Summary: One night due to a younger brother carelessness? Two people meet in a unforgettable meeting, bringing them together.
Author's Note: The Muse has plans for this one as well guys!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter One
The Shenzhen Theater was silent at that late hour, its grand halls emptied of dancers and staff, leaving only faint echoes of music lingering in the air. Jian Yao, who had lingered in her office to finalize notes for her next class, was startled when the soft knock came at her door. Pulling it open, she found little Xiemae standing there, clutching her dance bag with amber eyes far too worried for a child so young.
Yao immediately crouched to her level, her sapphire eyes softening as she reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind the girl's ear. "Xiemae, sweetheart, why are you still here? Everyone else has gone."
The child's small voice trembled as she confessed that her uncle, Lu Yue, had promised to pick her up, but he had never arrived. She had waited and waited, sitting quietly on the bench outside the studio until the building felt too empty and frightening, and then had worked up the courage to find her beloved teacher.
Yao did not even hesitate. Gathering the girl's hand in her own, she guided her back into the office, offering her juice from the mini fridge and a warm place on the couch while she searched for her father's number. Xiemae's relief was visible, her tiny shoulders easing when she realized she wasn't alone anymore. Finding the contact details tucked inside the girl's ballet folder, Yao dialed the number. It rang only once before the call was answered, the voice on the other end deep, sharp, and commanding. "Who is this, and why are you calling me?"
Yao did not flinch at his tone. Her own voice was steady, soft yet firm, the voice of a woman used to comforting nervous children and parents alike. "Mr. Lu, my name is Jian Yao. I am Xiemae's ballet teacher. She was left behind this evening after class. She tells me her uncle was supposed to pick her up, but he never came. I could not leave her here alone, so she is with me in my office."
For a moment, there was silence on the other end, followed by the faintest intake of breath.
When Sicheng spoke again, the commanding steel was laced with something else, controlled fury. "Lu Yue forgot her?" The words were ground out low, clipped, and terrifying in their restraint. Then his tone shifted, darker, more dangerous, and Yao could almost feel the weight of his presence even across the phone line. "Stay where you are. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
Yao, unaffected by the edge in his voice, simply replied, "We will be waiting." She ended the call and glanced at Xiemae, who looked guilty for causing trouble. Yao sat beside her and drew the child close, assuring her gently that none of this was her fault. She spoke softly about how sometimes adults make mistakes, and how her father was on his way.
At the ZGDX base the air was unusually tense.
Sicheng's office door slammed open so hard it rebounded against the wall with a resounding crack, making the others in the common room look up in alarm. He emerged like a storm personified, his tall frame radiating cold fury, his eyes dark and unrelenting. His gaze locked immediately onto Yue, lounging on the couch with a controller in hand, and in the next breath Sicheng was across the room. Before Yue could register what was happening, his older brother's fist had gripped the front of his shirt and yanked him up to his feet, nose to nose with the full force of Sicheng's wrath. "You forgot to pick her up?" The words were hissed, low and deadly, every syllable vibrating with restrained violence. "You promised me you would pick up Xiemae since I was in meetings all day, and because our parents are out of the country and you forgot?"
Yue's face drained of color, the weight of his brother's fury crushing down on him harder than any physical blow. His mouth opened and closed without sound, the reality of his mistake settling in. He had been caught up in a scrim, telling himself he'd leave right after one more round, and now, god, now Sicheng's daughter had been left alone.
Sicheng's lips curled in something cold and merciless as he shoved his brother back with brutal force, sending him sprawling onto the couch. Yue's body hit the cushions hard, the shock of the impact knocking the breath from him. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the sudden scrape of Sicheng's chair as it toppled over from the violence of his movements.
The rest of the team froze where they sat, wide-eyed and silent, none daring to intervene as their captain, their Ice King, turned on his heel and strode toward the door with the power of a man who had already passed judgment. He didn't so much as glance back at his brother. At the doorway, his voice cut through the air like a blade, rough with fury but sharpened by fear. "Pray to god she's fine. If anything has happened to my daughter because of you, Yue, you'll regret ever being born my brother." The door slammed behind him with a force that made the walls tremble, and then he was gone, striding with deadly purpose across the darkened lot toward his car. His keys clattered in his hand as he jerked the driver's side door open, every motion tight with rage. The engine roared to life beneath him, headlights slicing through the night as he sped out of the base, leaving behind a stunned silence that no one dared break.
The city blurred past as Sicheng drove, the wheel gripped tight in his hands, his knuckles pale with the strain. The car's engine roared beneath him, a relentless echo of the storm inside his chest. Fury burned through him, hot and sharp, each thought punctuated by the fact that his daughter, his Xiemae, his one unshakable reason for breathing, had been left alone because his damn brother couldn't follow through on something so simple. But threaded beneath the rage was something far worse, something colder: fear.
What if Xiemae had wandered outside? What if someone had noticed she was alone? What if she had cried, terrified, thinking no one was coming for her? Those images clawed at his mind, each more unbearable than the last, each threatening to consume him whole. He pressed harder on the accelerator, weaving through the streets of Shenzhen with reckless precision, every red light and turn taken as though the city itself had no right to slow him down. By the time he pulled up outside the theater, his chest was tight with the weight of that fear. He shoved the gear into park and was already out of the car before the engine finished its final rumble, his long strides carrying him into the silent building. The grand, echoing hallways stretched around him, dim and cavernous in the late hour, the faint scent of resin and polish hanging in the air. His footsteps echoed harshly against the marble floors, the sound of a predator closing in on its target. Then he turned a corner and froze. Through the open doorway of a rehearsal room, he saw her.
