How could a person like this exist?
He’d already found an excuse to let go — had already arranged for Gu Heng to leave for Baile Star. Whether he retrieved that mecha model or not, by the time Gu Heng returned twenty days later, Zuo Shihuan would have completed his engagement ceremony — the point of no return.
But now, he was being told that — not twenty days later, but today, right now — Gu Heng had come back with the model in hand?!
Zuo Shihuan felt as if his nerves were being pulled taut, stretched until they might snap. His eyes burned red as he wondered if he was hallucinating — if he had become so unwilling to let go of this Beta that his mind had broken.
If he was the patient, then Gu Heng was the quack doctor tormenting him — teasing him with hope only to twist the knife again.
And yet, all Zuo Shihuan wanted was the medicine in that doctor’s hand.
Either give it to him cleanly — or throw it away completely!
Why did Gu Heng have to stand there, cruelly holding the pill in his palm, hesitating with false pity, as if enjoying his suffering?
Covering his eyes with one hand, Zuo Shihuan’s pupils trembled, a thread of hysteria seeping through. His other hand clutched the mecha model tighter and tighter until the fragile joints began to creak under the strain.
Just before it snapped, he suddenly released his grip.
The tension in his body vanished as his expression cooled — the red still lingering in his eyes, but his tone calm and dangerously even. Holding the model by one leg, he took a slow, measured step forward, fixing Gu Heng with a piercing stare.
“How did you do it?”
Gu Heng, who had turned to leave, froze mid-step.
“Even if you rushed straight to the spaceport the moment you walked out that door — the time isn’t enough. You couldn’t even make it to the nearest planet, let alone make a round trip to Baile Planet. It takes at least twenty days. So, Gu Heng — how did you do it?”
Zuo Shihuan’s eyes narrowed as he pressed on.
Gu Heng said nothing, eyes downcast, lips tight.
Zuo Shihuan’s voice dropped to a harsh rasp: “You shouldn’t have come back.”
A shadow of cold indifference flickered across Gu Heng’s eyes. His lips tightened stubbornly. The reckless fire that had driven him all the way from Baile Star to see Zuo Shihuan burned out — leaving only ice behind.
Fine then. If he wasn’t wanted, he’d go.
He was meant to leave anyway — what was he doing here, entangled with a Federation Alpha? Zuo Shihuan wasn’t gentle, wasn’t an Omega. Just another strong, proud Alpha — beautiful, yes, but what of it? Not worth caring about.
Lifting his head, Gu Heng’s dark eyes regained their chill and pride — that powerful Alpha arrogance that would never bow to anyone, least of all a Federation heir. Curling his lips into a mocking smile, he said coldly: “Fine. I’ll go now. I’ve given you what I promised — from now on, we’ll never see each—”
The words cut off mid-sentence.
Still seething, Gu Heng turned — and froze.
His pupils contracted sharply. He choked on his breath, struck dumb.
Zuo Shihuan was staring back at him — eyes filled with hatred, but his face streaked with tears.
The pale-brown eyes glimmered with loathing and light, the rims red and wet. Clear tears trembled and fell one by one, stubbornly fought back but impossible to stop — so heartbreakingly defiant and beautiful.
His face was still cold and expressionless, his gaze sharp and hateful — and yet, crying like that, it was unfair.
Just tears — what was the big deal? Gu Heng had seen plenty of people cry.
On the battlefield against the Zerg, he’d seen new recruits weep in terror at the sight of monsters ten times their size — but tears didn’t save anyone. Blood or tears, they still had to fight.
Would the Zerg spare them just because they cried?
After the war, when Gu Heng became a drill instructor, he’d trained the survivors with ruthless precision. He’d beaten the weakness out of them until their wails turned to silence — and still, they hated him.
They filed complaints, begged to have the “demon instructor” removed. But what good did that do? He beat them until they learned to survive.
And those who’d been “beaten by the demon” — they were the ones who lived through the next war.
That was him being merciful, at least toward the Alpha and Beta recruits.
As for those who tried to manipulate him — the crying Omegas, the Emperor’s concubines who used tears to seduce his younger, handsomer Alpha stepson, or the scheming noble Omegas who sought to become the Empire’s Crown Princess —
Gu Heng, when in the mood, would just watch them cry. He’d smile cruelly, timing them — how long they could keep up the act, how many fake tears they could shed before exhaustion silenced them.
Even when their sobs grew weak, when they collapsed and could barely breathe — it was never enough.
If they could cry tears of blood—
Then so what if he let them stay by his side? So what if he gave them the title of Imperial Crown Princess? It was all just a decoration anyway. Who cared?
Better to keep them around as amusement.
Unfortunately, no one ever managed that much. One by one, they all looked at Gu Heng with fear, as if the mere act of making a request to him was to provoke some terrifying, ancient beast.
And yet, it was they who had begged to see him first. Gu Heng had always been fair—if they could truly do what he asked, he would grant them the power and status they so desperately dreamed of.
