strange jolt through Xue Tuzi.
Then their eyes met.
The young man's phoenix eyes widened as he took in Xue Tuzi's features—the smooth, jade-like skin, the earthy brown locks curling slightly at his temple, full rosy lips, and then… the tiny mole at the bottom corner of his mouth.
The stranger inhaled sharply, his fingers twitching slightly at his side. His gaze softened, something unspoken flickering behind his eyes. Slowly, he reached into his robe and pulled out a small, tattered stuffed bunny. The fabric was faded, its stitching slightly frayed, worn down by time and memory.
"Gongzi," he murmured, tilting his hat lower, "I believe you dropped this."
Xue Tuzi's breath caught in his throat. His eyes darted from the stuffed bunny to the man's face, his hands beginning to tremble. The recognition hit him like a lightning strike.
The stuffed rabbit, worn soft from years of desperate clutching, unleashed a flood of memories that stole Xue Tuzi's breath. Its threadbare fur still carried the faintest whisper of him—that intoxicating blend of peach blossoms and mountain herbs that had once meant safety, home.
This had been his sole treasure in that cold orphanage, the only proof that someone had ever cared enough to leave a piece of themselves behind. On nights when the other children's laughter turned to whispers behind his back, when the matron's disdain cut deeper than winter's bite, he'd buried his face in those soft ears and inhaled until his lungs ached with the ghost of his Gege's scent.
"Gege?" he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath.
The young man lifted a hand and tilted his hat back, revealing striking, unmistakable features.
"Xiao Tuzi—"
Before he could say another word, Xue Tuzi dropped the bowl and plate with a clatter and threw himself forward, arms wrapping around the man in a desperate embrace.
"Gege," he sobbed, his voice breaking. "I thought—I thought—" His words dissolved into tears as he buried his face into the man's damp robes.
The young man's only hand came up, gently stroking Xue Tuzi's back before cupping his face, thumb wiping away the tear tracks. His fingers lingered on the tiny mole, as if committing every detail to memory. A soft smile played at his lips.
"Xiao Tuzi," he murmured, voice thick with emotion. "You've grown so much."
Upstairs, Jiao Jiao had grown tired of waiting. His stomach grumbled loudly, and frustration set in. With a determined pout, he stomped down the stairs, rubbing his belly as he searched for Xue Tuzi. The moment the young man's gaze lifted and landed on Jiao Jiao, something in him snapped. His entire body tensed, eyes darkening with sudden alarm.
Then, before anyone could react, he shoved Xue Tuzi behind him and drew his sword.
"Demon!" he bellowed, the blade flashing as he lunged straight for Jiao Jiao.
Blah Blah Blah:
Welcome to the part of the story I hate the most. I have been procrastinating. This is why this chapter is so short. My apologies.
Final Xiao Ming Mini Theatre:
Wet Dreams
That night, Mini Ming had a dream—a dream so vivid it left him trembling, the shaft caught between the chill of reality and the heat of fevered illusion.
In his dream, Li Zhameng cradled him carefully in his soft hands, his touch gentle. The coolness of the damp cloth wrapped around Mini Ming sent an involuntary shudder through him, and he let out a tiny sneeze. His whole form quivered, the sensation of cold battling against the unnatural heat seeping from his skin.
"I'm sorry," Li Zhameng murmured, his voice softer than Mini Ming had ever heard it. He padded a fingertip against Mini Ming's curves with such care, as if afraid he might shatter. His round, muddy-green eyes were darkened with concern, searching Mini Ming's fevered form for any sign of relief.
But Mini Ming continued to burn. He was in ablaze, his skin flushed a deep, angry red that painted Li Zhameng's face with quiet panic. Again, Li Zhameng dipped the cloth into cool water, wringing it out before wrapping it snugly around him, his fingers brushing across Mini Ming's head in a soothing caress.
"I didn't mean to kick you," he whispered, the regret in his voice unmistakable. "You startled me."
Mini Ming's tiny heart clenched. A wave of guilt crashed over him, drowning him in the undeniable truth—what he had done last night had been wrong. He had pushed too far, tested the limits of their fragile dynamic, and now, seeing Li Zhameng this worried, the guilt was unbearable. He flopped against the warmth of Li Zhameng's palm, his head tilting downward in a pitiful display.
The act worked.
"There, there, little one," Li Zhameng cooed, his voice a gentle lull. His thumb traced soothing circles against Mini Ming's fevered form, his tenderness like an unspoken apology.
Little one?
Mini Ming froze.
If he had brows, they would be furrowed in fury. If he had hands, he would have grabbed Li Zhameng and punished him severely until he begged for forgiveness. Little one? Did his beloved Li Zhameng really see him as something so… insignificant? So small? So helpless?
The injustice of it sent a spark of indignation through him. His pride—his great, towering, undeniable pride—had been wounded beyond repair. He was not little. He was actually quite large, firm even, tall and proud in his own right! To be reduced to this? To be spoken to as if he were some tiny, delicate thing? Unforgivable!
Mini Ming wriggled in protest, his silent tantrum not going unnoticed. Li Zhameng's gaze softened even further, his expression turning pleading.
"Mini Ming… what's wrong?" he asked, as if he hadn't just delivered a devastating blow to Mini Ming's ego.
Mini Ming huffed, turning his head away in defiance, refusing to meet those alluring eyes that had entranced him so many times before. He would not be swayed! He would not forgive such an insult!
But then—
Something soft, warm, impossibly tender brushed against his head.
Mini Ming stiffened. His mind went blank.
Li Zhameng's lips.
The touch was fleeting, but it shattered every ounce of resistance Mini Ming had tried to muster. His entire being quivered, surrendering instantly to the overwhelming sensation.
Li Zhameng… had kissed him.
Madness overtook him.
The kisses became more fervent, more feverish. Each press of Li Zhameng's lips sent a jolt through Mini Ming, unraveling what little composure he had left. He could no longer think—only feel, only fall deeper into the delirium of Li Zhameng's embrace.
And then, as if sealing his fate, Li Zhameng swallowed him whole.
Xue Laohu had barely escaped with his sanity intact wetting the bed completely. He shuddered at the memory. The next twenty-four hours had to be endured with discipline. He could not let his guard down again.