Not Xiemae, though she was there, tiny and radiant, her face alight with joy as she tried to mimic the elegant arcs of her teacher, but the woman beside her. She moved with a grace that seemed to defy the weight of the world, her sunkissed hair catching in the light, her body poised with perfect control as she demonstrated the sweep of an arm, the lift of a leg, the delicate placement of her foot. Every movement was fluid, ethereal, the kind of beauty that held an audience breathless even when that audience was only one small child. Xiemae mirrored her as best she could, laughing when she wobbled, and the woman, Jian Yao, if he recalled the voice from the phone, laughed softly with her, kneeling to gently guide his daughter's posture. There was no impatience, no judgment. Only warmth, encouragement, and a serenity that wrapped itself around his daughter like a shield. For the first time since he had gotten the call, the tightness in his chest eased, just slightly.
Sicheng stood in the doorway, unseen for a moment, his whiskey amber eyes locked on the pair. The child who was his whole world, safe and smiling, and the woman whose calm defiance had pierced through his anger over the phone, now revealed as something else entirely, something he hadn't expected. She was not merely beautiful, though she was, in a way that was almost unfair. She was… luminous. Grounded yet untouchable, with a softness that drew the eye and an undercurrent of strength that warned she would not break easily. His rage was still there, smoldering beneath the surface, but it was no longer directed outward. It was directed at himself, at his brother, at the fragility of a world where a six-year-old could be left waiting. And yet, standing there, his gaze fixed on the woman guiding his daughter, Sicheng found himself pausing, for the first time in years, caught off guard by something he couldn't immediately master or control.
Yao straightened from her crouch, the gentle correction of Xiemae's posture finished, her hands falling lightly to her sides. She lifted her head, perhaps sensing the shift in the air, and her sapphire eyes caught him at last. For a heartbeat, she seemed startled, her expression flickering as her gaze locked with his. Then her features softened, composure sliding back into place with an ease that spoke of discipline and grace. There was no fear, no scrambling apology as others might have offered under the weight of his stare. Only calm acknowledgment, as though she had expected him to arrive precisely this way, tall, imposing, and burning with a darkness that filled the doorway.
"Baba!"
Xiemae's small cry shattered the quiet. She spun toward him, her face lighting up in pure joy, and before Sicheng could even take a step she was already racing across the polished floor. Her tiny slippers slapped softly against the wood, her little arms outstretched as if the only thing that mattered in the world was reaching him. His body moved on instinct, crouching low just in time to catch her as she launched herself into his chest. The force of her small body colliding with his larger frame nearly knocked him off balance, but he steadied them both easily, holding her tight. The scent of her hair, faintly sweet from her shampoo, filled his lungs as she buried her face against his neck. "I knew you'd come," she whispered with childlike certainty, her voice muffled in his collar.
Something inside him fractured. The fury, the fear, all of it clashed in his chest, leaving him raw, but he smoothed his hand over her back anyway, whispering low into her hair. "Of course I came." Only then did his gaze lift again to the woman still standing across the room.
Jian Yao had not moved, though her eyes lingered on father and daughter with a tenderness that was difficult to ignore. There was no intrusion in her expression, no arrogance in knowing she had been the one to protect his daughter when his own brother had failed. Instead, she stood with quiet dignity, as though her only role had been to make sure a little girl wasn't frightened and nothing more.
Sicheng rose to his full height, Xiemae still clinging to him like a lifeline. His amber eyes stayed fixed on Yao as he took a step closer, the sharp lines of his face carved in the shadows of the studio lights. He had entered ready to tear the world apart for his daughter. Instead, he found himself caught between gratitude he didn't know how to voice and the unsettling awareness that this woman had unsettled something in him simply by existing. Sicheng held his daughter close, his broad palm resting protectively at the back of her head, her little body pressed against his chest as though she were something precious he had nearly lost. His whiskey amber eyes, however, never left the woman standing across the room.
Jian Yao was still and poised, her posture elegant, the light of the rehearsal room painting soft highlights across the sunkissed strands of her hair. She met his gaze without flinching, sapphire eyes steady, calm, and impossibly clear. There was no apology tumbling from her lips, no awkward shuffle under his scrutiny, no attempt to placate his mood. That alone made her stand out. Most people in Shenzhen's elite circles tripped over themselves to bow and scrape when faced with him, the Lu family heir whose influence extended into nearly every corner of the city. Yet here was this ballerina, his daughter's teacher, who regarded him not as if he were a storm about to break, but simply as a father who had come for his child.
Sicheng found himself studying her more closely than he should have. The gentle strength in the set of her shoulders, the quiet grace that clung to every line of her body, the way her hands, delicate and long-fingered, had just been guiding his daughter with such tenderness. It unsettled him. He did not like being unsettled. "Miss Jian, I presume," he said at last, his voice a velvet-wrapped blade, smooth and deep but edged with command.
Her lips curved, not into a smile exactly, but into something softer, measured, respectful without being deferential. "Yes. Jian Yao," she answered, her tone steady, warm, carrying the refinement of someone accustomed to performing before audiences and still managing to sound utterly genuine. "You must be Mr. Lu." The words were polite, but her sapphire gaze held his directly as she spoke them, and Sicheng felt a peculiar jolt of recognition. It wasn't familiarity, he had never met her before, but something rarer. This was a woman who would not shatter if met with the weight of his presence. "I apologize for calling so abruptly," she continued, shifting her eyes briefly to Xiemae still curled in his arms before returning them to his. "But I couldn't leave her alone, and she seemed worried. She said her uncle was supposed to come. When he didn't, I thought it best to keep her with me until you arrived." Her words were simple, factual, yet beneath them lay an unspoken steel. She hadn't been afraid to confront him over the phone, hadn't wasted time with explanations that would soothe him but cost precious minutes. She had acted. Protected. And it was because of her that his daughter now clung to him safe and unharmed.
Inside, the storm of his thoughts shifted. Gratitude was not an emotion he gave freely. In fact, he could not recall the last time he had spoken the words aloud. Yet, as he looked at her, at the calm composure she wore like another skin, he felt the unfamiliar weight of wanting to say them. His jaw tightened, the words catching in his throat. Instead, his thumb absently stroked the back of Xiemae's hair, grounding himself. "You did the right thing, thank you." he said finally, the closest he would allow himself in that moment to gratitude. His tone, though still low and commanding, carried a subtle thread of sincerity beneath it, raw and unguarded enough that Yao's eyes softened.