In the end, he would lose interest and dismiss them with a single cold word: “Scram.”
And at that, those who had clung to him endlessly would scatter faster than anyone.
All those painstaking tears were nothing but pointless and dull.
Gu Heng had always thought tears were the most useless, powerless thing in the world. Instead of crying and begging others to spare you, clinging to a thread of false hope—
It was better to turn around, take up a weapon, bare your fangs, and make the ones who hurt you shed something first.
Whether it was tears— Or blood.
Anything that flowed from someone else was always better than what flowed from himself.
When Gu Heng became the Empire’s Crown Prince, he instantly drew countless eyes of jealousy and hatred.
His mother had never once held him since the day he was born—she probably wished he had never been born at all. His father valued him but also feared him. His brothers and sisters schemed behind his back, plotting to drag down their proud, envied Crown Prince brother.
But Gu Heng never cared. To this day, he still sat firmly on his throne, laughing freely at the farce around him.
Until today.
That unremarkable, worthless thing called tears—something that, when shed by others, should have fallen unnoticed to the ground—
But because it was Zuo Shihuan crying, expressionless yet stubborn, his pale brown eyes now cold and hateful— Those same tears cut straight into Gu Heng’s heart, each drop slicing it apart, burning his throat until he couldn’t speak.
This pain was worse than any stab from a Zerg blade.
At least that kind of wound left a mark—clear, visible blood.
Now, he couldn’t even tell where the pain came from. It was as if an invisible knife was slowly grinding through his heart, slicing the flesh bit by bit—no wound to see, but more agonizing than any visible scar.
A bitter, hollow laugh escaped him. Gu Heng lowered his proud, noble head willingly and reached out to wipe away Zuo Shihuan’s tears, one by one, until his palm was completely soaked.
Zuo Shihuan stared blankly. Feeling the damp warmth of that hand, he finally murmured in belated confusion: “Why am I crying?”
“How useless.”
He mocked himself coldly and turned his face away, trying to escape Gu Heng’s touch—but before he could move, Gu Heng’s hands came up to cradle his face, firm and serious.
“No.”
Gu Heng immediately refuted him, a faint bitter smile tugging at his lips.
“If you’re useless, then what does that make me? You’re… much stronger than I am.”
Otherwise, how could he have been reduced to this?
Zuo Shihuan averted his gaze, his pale brown eyes drifting toward the pitch-black window where nothing could be seen. His tone was flat.
“You don’t need to comfort me. I know myself too well. Since I was a child, I’ve known crying is the most useless form of escape. No one ever cared about me. Aren’t you leaving? Then go—”
“I care.”
Gu Heng’s head dropped, his expression hidden, his low voice trembling ever so slightly.
“I said—I care.”
His dark red eyes flickered as he spoke in a hoarse whisper.
Zuo Shihuan froze, staring into Gu Heng’s gaze. His pale-brown pupils trembled, as if something inside him was struggling to surface, but he still looked away. Turning aside, he pulled himself free from Gu Heng’s arms. His lips curved into a faint, desolate smile as he toyed with the mecha model dangling from one leg.
“If you really cared about me, the best thing you could’ve done was not to come back. Take this thing—the thing you got from the woman who abandoned me—and stay far, far away.”
“Didn’t you realize? I only told you to bring it back as an excuse—an excuse to keep you from coming back!”
As Zuo Shihuan hurled out the cruel words, his eyes reddened, his nose stung, and tears threatened again.
But his usual iron self-control couldn’t stop those useless, humiliating tears.
He could only pinch his thigh in secret, force his head up, swallow hard, and meet Gu Heng’s gaze with burning eyes as he choked out, “Besides—what’s there to care about? Since you all can just leave and abandon me, then I can stop caring about you too!”
“Do you really think I care about any of this?!”
Zuo Shihuan laughed, his eyes flashing with fierce defiance. He lifted the mecha model high, shouting toward Gu Heng,
“It’s just a useless toy! That woman who abandoned me went off to build a new family, and years later she brings me this broken toy to ‘make it up to me’? What a joke! Do you think I’m still that slum kid who used to wait for her to come back with nothing to his name?!”
“No. Not anymore!”
“I’m not that helpless kid anymore! I’m an Alpha now—a noble Alpha, reclaimed by my father and returned to the Zuo family to be their prized breeding stock! Hahahahaha—”
Zuo Shihuan clutched his stomach, laughing wildly until tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. His steps wavered, barely steady, but he still faced Gu Heng coldly.
“Even so, I’m still the Zuo family’s heir. Sooner or later, I’ll take full control. I’ll have everything I want. People like you—and useless toys like this—”
He paused. His arm fell back to his side. Looking straight at Gu Heng’s silent face, he enunciated each word slowly: “—I can have as many as I want.”
Gu Heng said nothing. The depths of his black eyes turned suddenly terrifying.
But Zuo Shihuan no longer cared. He pointed toward the door, voice cold and detached.
“You can leave now.”
The air in the hotel room plummeted to a freezing silence.
