The sunlight, now fully present, filtered through the half-drawn curtains, no longer a slow gold, but a vibrant, living sheet of bronze, painting the quiet air of the bedroom. The scent of wood polish and faint, lingering incense filled the space.
"Oh, my little brother…" Hàn Zì's voice was soft, almost teasing, yet threaded with a quiet, observant protectiveness. He sat on the edge of the bed, his formal robes a contrast to the casual intimacy of the morning. "Do your friends bully you too much? You look like you've been fighting off a pack of hounds. Then I might have to complain at the class—ask Shīfù to fake care about it "
He reached out, his long fingers carefully brushing Hàn Zài's messy, ink-black hair back from his forehead with deliberate, fraternal tenderness.
Hàn Zài rolled his eyes, a flicker of irritation crossing his face, his eyelids blinking a little slower than usual before he sighed, a sound of practiced exhaustion.
" No need..No one can bully me," he said flatly, the statement delivered with the ease of an undeniable truth. Pride rose like a spark in his chest and was reflected in the almost desperate murmurs that followed, barely audible against the clink of porcelain. "This Hàn Zài can do the bullying if he wishes. I am the Second Dàozǔ, after all."
"The gang boss behind the formal robes," Hàn Zì teased softly, his eyes sparkling as he watched his brother.
Hàn Zài took a spoonful of his savory soup, his gaze flicking toward the small, antique porcelain cup of potent rice liquor beside it. The faint, heady scent of wine stirred something restless and impatient inside him—the excitement and ache of wanting to remember it quickly again, to feel the sharp edge of experience cut through the morning haze.
Hàn Zì chuckled, a melodic sound. He was now meticulously testing the ratio of wine to water in his own cup, tilting the vessel as though it were a secret potion whose balance determined the fate of the entire empire.
"That boy, Yǐng Huō…" he began, his tone shifting slightly, now edged with a keen, thoughtful note. "Isn't he the son of Father's close friend? You two were born at the exact same hour, weren't you? The only difference is that since that moment, he's been claiming everything you have as his—from the attention of the maids to the best poetry professor."
His laughter was light, nostalgic—but also clearly edged with a deeper, underlying thought about hierarchy and place.
Hàn Zài watched quietly, the steam from his soup curling around his face. His brother suddenly, decisively, pulled open the heavy curtains. The last barrier against the morning was gone. The sun burst into the room like a bright, blinding blade, cutting through the shadows.
"Ah—!" Hàn Zài hissed sharply, a reflexive, almost theatrical sound of pain, shielding his eyes with his hand, his body recoiling. His murmured felt like desperate, dramatic self-pity, an intense, habitual exaggeration. "My eyes—burning, gēge… I am a creature of the night, not your blinding sun…"
Hàn Zì only smiled, the corner of his lips turning up in silent amusement as he sat beside him. He cleared his throat, his next words measured.
"At least you have someone who treats you like a person, not just as the Second Dàozǔ."
That simple statement struck something deep and resonant within Hàn Zài. His gaze involuntarily drifted toward the small, polished table by his bed, where a paper packet of roasted chestnuts sat—still radiating a soft, persistent warmth.
Yǐng Huō had brought them earlier, tossing them onto the table with a casual, familiar disrespect that others wouldn't dare.
Hàn Zài picked one up thoughtfully, the weight of it comforting, and deliberately cracked the shell. The crisp snap filled the soft silence between them. Hàn Zì reached for one too, his attention now turned outward, and together they ate, wordlessly watching the city through the tall, arched window—sunlight glinting off distant, jade-tiled roofs, kites blooming like scattered petals across the endless, pale sky.
One kite caught Hàn Zài's eye—a large, scarlet-red one with two bold, arresting words painted across its surface:
忘花 (Wàng Huā) — Forgotten Flower.
Something inside him twisted, a visceral, sickening clench. He didn't want to think about yesterday. About the humiliation. About the taste of failure. About the young boy inextricably tied to that painful, two-word reminder.