Jian Yao inclined her head gently, accepting the words for what they were without pressing for more. "Xiemae is a joy to have in class," she murmured softly, glancing at the child now drifting into drowsy relief against her father's shoulder. "She works very hard. You should be proud."
The simplicity of the statement landed like an arrow.
Sicheng's heart clenched, not from doubt, he knew his daughter was the single most brilliant light of his existence, but from the way Jian Yao had said it. Not with empty flattery. Not as though she were merely placating the wealthy father of a student. But with genuine warmth, as though she truly saw his daughter for what she was. He stood there, caught between fury still simmering for his brother's failure and the disquieting pull of this woman who had, without effort, carved a place in his attention. His entire life, he had kept his world divided, esports, business, his daughter, each one contained. But tonight, standing in a quiet rehearsal room with his little girl safe in his arms and Jian Yao watching him with sapphire eyes full of calm strength, he had the distinct, unnerving sense that something had just shifted forever.
Xiemae, having clung to her father long enough to soak in his presence, finally wriggled in his arms and slipped down to the floor, her tiny ballet bag waiting patiently by the mirror. She trotted over to collect her slippers and water bottle, humming softly under her breath, the content ease of a child who knew she was safe again.
Jian Yao's eyes lingered on her student for a moment, the tenderness unmistakable, before she shifted her gaze back to Sicheng. The man stood like a shadow carved in gold, tall and unyielding, his daughter's trust cradled easily in one arm. The sight was arresting, but it was the conversation unspoken between them that pushed her to break the quiet. "Is her uncle always that forgetful?" she asked softly, her voice low enough not to let the little one hear the reproach beneath it.
Sicheng's jaw ticked. His amber gaze slid briefly toward his daughter, then back to Jian Yao, the restrained fury still simmering beneath his skin. "He can be, yes. He's lucky our parents are out of the country right now. If our mother had heard about this, she would have had his head." The edge in his tone sharpened, colder, more dangerous, as though he were speaking of a punishment already decided. "Though he'll be lucky to escape unscathed when I get back to my base."
The words were not bluster. They were a vow. Jian Yao could see it in the set of his shoulders, the tightness in his grip on the strap of his daughter's bag. She frowned faintly, not in disapproval exactly, but in thought. After a moment's quiet deliberation, she made her choice. Moving with the same decisive grace she carried on stage, she stepped to her desk, retrieved a slip of paper, and scribbled down her cellphone number. Crossing back toward him, she held it out, her expression serene yet firm. "If there's ever another time you cannot pick Xiemae up," she said, her voice warm but steady, "message me or call me. I can bring her to your base."
Sicheng's brows lifted, the sharp arch of them paired with the faintest tilt of his mouth. His amber eyes locked on hers with keen intensity. "You know who I am," he said, not as a question but as a challenge, a test wrapped in velvet steel.
A soft laugh escaped her then, light and untroubled, like wind through leaves. It was not mocking, but it did carry a quiet amusement at his suspicion. "Yes, Chessman," she answered without hesitation, sapphire eyes bright with candor. "I know exactly who you are." Her tone carried no awe, no fawning admiration, only simple acknowledgment, and that alone made him narrow his eyes slightly, measuring her again. But she continued before he could speak. "And yes, I know where your base is," she added, a spark of mirth tugging at the corner of her lips. "Because YQCB is right up the hill from yours. Ai Jia, their Midlaner, is dating my best friend, Chen Jinyang. And he happens to be best friends with my older half-brother."
Something flickered across his face, the faintest ripple of surprise cutting through the cool control. "Your brother?"
"Jian Yang," she said softly, the name carrying a weight of familial pride. "Captain and Jungler of CK."
The air shifted subtly, a new current running between them. Sicheng studied her in silence, the slip of paper still in his hand, his daughter happily oblivious as she tucked her slippers into her bag. Jian Yao had just revealed her world, ties to CK, to YQCB, to circles that already overlapped dangerously with his own. Yet she stood there, unafraid, her sapphire eyes calm against the full weight of his whiskey amber gaze. For the first time in years, Sicheng felt something beyond calculation in his chest. A woman who knew exactly who he was, what he represented, and yet still stepped forward without hesitation, offering to carry part of his burden as though it was the most natural thing in the world.
For a long moment, the world seemed to narrow to just the three of them in that quiet rehearsal room, the child humming softly to herself as she stuffed her things into her little bag, the ballerina standing steady and luminous in the muted light, and the man whose very presence seemed to fill the space with storm and shadow.
Sicheng's gaze dropped to the slip of paper between his fingers, the neat lines of Jian Yao's handwriting crisp and deliberate. A simple thing, just a number, yet there was weight to it. She had offered it without hesitation, not as a gesture of deference to who he was in Shenzhen's elite circles or to the fame of Chessman, captain of ZGDX. No, she had done it for his daughter, for Xiemae, who adored her teacher and felt safe in her presence. His amber eyes lifted back to Jian Yao, assessing, measuring, calculating as he always did. But this time something shifted in the equation. He could not deny what he had witnessed: his daughter smiling, safe, unafraid, and this woman standing watch over her with quiet authority. He did not trust easily; he trusted no one with Xiemae. Yet here was Jian Yao, extending herself into his tightly locked world with calm certainty, as though it was not even a question that she would step forward if needed.
Sicheng arched a brow, the sharp line of it both skeptical and intrigued. "You realize what you're offering," he said, his voice low, deep, threaded with a weight that had cowed boardrooms full of men twice her age. "You'd be putting yourself directly between me and the people I trust to handle her."
