"Teacher… please tell me how Kura is right now."Bài Qíyuè rushed forward, her voice trembling with desperation despite her attempt to remain calm.
Tiny Kyoren's small fists clung tightly to her shoulders, his wide eyes fixed upon Qin Róu with childlike curiosity—recognition flickering in them, for he knew this was his father's teacher.
Qin Róu fully turned to face her, his soft fox ears twitching faintly. His gaze lingered on Qíyuè only briefly before it fell upon Kyoren, who was already reaching out, small arms spread wide, pleading to be carried. His drooping ears betrayed his sadness—the ache of being apart from his father for too long.
Clearing his throat, Qin Róu extended his arms, his tone low and heavy, tinged with both worry and reassurance as he took Kyoren into his embrace. The child clung tightly, as though searching for fragments of his father within his teacher's warmth.
"I've… seen his condition. He's neither fine—"
Bài Qíyuè gasped sharply, her chest tightening, her breath faltering. Was Kura's state still dire—or was something even worse waiting to be spoken? Her blue eyes widened, ears drooping low with dread, and her fox tails quivered faintly behind her.
But Qin Róu quickly continued, though Kyoren cupped his face, turning it this way and that—demanding his full attention. Each time the boy forced his gaze aside, Qin Róu dutifully returned his eyes to Qíyuè.
"—nor is he gone. He is… weakened. His life force falters, glitched as if fractured—whether from breaking it willingly for someone, or perhaps from a sorrow too deep for us to truly know." He exhaled, his expression clouded. "But he yet endures. Our rituals are holding his life force steady. And if… if they should fail…"
Her breath caught, heart racing painfully. She swallowed hard, the words trembling out of her throat.
"Then? Th–then what, sir?"
Qin Róu's arms shifted to hold Kyoren more securely, the child's silver fox ears twitching restlessly as sleep crept upon him. The boy pressed his face into Qin Róu's shoulder, seeking comfort.
"Then… someone will need to give him half of their own life force. Only then might he live."
The color drained from Qíyuè's face. Her steps faltered as if struck, lips parting soundlessly, hands curling into fists so tight her knuckles whitened.
Qin Róu read her turmoil, and before she could cry out, he placed a steadying hand upon her shoulder, his grip gentle but firm.
"I know. It sounds like a storm waiting to break. But we are not idle. Sir Hàn Zhì has already offered himself if the need arises—his strength far surpasses ours."
Qíyuè forced a breath through her trembling lips, closing her eyes to push down the flood of fear. When they opened again, they were rimmed red, yet steadier. Qin Róu sighed as well, shifting Kyoren, who now whimpered softly in hunger.
"You should feed him," Qin Róu murmured, stroking the boy's hair. "Poor child is overwhelmed. Kazomaki cannot attend him right now. Better to send him back to the palace—his father's servants can care for him until…" His words trailed, heavy with the unspoken.
Qíyuè hesitated, then nodded faintly.
"Y… yes, I'll… but—"
Qin Róu shook his head gently.
"No. I will take him myself. You must remain. Kazomaki is more than a title—he is a symbol, a flame that draws danger ever closer. And while he is weak, someone he trusts must stand at his side."
Her voice softened to a whisper, fragile as glass.
"Then… where is he, sir? May I see him?"
Qin Róu's expression shifted, his voice lowering to a near-whisper, careful not to disturb the sick students along the corridor.
"Come. He is in Emergency Chamber 202."
Their boots echoed faintly through the quiet halls. On the way, Qin Róu picked up a small bottle of milk with a glass nipple and placed it in Kyoren's hands. The child latched on hungrily, drinking as his eyelids drooped. By the time they reached the chamber, his tiny fist still clutched the half-empty bottle.
The door creaked open.
Bài Qíyuè's breath faltered. On the bed lay Kuradome—his lips pale and dry, his vibrant eyes dulled to lifeless red shadows beneath their lids. His long silver hair spilled loose across the pillow and bed, no longer tied, strands like threads of moonlight. His chest rose and fell shallowly, each breath fragile yet still present.
"K… Kura…"
The name fell from her lips in a whisper barely audible, as if the weight of the air itself pressed her voice down. Her steps grew heavy, unbearably so, each one burning with the heat of unshed tears. Slowly, trembling, she reached for his hand. His skin was cold—terrifyingly close to lifeless—yet not gone.
Qin Róu's eyes softened. He entered quietly, Kyoren nestled in his arms, the bottle still clutched but forgotten. But the moment the child caught the familiar scent—the scent that always clung to his father—he stirred awake, rubbing his eyes before breaking into a desperate wail.
"Fa… fa…"
His cries pierced the silence, his little arms straining toward the unmoving figure. Qin Róu knelt by the bedside, but before Qíyuè could gather Kyoren, the boy wriggled free with surprising strength, clambering onto the bed.
He pressed himself against Kuradome's chest, small hands cupping his father's cold face, tears streaking down as he attempted to mimic the kisses his father so often gave him. Each press of his lips was clumsy, messy, but filled with unshaken love.
Both Qin Róu and Qíyuè froze, their hearts twisting at the sight. Qin Róu made to lift the boy away—fearing Kuradome's frail state—but Kyoren cried sharply, his wails trembling with grief. And even in unconsciousness, Kuradome's body flinched faintly, as though his son's cries reached some hidden part of him.
Unable to tear them apart, they could only watch. Kyoren settled against his father's chest,Here's a polished version of that part:
He lay across Kuradome's chest . his small head resting over the faint beat . His golden eyes glistening with unshed tears and soaking the red robe...
He cupped his father's face as he tried to mimic the gentle kisses Kuradome always gave him—those soft, comforting gestures meant to wake him, soothe him, or simply make him happy. Each kiss was like a treasured elixir for Kyoren, a daily sip of warmth and safety he craved.
Qin Róu finally exhaled, his voice low, pained, yet filled with quiet reverence.
"The bond between them… it is one of those loves unbreakable. But should it shatter… the one to suffer most will not be the child, nor Qíyuè… but Kazomaki himself."
Qíyuè's vision blurred with tears, but she blinked them away, glancing at her teacher just as he turned. Without another word, he stepped from the chamber, leaving her alone amidst the fragile silence—Kuradome still, Kyoren clinging to him, and the weight of unspoken love filling the air like a storm before dawn.