But memory is cruel—it always finds its way back, a relentless tide.
[Flashback]
"Boring? Only boring?" Yǐng Huō laughed, his golden eyes mischievous, his hands splayed across his knees. "Didn't you have fun teaching the little kids? They were practically bowing at your feet. You need to recruit them, Hàn Zài—we need fresh, enthusiastic followers for the academy vote! You're neglecting your resources."
"Followers?" Hàn Zài scoffed, snapping his fan open with a practiced flourish, though the gesture felt a little shaky. "They already idolize me. I'm the nineteenth son of my father. I've gone there twice before for inspection. I'm already above you all." His tone was calm, almost elegantly dismissive, yet the pride underneath was sharp and brittle, a defense mechanism.
"Ah~" Yǐng Huō leaned forward, his voice a sly murmur. "You brought something again, didn't you? Did the little one resist the brilliance of the Second Dàozǔ?"
Wù Yàn, one of the other seniors, a tall, perpetually grinning boy, cut in. "You look guilty already. What, did you sleep with it? Did you take its wallet and its lover?"
Hàn Zài chuckled, a sound more dry than amused. "Guilty? Me? Oh, please. Perhaps you seniors could learn from me—my methods work. I am, after all, a genius. Even the rules didn't explicitly say I couldn't."
"Then show us, oh Great Genius," Yǐng Huō teased, reaching for the small, leather-bound notebook he could see tucked tightly under Hàn Zài's sleeve.
"It's not yours," Hàn Zài said, his voice dropping, his usual controlled composure suddenly replaced by a flash of dangerous possessiveness as he pulled the notebook away swiftly. "Private things… can't be shared. It's a matter of respect."
The teasing laughter faded instantly as the elderly, severe teacher entered and the classroom settled into a tense, expectant silence. But when the marks for the special assignment were pinned to the heavy wooden board, a cold, thick silence fell specifically around Hàn Zài.
He had lost points.
Not failed—that would be impossible—but imperfect. The number was glaringly, insultingly small, but it was a scar on his flawless record.
His jaw set so tightly the muscle twitched. Without a single word, without acknowledging the pitying looks of his peers, he walked out.
The teachers' meeting room door slammed open with a violence that made the three instructors inside jump.
"Shīfù," Hàn Zài said sharply, bowing quickly, his hands trembling slightly where they were pressed to his thighs. "There must be a mistake in my score. My critique was impeccable. My method was sound."
Yì Hàn, his primary instructor, sighed, a familiar, deep sorrow clouding his eyes.
"Hàn Zài, you overstepped. Rule Twelve forbids taking a student's belongings without discussion, even for the purpose of instruction. The boy, Hùa Yǐng, was fifteen. You are seventeen. Your intent was good—to study his methods—but the method of acquisition, son, was wrong. You took his journal."
The words landed like a series of heavy, physical blows, crushing the air out of Hàn Zài's lungs.
"Ten marks are cut," another teacher, a stern-faced woman, said firmly, her voice devoid of sympathy. "You still passed the assignment. But you must learn restraint. Your passion for perfection cannot override decency."
The silence that followed was heavier than any reprimand—it was utter, public, professional humiliation. He had been judged not on his genius, but on his character.
Hàn Zài left without replying, his head bowed. His breath came unevenly, a ragged gasping sound. His carefully constructed pride collapsed inward like cracked porcelain shattering beneath his ribs.
He ran.
Through the manicured gates, through the long, graveled path dividing the academy and the family estate—until the high walls fell away and he stood alone on the hillside, completely exposed.
Yǐng Huō found him moments later, panting, his own gilded robes disheveled, hands on his knees.
"Hàn Zài! What are you doing, running like a madman—? You look like you've been chased by a ghost!"
But Hàn Zài didn't hear. His hand clenched tightly around the incriminating notebook—Hùa Yǐng's notebook.