Jian Yao's lips curved faintly, the softest hint of a smile, though her sapphire eyes remained steady. "Mr. Lu, I'm not offering for your sake. I'm offering for hers. If she ever needs me, I'll be there."
The words were simple, unadorned, yet they struck through him with disarming precision. There was no hidden agenda, no edge of manipulation. Just truth.
Sicheng exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders shifting almost imperceptibly. With deliberate slowness, he folded the slip of paper between his fingers and tucked it into his jacket pocket. He did not thank her, not yet, not in words, but the gesture itself was acknowledgement enough. In his world, accepting that number was no small thing. His amber gaze lingered on her a moment longer, tracing the serenity that clung to her like a second skin, the strength that lay beneath the gentle softness of her features. He was not accustomed to being surprised. Yet Jian Yao had done just that.
From Yao's perspective, the change was subtle but unmistakable. When he first arrived, Lu Sicheng had been all fury and command, his presence a storm that threatened to tear apart whatever stood in its path. Now, though the storm had not passed, it had shifted. His stance remained powerful, his eyes still sharp, but there was something different in the way he looked at her now, measured, considering, as though he had found in her something unexpected, something that didn't fit neatly into the ruthless order of his world. She noted the way his fingers slipped the folded paper into his jacket pocket, not discarded or ignored but kept close, as if already deciding it would not go to waste. She saw the flicker of respect in his gaze, reluctant perhaps, but undeniable, and the faint crease at his brow as though he were puzzling over how she had managed to defy his expectations so thoroughly in the span of an evening.
Yao inclined her head slightly, a quiet acknowledgement of what had just passed between them, before her eyes softened as they drifted back to Xiemae. The little girl was now tugging on her father's sleeve, ready to leave, her smile untroubled and sweet. That smile alone, Yao thought, was worth any amount of late nights or careful boundaries breached.
And as Sicheng turned toward the door with his daughter's hand in his, Yao remained where she stood, calm and composed. Yet inside, she felt the unmistakable weight of a line crossed, a shift in the air between them that was as impossible to undo as it was to ignore.
The weight of the moment lingered as father and daughter turned toward the door, the sound of their footsteps quiet against the polished floor. Jian Yao remained where she was, her hands folding loosely in front of her, sapphire eyes following them with a calmness that belied the ripple moving beneath the surface of her heart. She had done what needed to be done, kept Xiemae safe, offered her father reassurance, and now it was time to let the night fold itself back into silence.
But Xiemae had other ideas.
Just as they reached the threshold, the little girl's tiny hand slipped free from her father's grip. Sicheng glanced down in faint surprise, ready to call her back, but Xiemae was already darting across the studio floor on slippered feet, her hair bouncing with every hurried step. She skidded to a halt before her teacher, eyes sparkling like bits of sunlight trapped in water. "Bye-bye, Miss Yao!" she chirped brightly, her voice full of unfiltered joy.
For the first time that evening, Jian Yao laughed. It was a soft sound, low and lilting, carrying the warmth of sunlight after rain. She bent slightly to meet Xiemae's gaze, her hand brushing gently over the little girl's cheek as she answered with the same warmth, "Goodbye, Xiemae. I'll see you soon."
The exchange was so simple, so pure, yet it carved a picture Sicheng could not look away from. Standing there, his daughter glowing with happiness, and this woman, her laughter quiet but real, her sapphire eyes alight with something that reached past formality, Sicheng felt the edges of his tightly ordered world blur.
Xiemae giggled, her little arms flinging briefly around Yao's waist before she scampered back toward her father, ballet bag bouncing at her side. Jian Yao watched her go, the smile still lingering faintly at her lips.
Sicheng's gaze flicked once more to Jian Yao, the storm of his amber eyes unreadable but heavy with thought. He did not speak this time, not as he gathered his daughter back into his side. But there was something in the silence, acknowledgment, perhaps, or the reluctant acceptance that this was not the last time their paths would cross. With Xiemae clutching his hand once more, he turned and walked out, the sound of the door echoing softly in his wake. Jian Yao stood alone in the rehearsal room, the faint hum of the building settling back into quiet around her, the memory of a child's laughter and a father's storm lingering long after they had gone.
The low growl of the engine filled the car as Sicheng guided it through the quiet streets of Shenzhen. His grip on the steering wheel was still taut, the remnants of fury burning in his veins like hot iron. His brother's face flashed again and again in his mind, the image of Yue lounging at the base while his daughter sat alone in an empty theater twisting his temper tighter. He had half a mind to turn the car around right now and deal with him properly, but Xiemae's soft weight in the passenger seat anchored him in place.
She was buckled in securely, ballet bag at her feet, and for the first time since he picked her up, she was chattering in that innocent, bubbling way that only children could. "Baba," she began, her little voice bright and certain, "Miss Yao danced with me while we were waiting! She showed me how to make my arms like water, see?" She lifted her small hands and moved them in a fluttery arc, her fingers soft and loose the way Jian Yao had taught her. She giggled when she nearly bumped into the door, then tucked her arms back down. "And she said I did good! She said I was graceful. Do you know what graceful means?"
Sicheng's gaze slid to her briefly before returning to the road, the edges of his mouth twitching though his voice remained deep and steady. "It means you looked like a real ballerina."
Xiemae beamed, her cheeks glowing pink with pride. "She's the best, Baba. She's so pretty and nice, and she always helps me even when I mess up. And her laugh," the little girl giggled, mimicking it softly, "it's like bells! Did you hear her laugh when I said bye-bye?"
The corner of his lips finally curved, just slightly, though he kept his expression schooled as his daughter chattered on. Each word she spoke about Jian Yao was full of joy, lightness, and unshakable trust. And for the first time since that phone call, the storm inside him eased, little by little. His daughter hadn't been frightened, hadn't been abandoned to the dark. She had been with someone who kept her safe, someone who gave her laughter when she might have had tears.
