The dawn on Sheng Street was a soft, watercolor wash of gray and gold.
Downstairs in the living room, Shu Yao lay curled on the sofa, a fragile silhouette against the worn upholstery. A fluffy, ivory blanket had been tucked around him with surgical precision—Han Ruyan's silent apology for year's of ice. For the first time in years, Shu Yao had slept without the crushing weight of Rothenberg expectations, but the peace was shallow.
In the depths of his subconscious, the shadows of the alleyway still prowled. Shen Haoxuan's face, a pale, digital specter, flickered in his dreams like a broken film strip.
Shu Yao jolted upright, his breath coming in sharp, serrated gasps. His eyes searched the dim room, landing on the familiar floral wallpaper. He wasn't in the cellar. He wasn't in the hospital. He was home.
The air in the kitchen was thick with a scent that belonged to a different life. It was the aroma of hot oil, flour, and a sweetness that tugged at his earliest memories.
Shu Yao rose, dragging the blanket behind him like a royal cape, and drifted toward the light of the kitchen. There stood his mother, her silhouette framed by the rising steam. She was focused, her hands moving with a rhythmic grace he hadn't seen since his childhood.
"Why are you up so early, my prince?" Han Ruyan asked, her voice a warm embrace. She turned, her brow furrowing as she saw his tear-streaked face.
She stepped forward, cupping his cheek in a palm that felt like sandpaper and silk. "Did my child have a bad dream?"
Shu Yao lowered his head, a hot flush of shame rising to his ears. He was twenty-four, a man who navigated the treacherous waters of international fashion, yet here he was, fumbling with his fingers like a schoolboy.
"I... it was nothing, Mother," he whispered
"Don't be shy, Shu-er," she murmured, crouching down to meet his gaze. She laughed—a sound that hadn't graced this house since before Qing Yue's death. "You may be a man to the world, but in these four walls, you are still the quiet boy who needed his mother to chase away the monsters."
She kissed the top of his head, her eyes sparkling with a newfound maternal fire. "Stay there. I am making your favorite—Mahua."
Shu Yao's eyes widened. For months, he had barely eaten; the stress of Bai Qi's grief had turned his stomach to stone. But the mention of the twisted, fried dough made his heart skip.
"Mother, it's too much work," he protested, though his mouth watered at the thought of the golden, crunchy treats.
"Nothing is too much for my son," she countered, turning back to the stove.
Shu Yao watched her work, the sizzling of the dough acting as a lullaby for his frayed nerves. He felt a visceral, aching sense of safety. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes closing as he inhaled the savory-sweet aroma.
Am I asking for too much? he wondered, a shy smile touching his lips. To be a child again, if only for an hour?
While Sheng Street smelled of fried dough, the Rothenberg Villa smelled of cold marble and expensive cologne.
Bai Qi stood before his floor-to-ceiling mirror, a monolithic figure of obsidian and granite. He was already dressed for the day, his white shirt crisp enough to cut, his suit jacket a masterwork of rothenberg tailoring.
He didn't look like a man who had been drunk the night before. He looked like a predator who had polished his claws.
At the Rothenberg headquarters, Ming Su was already waiting. She sat in the reception lounge, her pose a perfect, blasphemous imitation of a grieving saint. Shen had promised her a "surprise"—a weapon that would make Bai Qi so vulnerable she could finally claim the throne.
She checked her reflection in her compact, a jagged, predatory smirk tugging at her lips. The stage was set for the Monarch's arrival, but the script had been rewritten in the dark.
Thousands of miles away, the heavy glass doors of the private terminal hissed open.
A woman stepped out onto the tarmac, her presence so commanding it seemed to halt the very wind. Bai Mingzhu was forty, but she moved with the ethereal, ageless grace of a Chinese Diva. She wore a wide-brimmed hat adorned with a massive white bow, her hand clutched firmly around her husband's elbow.
