Chapter 56 · Homecoming

  At eleven in the morning, the black off-road vehicle rolled to a halt.

  The faint jolt of the engine cutting out stirred YiChen from his haze.

  He opened his eyes.

  For a moment, the world swam.

  He had spent the entire drive drifting between sleep and waking—

  eyes closed, the night replaying in blood-red illusions;

  eyes open, only the blank black fabric of the ceiling above.

  Now, sunlight streamed through the window, gilding his faint reflection in the glass.

  For a breathless instant, he couldn’t tell what day it was—

  or whether he was still trapped inside last night.

  The door clicked open.

  “Brother!”

  ChengYu’s voice pierced the fog like a blade.

  The boy’s expression, bright with joy, froze the instant he saw him.

  YiChen’s skin was white as snow.

  His combat suit hung torn at the shoulder, blood still seeping through a half-soaked bandage.

  He gripped the doorframe with white-knuckled fingers, body trembling faintly—

  as if one wrong breath might be enough to break him.

  And still—he smiled.

  A crooked, fragile smile, pieced together from the last shards of strength—

  and it shattered ChengYu’s composure.

  Tears welled up instantly.

  Last night he had dreamed of scolding his brother for not coming home.

  Now here he was—barely standing.

  At the sound, Zhang Han and Mark rushed out.

  The moment they saw YiChen, both froze.

  Just like before—

  bloodied, broken.

  But this time, at least… he was still on his feet.

  “I’m fine,” YiChen rasped, his voice barely more than a whisper.

  ChengYu ran to him, throwing his arms around YiChen’s waist, burying his face in the blood-stained uniform.

  His muffled sobs shook against his chest.

  YiChen raised a hand to ruffle his brother’s hair—

  but the limb felt like stone, too heavy.

  In the end, his hand simply rested on ChengYu’s shoulder,

  a quiet, unsteady weight.

  The sunlight was warm.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The air carried the faint scent of roses from the courtyard beds.

  YiChen stood in the light—

  and yet half of him still lingered in the darkness of last night.

  ?

  He collapsed onto the couch, eyelids heavy as iron.

  Zhang Han and Mark moved carefully, peeling away the tattered uniform and boots caked with blood and mud.

  When Mark carried the soiled clothes to the laundry, he paused—

  fingers tightening unconsciously.

  The stiff, dried blood scraped his palm like broken glass.

  “Here. Water,” Zhang Han whispered from the kitchen.

  The faucet ran in the silence—sharp and clean.

  But when she returned, YiChen was already asleep.

  He lay slumped sideways on the couch, head tilted, fingers still loosely curled around the edge of his bandage—now faintly red.

  His breathing was shallow and fast,

  like a soldier still caught between alertness and collapse even in sleep.

  Zhang Han’s hand trembled.

  She set the glass down and slipped into the bathroom.

  The door closed softly.

  But behind it, ChengYu still heard the choked sobs—

  the kind someone tries, and fails, to keep quiet.

  Mark returned with a warm towel and gently wiped the dried blood from YiChen’s face.

  When the cloth brushed his brow, YiChen flinched—

  even in sleep,

  as though the wound itself still remembered being opened.

  ChengYu stood quietly in the corner.

  He rubbed his eyes with a sleeve, but the tears wouldn’t stop.

  His brother’s boots were worn through.

  The bandages at his ankles had bled through and dried.

  And still—he had smiled,

  as if none of it hurt.

  ChengYu clenched his fists.

  His nails dug deep into his palms.

  He had to get stronger.

  Not someday.

  Not eventually.

  Now.

  He would stand beside his brother—not behind him.

  He would never again just watch

  as that blood-stained figure came home alone.

  Sunlight filtered through gauze curtains.

  Dust drifted lazily through its golden path.

  On the couch, YiChen trembled faintly in his sleep—

  trapped in a nightmare he couldn’t escape.

  And ChengYu stood at the boundary of light and shadow,

  his tears falling, silent and endless, onto the carpet.

  ?

  At dawn, the pale edge of morning traced across the sky.

  YiChen’s lashes stirred.

  He opened his eyes slowly—

  as if rising from the bottom of a deep, dark well.

  The fragments of dreams slipped away too fast to catch,

  leaving only exhaustion behind.

  Something soft pressed against his chest—

  the little pink Light Beast, curled fast asleep in his arms.

  Its tiny breaths rose and fell gently,

  like a warm, breathing cloud.

  YiChen pushed himself upright,

  the rustle of fabric loud in the hush.

  Then he froze.

  Zhang Han slept on the opposite couch, wrapped in a thin blanket, a crumpled tissue still clutched in one hand.

  Mark had nodded off in the recliner, glasses askew, a newspaper slipped to the floor.

  And ChengYu—

  ChengYu slept at his feet, curled on a folded blanket,

  both arms wrapped tightly around YiChen’s tactical axe,

  as if guarding something irreplaceable.

  Tear tracks stained his cheeks.

  His lashes still trembled in sleep.

  The pink rabbit stirred, twitching its ears.

  It nuzzled against YiChen’s wrist.

  He brushed a hand over its fur—slow, gentle.

  And in that quiet motion, the truth sank in.

  They had stayed up.

  All night.

  Watching over him.

  Cold tea sat untouched on the table.

  Beside it, Mark’s mechanical watch ticked—

  each second impossibly loud.

  Sunlight spilled across the room—

  pale and warm.

  YiChen swallowed.

  His throat was tight.