Still, the thought of what could have happened made his jaw tighten again. His brother. Careless, selfish, thoughtless Lu Yue. He'd left Xiemae vulnerable, and that was something Sicheng would never, ever forgive. No amount of excuses, no groveling, could wash away the reality that his daughter could have been in danger. He would deal with Yue, and when he did, the boy would understand, truly understand, what it meant to gamble with what Lu Sicheng held most sacred. But for now, he listened. He let Xiemae's sweet voice fill the car, her words chasing away the sharp edges of his anger until they dulled to something colder, more calculated, waiting to be unleashed when the time was right. He glanced at her again, at the way she hugged her ballet bag as though it were treasure, her little feet swinging against the seat.
"Baba?" she piped up after a moment, leaning her cheek against the window, her eyes already heavy with sleep. "Can Miss Yao come watch me dance one day? Not just in class. In a show. She'd like it, I think. She makes me brave."
Something in his chest shifted at that, quiet, unexpected. His voice, when it came, was softer than it had been all night. "If it's important to you, then yes. She'll be there."
Xiemae sighed in contentment, her eyes fluttering shut, her tiny hand still clutching the strap of her bag as sleep pulled her under.
Sicheng drove on, the lights of the city washing over his sharp profile, his amber eyes fixed on the road but his thoughts tangled. Jian Yao's laughter, his daughter's smile, and his brother's looming punishment all coiled inside him. One thing was certain: Jian Yao had stepped into his world tonight, and nothing about that would remain simple.
By the time Sicheng pulled into the long drive that led to his parents' home, the storm inside him had reshaped itself into something colder, sharper, lethal in its precision. The house loomed in quiet stillness, lights dimmed save for the glow he had left on for Xiemae's return. He cut the engine, and for a moment sat in the dark car, watching his daughter sleep in the passenger seat, her small features softened by dreams.
The anger that had carried him through the night thinned as he unbuckled her gently, his large hands precise, careful not to wake her. She murmured faintly, head lolling against his shoulder as he lifted her into his arms. For all his height, his strength, the ruthless aura that made men tremble in boardrooms and on the Rift, he softened completely when holding her, his touch reverent as though she were made of spun glass.
He carried her inside, her ballet bag dangling from his other hand, and walked up the broad staircase toward her room. The walls of the house were lined with reminders of her framed drawings, little shoes kicked aside, a stuffed rabbit abandoned by the couch. Everything else in his life was spare, austere, controlled, but this house bore the undeniable marks of a child's presence. In her bedroom, he laid her carefully on the bed, pulling the blanket over her small body. She shifted, her tiny fist catching the collar of his shirt before releasing it, even in sleep unwilling to let him stray too far.
Sicheng sat there a moment, smoothing the hair back from her forehead, the lines of his face softening in the shadows. Only after her breathing deepened did he stand, the storm in his chest already reigniting. He stepped into his study, the dark wood and shelves of books closing around him like armor. He didn't hesitate as he pulled out his phone and scrolled to the number that mattered most when it came to family. Pressing call, he held the phone to his ear, and after two rings, his mother's voice answered.
"Cheng? It's late." Lu Wang Lan's tone was warm, curious, already laced with the sharp intuition of a mother who knew something was wrong.
"It's about your youngest son," he said, voice low and controlled, though his anger bled into every word.
There was a pause. "What about Yue?"
"He forgot to pick up Xiemae tonight," Sicheng snapped, each syllable clipped. "I was in meetings all day. He promised me he'd handle it. He didn't. She was left waiting after her class ended, alone, until her teacher called me. If not for her, I don't want to imagine what could've happened."
The silence on the other end was brief, but it was seething. He could hear his mother's sharp inhale, and then the explosion of her fury: "That boy! I will wring his neck myself!"
In the background, his father's voice rumbled like distant thunder, clipped and furious: "What the hell do you mean he left her? That idiot, he's twenty-three, not thirteen. He'll answer to me."
Sicheng leaned against the desk, his free hand braced on the wood, the satisfaction of their anger matching his own. "I'll deal with him when I get back to the base," he said coldly. "But I wanted you to know exactly how badly he failed tonight. If Xiemae had been frightened, if she'd been in danger…" His jaw locked. "There's no forgiveness for that."
His mother's voice softened only for Xiemae. "And the child? She's safe?"
"She's asleep now," he said, his voice gentling briefly. "Thanks to her teacher."
"Good," Lan breathed, though the steel returned almost immediately. "Yue won't sit comfortably for months when I'm through with him."
Sicheng ended the call after a few more clipped words, sliding the phone onto his desk with finality. His amber eyes lingered on the dark window, Jian Yao's calm sapphire gaze flickering in memory, her soft laughter echoing with his daughter's. The storm inside him shifted again, unpredictable, unsettling.
Meanwhile, at the ZGDX base, Yue sat stiffly on the couch where his brother had shoved him earlier. The room was quiet now, though the others stole glances at him, some with pity, others with a faint grimace of amusement. Yue knew that look well, they were all thinking the same thing: he was in deep trouble. His leg bounced restlessly, his hands fidgeting with the edge of his hoodie. He wasn't an idiot; he knew exactly what had just happened after his brother left. Sicheng would've gone home, found Xiemae safe, and then made the call. Not to him. No, to the one person guaranteed to make his life a living hell: their mother.
Yue dropped his head back against the couch and groaned aloud. "I'm dead. I'm actually dead. He definitely called Mom. And Dad probably heard. God, I'm so screwed."
The others said nothing, but the way they all avoided his gaze told him enough. He was right. He wasn't just waiting for his brother's wrath anymore, he was waiting for the full force of the Lu family storm to come down on him. And there would be no escape.
The house was hushed, Xiemae's small breaths drifting steadily from her bedroom down the hall. Sicheng remained in his study, the storm inside him far from settled. His call with his parents had only sharpened the edge of his temper, every thought circling back to his daughter left alone because his younger brother had been careless. He could not, would not allow that to go unanswered. Pulling his phone back from the desk, he dialed another number from memory. It rang only once before a voice, brisk and clipped with age and authority, answered.