Beside her, Niklas Rothenberg—the true Lion of the empire—walked with a slow, terrifying composure. His eyes, the color of cold ocean, scanned the horizon with a lethal intelligence. He was slightly piqued by the political machinations of Shen Baoliang, but for his wife, he remained a pillar of iron.
"Darling, how much longer?" Mingzhu asked, her voice a melodic trill of excitement.
"It is a private transport, Mingzhu," Niklas responded, his voice a deep, resonant rumble. "It won't take much time."
"I have so many presents!" she chirped, gesturing toward the mountain of luggage being dragged by a sweating, weary Charles. "The boys will love them.
Especially Shu Yao. I found the most precious gift for him—he is so very dear to our Bai Qi."
Charles wiped his brow, glancing at the dozens of trunks. "Ma'am... I think we have brought the entirety of Germany with us."
Mingzhu laughed, a sound like silver bells, covering her mouth with a gloved hand. "Oh, dear Charles! Is it really that much? I simply didn't realize... I wanted everything to be perfect for our return."
Niklas checked his grand Rothenberg watch—a masterpiece of gold and gears. "It is time."
The true King and Queen of the Rothenberg Industry began their ascent into the private jet. The "Ice Monarch" was playing at power in China, but the creators of the empire were returning to reclaim the board.
Meanwhile, Shu Yao ate with a quiet, childlike reverence. Every crunch of the golden Mahua felt like a shield being rebuilt around his heart. For a moment, the shadows of the Rothenberg empire were a thousand miles away. When his plate finally became a clean expanse of white porcelain, he hesitated, his eyes darting toward the stove with a shy, lingering hunger.
Han Ruyan caught his gaze and beamed, her heart swelling with a warmth she hadn't felt in years. "It's all yours, Shu-er," she murmured, her voice thick with maternal pride. "Wait right there. Let me fill another plate for my prince."
As she disappeared back into the kitchen, Shu Yao glanced around to ensure he was alone. With a guilty, boyish smile, he secretly licked the sweet residue from his fingers before taking a long, bracing sip of his jasmine tea.
His mother returned, placing a steaming heap of freshly fried dough before him. She stood beside him, her hand resting dearly on his head, smoothing his hair as he began to eat again, slower this time.
"I'll go wash the dishes," she whispered, her eyes softening as she watched him. "You finish every bite, okay? Tell me if you want more."
Shu Yao nodded, his mouth full, feeling a profound sense of belonging that no amount of luxury could ever provide. He ate until he was comfortably full, the tension in his shoulders finally dissolving.
The peace lasted only until he remembered the world outside
He stood up, his movements still slightly stiff from his healing ribs, and walked into the living room. He retrieved his phone from the couch cushions, the screen illuminating his pale face.
There was nothing from Bai Qi.
The silence from the Monarch was a cold, jagged void. Instead, the screen was flooded with a frantic litany of notifications from
Mr, George—missed calls, voice notes, and urgent texts that Shu Yao didn't have the strength to read yet.
"I should get ready," he whispered to the empty room. "I have to face him eventually."
He turned toward the stairs, but stopped mid-step. Perched on the third step, watching him with luminous, unblinking emerald eyes, was Juju.
Shu Yao gasped, a wave of visceral guilt washing over him. In the nightmare of the hospital, he had forgotten his only true companion. He crouched down, his arms reaching out as the cat let out a soft, questioning meow.
"I am so sorry," Shu Yao choked out, pulling the feline into his chest. He buried his face in Juju's soft fur, the rhythmic purring acting as a balm to his frayed nerves. "I left you all alone. Forgive me, Juju."
He carried the cat upstairs into his sanctuary. He placed Juju on the bed—unaware that the wardrobe behind him had already been plundered—and headed into the bathroom.
The scent of blueberry shampoo soon filled the air, a sweet, sugary aroma that Shu Yao used to drown out the lingering metallic scent of the hospital. Under the spray of the hot water, he closed his eyes.