Then he heard the boy's voice.
Across the courtyard, visible through the trees, Hùa Yǐng was laughing, nervous but radiant, surrounded by his two closest friends, Chéng Yǐn and Yîn Chàng.
"I told you! I told you he was fine! He just needed to be... well, honest!" Chéng Yǐn crowed, hitting his twin, Yîn Chàng, on the arm.
"Ten marks, Chéng Yǐn! Ten marks! He could have failed him!" Yîn Chàng hissed back, though his relief was evident. "But he's still the Second Dàozǔ. He's the best. But… a notebook? Really? What a strange method."
"Stupid kid…" Hàn Zài muttered, his voice low, trembling with a volatile mixture of self-loathing and transferred rage. "Look how happy you are… after eating my marks. After making me… imperfect."
Yǐng Huō's smile faded, his golden eyes widening in sudden, real alarm. "Hàn Zài… what are you thinking? You're going to get yourself expelled!"
When he saw the small, glinting silver knife suddenly appear, clutched tightly in Hàn Zài's hand, Yǐng Huō's heart stopped dead in his chest.
"Hàn Zài! Are you insane? He's a child! Put that down!" Yǐng Huō shouted, his voice cracking, but he knew logic wouldn't work.
Hàn Zài, his eyes glazed over, didn't answer. He took a single, deliberate, stalking step toward the distant group. The sudden, raw, dangerous absurdity of the moment—the perfect, elegant Second Dàozǔ about to stab a student over ten marks—was an almost dramatically funny horror.
The next moment, the knife clattered onto the rough ground with a pathetic, metallic sound—Yǐng Huō's palm covering Hàn Zài's mouth before he could shout, before he could ruin both their lives.
"Breathe, Hàn Zài. Breathe. Look at me." Yǐng Huō whispered, his other hand reaching up to gently, firmly massage the back of Hàn Zài's head, just beneath the nape of his neck—a trick he knew always worked on him, a strange, instant sedative.
Hàn Zài's movements softened immediately, the white-hot anger dissolving into shaky, shuddering breaths and intensely flushed cheeks.
Yǐng Huō smiled faintly, a slow, strained, loving smile, and pulled a small, warm paper packet from his own sleeve.
"Eat this," he commanded, pressing it into Hàn Zài's trembling hand. "Calm down. And don't wander near that kid again, or you'll burn both your fates to ash. He's not worth your future."
Hàn Zài stared at the packet—roasted chestnuts, freshly warmed, the scent of woodsmoke and sweetness filling the air.
Something fragile broke in his chest as he took one out slowly, the simple, reliable warmth seeping into his palms and chilling his violent impulse.
The flavor was simple, earthy, familiar. But it reminded him that someone—at least one person, his shadow, his twin in the hour of his birth—still reached for him when the whole world, including his own perfect mind, turned dangerously away.
And quietly, without looking back at the courtyard, he followed Yǐng Huō home.
The silence in the present was once again thick, broken only by the sound of chewing. Hàn Zài swallowed the last of his chestnut, the warmth a comforting memory.
"Tell me, little brother," Hàn Zì said, his voice low, a confidential murmur that pulled Hàn Zài from the past. "About the kite. Wàng Huā—'Forgotten Flower.' That name… it's a name I haven't heard since Father's second wife was… removed. It's bad fortune. Why is someone flying it now?"
Hàn Zài's eyes narrowed, his attention finally shifting from his own internal turmoil to the city outside. The red kite, vibrant against the blue, was now being expertly steered to dive sharply toward the earth.
"I don't know, gēge… I don't want to know…" he murmured, the words barely a breath. But his hand was already reaching for the notebook on the polished table—the one he hadn't yet been able to throw away. "But I have a feeling the past is not done with me yet… it never is…"
And as the kite touched down in the distant, forbidden part of the estate, he realized with a sharp, cold dread that the forgotten flower was about to bloom again, perhaps in an impossible, poisonous color.