"Master Cheng?"
"Aunt Mei," he said, his tone softer than it had been all night, though still firm. "I need you to come stay with Xiemae tonight."
On the other end, he could practically hear the woman straightening her posture. Mei had been with the Lu family since before he could walk, a stern and unyielding woman who had watched over him and Yue when their parents traveled, and who had later turned her vigilant eyes toward his daughter. She was one of the very few people he trusted without question.
"Is something wrong?" she asked sharply.
"My brother forgot to pick her up," he said, his voice flat, clipped, the fury beneath it restrained but unmistakable. "She was left waiting until her teacher called me. I brought her home, she's safe and asleep, but I need to return to the base." His jaw tightened, the words dropping like stones. "I can't have her there tonight. Not when I'm about to lose my temper."
There was silence for a beat, then a disapproving frown came through even without sight. "That boy," Mei muttered, her voice heavy with disdain. "Irresponsible since the day he learned to walk. He'll be the death of your poor mother." Then, more firmly, "I'll be there in twenty minutes. She won't be left alone."
"Thank you." Sicheng said, and though his tone was quiet, the sincerity beneath it was clear. When he hung up, he stood for a long moment in the shadows of his study, staring out over the sprawling city lights beyond his windows. His reflection glimmered faintly in the glass: tall, broad-shouldered, his amber eyes hard as steel, his mouth a thin, ruthless line.
Usually, he would have carried his daughter with him back to the ZGDX base. Her room there was filled with toys, books, and familiar comforts, a place he had built for her so she could always remain close no matter how heavy his obligations became. But tonight was different. Tonight he would not have her near him.
Because tonight, everyone at that base, his brother most of all, was going to be reminded why Lu Sicheng was called the King of Ice and Darkness. Why he commanded fear not just in the esports world but across Shenzhen's elite circles. Why men older, wealthier, and more powerful than him still lowered their eyes when he entered a room.
Tonight, he would let his fury loose. Cold, merciless, controlled only enough to sear itself into memory. No one would forget what had happened. His brother would bear the brunt of it, but the rest of them, too, would carry the weight of the lesson: Xiemae was untouchable, and anyone who failed her, even once, would face the wrath of the man who built his world on her safety.
His phone buzzed again.
Aunt Mei: I'm here.
He moved quickly, climbing the stairs to his daughter's room one last time. Standing in the doorway, he let his eyes rest on her small sleeping form. Her hair spilled across the pillow, her rabbit clutched tight in her arms, her face peaceful, untouched by the turmoil of the night.
Sicheng stepped in, pulled the blanket higher around her shoulders, and let his hand rest for a fleeting moment against her hair. Then he straightened, his eyes sharpening, the cold fire of his temper rekindling in his chest. By the time he descended the stairs, Aunt Mei was waiting in the foyer, her sharp eyes already assessing him. She gave a curt nod. "Go. I'll guard her with my life." He inclined his head, the respect mutual, and without another word stepped out into the night. His stride was long, powerful, predatory as he crossed to his car. The engine roared to life, headlights slicing through the darkness as he turned back toward the ZGDX base. The King of Ice and Darkness was coming home, and by the time the sun rose, everyone under that roof would remember exactly why he was feared.
At the ZGDX base the atmosphere had curdled into a heavy, suffocating silence. Screens still glowed from paused scrims, headsets lay abandoned on desks, but no one dared resume play. Every one of them had felt the crackle of fury when Sicheng stormed out earlier, and every one of them knew exactly what that meant.
Yue, however, was pacing like a trapped animal. He had switched between sitting and standing half a dozen times in the last ten minutes, his face pale, his hands twisting in agitation. His eyes flicked toward the door, calculating how quickly he could make it out, maybe lose himself at a friend's place until the storm passed. He made it halfway across the room before a hand shot out and gripped the back of his shirt. Yue stumbled, nearly choking on his own breath as he was yanked backwards.
"Going somewhere?" Ming's low voice cut through the room like ice. The former mid-laner and current coach stood behind him, taller, immovable, his face hard with disdain.
Yue tried to twist free, but Ming's grip only tightened, his fist bunching the fabric until Yue felt the collar dig into his throat. "I—Ming, come on, I just—"
"You just left Xiemae waiting alone," Ming snapped, his eyes narrowing into something sharp and dangerous. "You think you're running from this? From him?" His lips curled in something that wasn't quite a smile. "You're not going anywhere. You're going to sit your ass down and wait. You earned what's coming."
The others didn't move. Rui looked grim from his chair, Pang fiddled nervously with his headset, Mao leaned back but his eyes never left Yue. No one was going to intervene. No one was foolish enough to shield him from the wrath he deserved.
Ming shoved him back toward the couch, and Yue landed hard, his mouth working silently as though trying to form an excuse. But the words died in his throat, because at that exact moment, the low, unmistakable rumble of an engine carried into the base from outside.
Every head turned.
The sound stopped. A door slammed. Footsteps, measured, unhurried, yet heavy with intent, echoed closer. The air in the room grew taut, every man in it suddenly remembering why Sicheng was called Chessman, the Ice King, the one whose authority extended far beyond the Rift. The door opened, and he stepped inside. Tall, dark, and cutting a figure that radiated power, Sicheng filled the threshold with a presence so cold it stole the air from the room. His amber eyes swept across them once, dismissing everyone in seconds until they landed on the one man he had come for.
Yue swallowed hard, his throat clicking audibly.
Sicheng shut the door behind him with a quiet finality, each click of his polished shoes against the floor making the silence heavier. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. His fury was carved into every line of his face, into the deadly precision of his movements.
Everyone in that base understood, in that moment, why he was feared across China not just as a captain but as a man. This was the King of Ice and Darkness, and tonight his brother was going to learn what it meant to stand on the wrong side of him.