Across the city, the atmosphere was far from sweet.
Bai Qi sat in the grand dining hall of the Villa, the morning sun reflecting off the silver service with a blinding intensity. He was sipping a black coffee, his eyes fixed on the television mounted on the far wall.
The news anchor's voice was crisp and professional: "...and in breaking news, the private jet of Niklas Rothenberg has just entered Chinese airspace. The 'Lion of German Fashion' and his wife, the diva Bai Mingzhu, are expected to land within the hour..."
The porcelain cup in Bai Qi's hand jerked.
Hot coffee splashed over the rim, staining his white cuff and the mahogany table. He jolted upright, his obsidian eyes blown wide with a mixture of shock and sudden, frantic irritation.
"Damnit," he hissed, his voice a low growl. "They're already here? Why now?"
"Of course they are," a voice drawled from the doorway.
Armin stood there, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression one of weary, seasoned judgment. He looked at the spilled coffee and then at the disarray in Bai qi eyes.
"What did you expect, Bai Qi?" Armin asked, his voice dripping with a subtle, icy sarcasm. "Did you think they would stay in Germany forever while you burned the empire to the ground? Did you think you'd sit in that chair unchallenged until the end of time?"
Bai Qi snapped his head toward his older brother, his jaw set in a line of defensive arrogance. "Of course I will! Who else is going to lead everything? My father gave me the mantle. I am the Boss!"
Armin's retreat was silent, but the weight of his disapproval lingered in the air like a cold draft. Bai Qi stood alone in the cavernous dining hall, his reflection caught in the polished silver of the coffee service. He straightened his spine, his ego flaring like a dying star.
"Whatever," he muttered to the empty room, his voice a jagged edge of denial. "I am not afraid of the man who raised me. He wouldn't dare to dismantle what I've built... and my mother?" A ghost of an arrogant smile touched his lips. "She has always been my greatest advocate. She will listen to me. She always does."
He clenched his jaw, the muscle leaping beneath his skin in a display of dramatic defiance. He looked down at his stained cuff, the brown mark of the coffee looking like a blemish on his perfection. "Ruined," he spat, his eyes darkening with irritation.
"Everything is becoming so messy. I need to change."
While the "Prince" retreated to his wardrobe, the real world was erupting into chaos at the airport's VIP terminal.
The cameras were the first thing one noticed—a thousand artificial eyes flickering and flashing like a lightning storm.
Niklas Rothenberg stepped through the sliding glass doors, and the atmosphere in the terminal seemed to thicken, his sheer presence demanding a silence that the reporters were too frantic to give.
Beside him, Bai Mingzhu was a vision of radiant, calculated grace. She didn't shy away from the lenses; she embraced them.
"Mr. Rothenberg! Over here!" a reporter screamed, thrusting a microphone forward like a weapon. "Is the rumor true? Is the new Autumn collection meant to be a tribute to your son's leadership in China?"
"Mrs. Rothenberg! Look this way!" another bellowed. "How do you feel about the your son recent performance? Is the family legacy secure?"
Mingzhu maintained her smile—a masterpiece of poise and porcelain.
She didn't answer, but her eyes sparkled with the practiced warmth of a global diva who knew exactly how to play a crowd without saying a single word.
Niklas, however, was a different story. He didn't have the time, nor the inclination, to deal with the vultures of the press. His face was a mask of chiseled stone, his eyes fixed on the black car waiting at the curb. He didn't look like a man returning for a vacation; he looked like a general returning to a frontline that had been poorly managed.
He placed a firm, protective hand on Mingzhu's waist, guiding her through the sea of flashing lights with an efficiency that was terrifying to behold.
He didn't speak to the reporters. He didn't acknowledge the cameras.
He simply moved through them as if they were ghosts, his mind already miles away—at the Villa, and at the office where his son was playing a dangerous game with the Rothenberg name.
The True King had landed.