It was so quiet that the only sound left was Zuo Shihuan’s ragged, self-destructive breathing—quick, shallow gasps gradually slowing into weary, uneven sighs.
After a long moment, there was still no sound.
Zuo Shihuan lifted his head in frustration, looking at Gu Heng, who hadn’t left even after being insulted so harshly. A faint light flickered in his eyes, but quickly dimmed.
“You’re not leaving? … Fine. Then I’ll go.”
He spoke coldly and turned to leave.
But as he brushed past Gu Heng, his wrist was suddenly caught and lifted.
Zuo Shihuan’s pupils contracted. “What are you doing?”
Gu Heng smiled — that deep black gaze of his was so dark it was almost terrifying. He shook the wrist he held, his slender fingers still tightly gripping the “useless” mecha model toy that Zuo Shihuan had scorned moments ago.
“Didn’t you say it’s useless? People like me, things like this — didn’t you say you could have as many as you want?”
Zuo Shihuan’s tone turned wary. “What are you trying to say?”
Gu Heng arched a brow, smiling faintly. “Since you don’t care, and since I went to such trouble to bring this back from Baile Star, then why don’t you go find your substitutes and return this one to me.”
Zuo Shihuan frowned. “What’s the point? It’s not of any use to you—”
“If you don’t want it, why do you care what I do with it?” Gu Heng’s gaze sharpened, seeming to pierce right through him, his smile faint and dangerous.
“Or… are you reluctant to give it up? Were you lying to me just now?”
Zuo Shihuan bit his lower lip unconsciously, conflict flickering in his eyes. But his pride wouldn’t allow him to back down. “What’s there to be reluctant about? Take it!”
Gu Heng’s eyes darkened. He laughed softly. “Alright, then you’ll have to let go first.”
Zuo Shihuan hesitated for a few seconds, then, clinging to his pride, released the mecha model.
It naturally fell into Gu Heng’s hand. He weighed it, tossing it up and down casually, turning it over in his palm.
Zuo Shihuan couldn’t help but follow the motion with his eyes, his breathing tightening several times, before finally blurting out, “What exactly do you plan to do with it?”
Gu Heng examined the mecha model in his hand, then turned toward him with a bright, unnervingly casual smile. “Since you don’t want it, I’ll take care of it for you. No need to thank me.”
Zuo Shihuan frowned in confusion.
Something about Gu Heng’s expression felt off — like something unexpected was about to happen.
Unease crept up his spine. “That’s not necessary. I can—”
He didn’t get to finish.
Gu Heng tossed the model up once or twice, testing its weight.
Then, flashing a reckless, wicked grin, he suddenly lifted the mecha model — and, without a hint of hesitation, slammed it down toward the floor!
“You don’t want it, and I have no reason to keep what I don’t want either.”
“—!!”
Zuo Shihuan’s mind went completely blank. There was no time to think, no room for anger.
He could only watch, wide-eyed, as the mecha model — that thing he’d claimed didn’t matter — seemed to fall in slow motion, headed straight for the hard floor, unprotected.
He could already picture it: the old model hitting the ground and shattering into a pile of broken parts.
No thoughts — just instinct.
Zuo Shihuan lunged forward without a thought, pupils dilating, hand stretching out to grab the falling model.
Bit by bit, closer—
His fingertips brushed the outer shell—
But the ground was rushing up too fast. At this speed, his chin was barely thirty centimeters from the floor — there was no stopping it now. He couldn’t save the model, and he was going to crash face-first.
Helplessness filled his eyes. He squeezed them shut, unable to watch the moment of impact.
Darkness.
He waited for the crash — for the pain.
But instead, his arm was yanked back. He was pulled sharply upward, crashing against a solid chest, the sound of a muffled grunt ringing in his ears.
There was a loud thud — but it wasn’t his.
Dazed, he opened his eyes halfway — and froze.
Gu Heng was on the floor, his back having hit the ground hard. His elegant, handsome face was smeared with dust, lips twisted in pain. One arm was wrapped protectively around Zuo Shihuan’s waist.
He had taken the fall for him.
Zuo Shihuan didn’t thank him — instead, his gaze darted nervously over the ground, searching for any sign of shattered pieces.
Then Gu Heng’s teasing, irritatingly amused voice broke the silence.
“What are you looking for?”
Zuo Shihuan looked up impatiently — and froze again.
In Gu Heng’s hand, the mecha model was perfectly intact.
He raised it in his other hand, swinging it left and right in front of Zuo Shihuan’s eyes, a triumphant, mischievous grin spreading across his lips.
“Looking for this? Regretting it now? Regretting not finding a substitute?”
Zuo Shihuan’s knuckles went white. He couldn’t believe there was someone so infuriating — someone who’d go this far, this recklessly, just to force out his true feelings.
“Do you want it?”
Gu Heng threw his head back and laughed, loud and unrestrained. “Then beg me.”
Zuo Shihuan, usually composed and courteous, finally lost his temper.
“What the h*ll are you laughing at?!”