The silence inside the base was thick enough to suffocate. Lu Yue sat frozen on the couch, his legs stiff, his palms slick with sweat. His chest rose and fell too quickly as his eyes darted up at his brother's figure, framed by the door like an executioner stepping into the chamber.
Then came the command.
"Everyone but him," Sicheng's voice cut through the air, low and deadly calm, "out. Now." It wasn't shouted. It didn't need to be. The weight behind those words pressed against every man in the room like iron.
Lao K was on his feet first, not even sparing Yue a glance as he strode out. Lao Mao followed, his normally relaxed demeanor gone, jaw tight. Pang, who had been twitching nervously since the engine was first heard, practically tripped over himself to scramble after them. Ming's hand released Yue's shirt at last, but the look he gave him as he stepped away said it all: You brought this on yourself. Rui, silent and grim, was the last to leave, pulling the door shut behind him.
The latch clicked, and with that sound Yue's stomach dropped into his shoes.
The room was suddenly too big, too empty, the only sound the slow, deliberate rhythm of Sicheng's shoes crossing the floor. Each step echoed like a countdown in Yue's skull. His pulse thundered in his ears, his throat working as he tried to swallow against the rising panic. "Maybe if I explain. Maybe if I apologize right away. He's angry, but he loves Xiemae too. He'll—" No. That was a lie, and Yue knew it. His brother did not forgive when it came to Xiemae. The child was everything, the single exception to the cold ruthlessness that defined Lu Sicheng. And Yue had failed her. He had left her vulnerable. His thoughts scrambled in circles, his mind seizing on every memory of his brother's temper, icy, controlled, devastating when unleashed. He had seen Sicheng take apart executives twice his age in business meetings, and had watched him eviscerate rivals with nothing more than words. But this was different. This was Xiemae.
Sicheng stopped directly in front of him. Amber eyes like molten whiskey bore down on him, unblinking, unreadable, yet filled with the kind of cold fire that made Yue want to shrink into the cushions. For one final moment, the silence stretched, Yue's breath coming shallow and ragged as though his lungs couldn't pull enough air. Then his brother spoke, voice low, lethal, and stripped of restraint.
"You left my daughter alone."
And with those words, the last of Yue's frantic hopes crumbled.
Sicheng's words hung in the air like a death sentence.
The syllables were quiet, almost soft, but the weight behind them pressed on Yue's chest like iron. His mouth went dry. He tried to wet his lips, tried to find words, anything that could buy him a scrap of mercy. "I—I didn't mean to," he stammered, his voice cracking in the silence. His hands twisted together in his lap, knuckles white. "I was scrimming, and time just, slipped away. I thought I'd go right after—"
"After what?" Sicheng's voice cut through him like a blade. He took a single step closer, the shadow of his tall frame falling over Yue. His amber eyes burned cold, like molten metal frozen mid-flow. "After my six-year-old sat in an empty theater wondering if her family had forgotten her?"
Yue's breath hitched. He shook his head desperately, hands flying up in defense. "No! It wasn't like that—l, I thought she'd be fine for a little while! Miss Jian was there, she—"
That was the wrong name to say.
Sicheng's eyes narrowed, sharp as a blade's edge. "So you're telling me," he drawled, voice dropping lower, quieter, more dangerous, "that my daughter was safe not because of you, but because a stranger cared enough to do what you should have?"
Yue's words dried up. His heart thudded painfully against his ribs as the air in the room seemed to grow colder.
Sicheng moved suddenly, the violent precision of it making Yue flinch back into the couch cushions. His hand shot out, gripping the collar of Yue's hoodie and yanking him forward until they were nose to nose. His brother's breath caught in his throat as he was forced to stare into eyes that had made grown men fold in boardrooms, eyes that did not waver, did not forgive. "You had one job today," Sicheng hissed, the fury in his voice vibrating against Yue's bones. "One job. To pick her up. Not to play, not to waste time, not to forget. And you failed. You failed her."
Yue's chest heaved, panic clawing up his throat. "I swear, it won't happen again—"
"It won't," Sicheng snapped, shoving him back so hard into the couch the wooden frame groaned under the impact. "Because if it does, you won't see her again. Not as her uncle, not as family, not as anything."
Yue's eyes widened, horror slicing through his panic. His brother's tone wasn't exaggeration. It wasn't a threat. It was a vow, absolute and final.
Sicheng straightened, towering over him, his chest rising and falling with the force of restrained fury. His hand flexed once at his side, the only sign he was keeping himself from going further. His words, however, struck like blows. "You want to be treated like a man, Yue? Then act like one. Because right now, you're nothing but a liability. And I don't keep liabilities near my daughter."
The silence that followed was crushing. Yue sat hunched on the couch, pale, trembling, his mind spinning with the realization that he had crossed a line that might never fully be repaired.
Sicheng turned away finally, his shoulders squared, every inch of him radiating the lethal calm of a man who had unleashed just enough of his wrath to make sure it would never be forgotten. His voice carried back over his shoulder, cold and merciless. "Don't think for a second that I did not tell our parents every word of this. You're lucky she was unharmed. Pray you never give me a reason to doubt her safety again."
The door opened, then shut, the sound final, leaving Yue in the crushing silence of his own regret.
The door shut behind Sicheng with a sharp, final snap that reverberated through the main room like the closing of a cell door. For a long moment, the silence that followed was absolute.
Yue sat slumped on the couch where his brother had left him, pale and shaking. His hands, which had once been clenched in useless defense, now hung limp at his sides, fingers trembling slightly. His chest rose and fell too fast, lungs still struggling to catch up after being pinned beneath the full force of his brother's wrath. His ears still rang with the words, You failed her. His stomach twisted with the weight of what he had almost cost.
The handle clicked softly, and one by one, the others filed cautiously back into the room. Lao Mao entered first, broad-shouldered and quiet, his eyes sharp as they flicked over Yue. Pang came next, his usual boyish chatter absent, replaced with a wary glance and the nervous habit of chewing his lip. Lao K leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his face unreadable. Rui walked in stiff-backed, his manager's instinct already calculating the fallout. Ming was last, shutting the door with deliberate care, his eyes cold as he looked down at the younger Lu.
No one spoke at first. The air was still heavy with the echo of Sicheng's presence, the temperature of the room colder, sharper, as if the walls themselves remembered his fury.
Finally, Pang muttered, "Damn, Yue, you're lucky he didn't actually kill you."
The glare Lao K shot him silenced him immediately.
Yue pressed his hands over his face, groaning softly, his voice muffled. "I know. I screwed up. I really," His voice broke, then steadied again, quieter. "I really screwed up this time."
Ming stepped closer, his expression like steel. "You think? You're lucky it was just his words this time. If Xiemae had been hurt, he wouldn't have stopped there." He leaned down, his voice dropping, cutting sharp as a blade. "And I wouldn't have blamed him."
Yue flinched, his face twisting, shame coiling hot and choking in his chest. None of them offered comfort. None of them would. Because they all knew the truth: when it came to Xiemae, Sicheng's fury was absolute. And Yue had walked straight into its center.
Across the base, down the hall, Sicheng had shut himself away in his office. The silence here was different, controlled, measured, the perfect environment for the Ice King to contain the storm still coursing through his veins. He leaned against the edge of his desk, one hand braced hard on the polished surface, the other dragging through his hair in a rare sign of agitation.
He had unleashed enough of his temper to make his brother feel the full weight of his failure, but the anger hadn't vanished. It still burned, banked like coals, smoldering just beneath the surface. He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly, forcing his breath into steady rhythm. And yet, cutting through the remnants of rage, another image persisted. A pair of sapphire eyes, calm and unyielding. A soft laugh, light as bells. His daughter's small hand clutching that woman's skirt, safe and comforted. Jian Yao.
It unsettled him that his thoughts returned to her. Not to his parents' wrath that would inevitably fall on Yue, not to the endless calculations of schedules and games, not even to the fury still simmering in his chest. But to her. To the ballerina who had stood unflinching in his presence, who had written her number on a scrap of paper and offered it to him with steady hands, not caring that she was stepping into the world of Lu Sicheng, the Ice King.
His fingers brushed over his jacket pocket, where the folded slip of paper rested. He hadn't realized until now that he had slipped it inside with unusual care, as though already acknowledging it mattered more than he had wanted to admit. He exhaled, long and slow, amber eyes dark as they opened again. Jian Yao had kept his daughter safe tonight when family had failed. And that… that was something he would not forget.
The main room felt different without Sicheng's presence. The storm had passed through and left its mark: the air was brittle, the silence sharp enough to sting. Lu Yue still sat slouched on the couch, pale and stricken, his fingers nervously worrying the hem of his hoodie. Every so often his leg bounced, a jitter he couldn't suppress no matter how hard he tried.
No one rushed to fill the quiet. Lao Mao sprawled into a chair, arms crossed, his sharp eyes fixed on the younger Lu like he was studying him under a microscope. Pang sat at his desk, fiddling with his headset, but his gaze kept darting back, equal parts curious and pitying. Lao K remained leaned against the wall, his expression as unreadable as ever, though the set of his jaw said he was still simmering over what had happened. Ming, however, didn't look away once. His stare pinned Yue in place, cold and unflinching, the weight of judgment heavy.
Finally, it was Rui who broke the silence. He let out a long, weary sigh, setting aside the clipboard he had been pretending to review. His voice was calm, practical, but carried the kind of authority that could cut through even the thickest tension.
"Just keep your head down," Rui said, his tone heavy but steady. "Do well in training, and don't give him another reason to rip you to shreds. He'll cool his temper soon enough."
Yue's head snapped up, eyes wide. "You think so?"
Rui's brows lifted, unimpressed. "If you're lucky." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the shadows under his eyes deepening. "But luck won't save you if you slip again. Not after this. So until then? Stay quiet. Stay sharp. And stay the hell out of his way." The warning landed hard, Yue's shoulders sinking under its weight. His throat tightened as Rui continued, matter-of-fact but unyielding. "We've got the drawing match coming up in a matter of weeks," Rui reminded them all, his gaze sweeping across the room. "And after that? Kickoff against CK." His eyes cut back to Yue with deliberate emphasis. "The last thing we need is distractions. Or worse, a captain who thinks his own brother can't be trusted."
The words stung, and Yue flinched. He dropped his gaze, staring down at his hands twisting in his lap. The thought of facing CK, facing Jian Yang, that smug bastard, was already pressure enough. But to do it under the shadow of his brother's fury? The weight felt unbearable.
Pang, trying to ease the heaviness, let out a nervous laugh. "So basically… survive practice, don't make eye contact, and pray Cheng-ge doesn't remember you exist until the kickoff?"
No one laughed. Not even Pang himself.
Ming's voice was low, dangerous, as he added, "He won't forget. Not when it comes to Xiemae. You don't get forgiven for that."
Yue swallowed hard, a bead of sweat sliding down the back of his neck. His brother's words rang in his ears again: If it happens again, you won't see her as family anymore. The thought of losing even that thread of connection to his niece was a knife twisting deep.
The room fell silent once more, only the faint hum of the monitors filling the air. The team's focus had already shifted forward, toward scrims, toward the looming kickoff against CK, but Yue remained trapped in the echo of his brother's wrath. Because unlike the others, he knew this wasn't something Sicheng would simply cool from. Not really. He had seen his brother angry before, but this, this had been different. And deep down, Yue understood the truth: he wasn't afraid of CK. He wasn't afraid of Jian Yang. He was afraid of Lu Sicheng.
Author's Note: The Muse would like to say if you can not leave kudos or even if you can leave kudos that all comments, even small ones, are very much welcomed and they very much enjoy reading them! 🥰🥰🥰🥰