This incident left both of them heartbroken.
But sadness can be draining, so as soon as Jiang Wu got into the car, he quickly fell asleep.
Yin Wuzhi had never imagined breaking up with Jiang Wu, let alone in such a devastating manner.
He returned home in a daze. As soon as his mother saw him, she praised, “Oh, our handsome boy is back. This outfit looks great! Did you buy it with Ah Wu?”
Yin Wuzhi acted as though he hadn’t heard her, heading upstairs and throwing himself onto his spacious bed.
His reddened eyes left behind a glistening tear.
Father Jiang carried him out of the car, noticing the tear stains on his peacefully sleeping face.
The two families exchanged phone calls.
Jiang’s parents: “Our Ah Wu was crying. What happened?”
Yin’s parents: “Ah Zhi was crying too. We don’t know what’s going on. What did your driver say?”
“The driver said they were both crying when he saw them.”
One silently shedding tears, the other with reddened eyes.
Teenagers—so confusing to deal with.
That night, Jiang Wu slept soundly. His parents checked on him several times, only to find him snoring softly, completely unaware of the world around him.
Yin Wuzhi’s parents also went to check on him several times. Each time, he was still awake and caught them in the act. Eventually, Yin Wuzhi stormed over, locked his door, and went back to bed to wallow in his sorrow.
He finally fell asleep, his head pounding with pain.
Yin Wuzhi had a dream.
He dreamed of a grand, classical hall and an emperor so exquisitely beautiful he looked like a doll.
In the dream, he saw himself kneeling by the bed, coaxing the emperor to eat in a soft voice.
When Jiang Wu opened his mouth to take a bite, Yin Wuzhi felt a profound sense of satisfaction. Just having him quietly by his side gave him peace.
He caught glimpses of the emperor lying peacefully on a lounge chair under the corridor, while nearby, a man in red sat upright beside a small wooden table piled with documents.
The man, reviewing memorials, would occasionally glance at the person next to him, his lips curling slightly, a soft light flickering in his eyes.
Yin Wuzhi could feel the happiness radiating from the man—a happiness born from finally obtaining what he had long yearned for. If the emperor so much as furrowed his brow, the man’s heart seemed to seize up.
It was as if simply watching him—no, just knowing he was alive and present—was enough.
Then the man in red suddenly turned to look at him, and his dark eyes brimmed with killing intent.
“You made him go shopping with you.”
“You forced him to try on clothes.”
“You coerced him into showing emotions just to please you.”
“Yin Wuzhi, what are you?”
Yin Wuzhi froze.
The man in red looked exactly like him, yet his upward-slanting eyes carried a madness that was both familiar and foreign. His gaze was cold and piercing. “You knew he didn’t like it. He was already willing to reincarnate for you, to live as a human, to adapt to this world for your sake. What more do you want?”
Yin Wuzhi’s throat tightened. “I just wanted to—”
“You wanted. Not him.” The man’s red robes seemed stained with blood, and even his approach carried the scent of it. “You’re supposed to love him, not make him suffer to satisfy your selfish desires.”
Yin Wuzhi wanted to argue that such behavior wasn’t normal.
Could the man truly accept giving so much without expecting anything in return?
The things Yin Wuzhi did for him—couldn’t anyone else do the same? Was Yin Wuzhi really irreplaceable?
But he couldn’t say it.
He had been convinced.
Yes, he was here to love him.
Not to be loved by him.
Everything he did was to let him live freely and do whatever he wanted. Even if he seemed lifeless, that was just who his emperor was. As long as he was alive and present, that was already a miracle.
What right did he have to demand more?
Besides—
No one could replace Yin Wuzhi.
Jiang Wu belonged only to him. He knew it. He was special to Jiang Wu.
“Yin Wuzhi, wake up,” the man said. “It’s enough. He’s willing to live for you, to care about your feelings, even at the cost of his own nature. He’s endured for so many years—that’s enough.”
“Yin Wuzhi, you should be satisfied.”
“He loves you,” the man said. “You should feel honored. The person you spent years pursuing is willing to cross worlds to reunite with you. What more do you want?”
“This is the clean world you promised him.”
“And he has faithfully kept his promise, treating your amnesiac self with such tolerance…”
“It’s enough, Yin Wuzhi. Greed will bring retribution.” The man turned back to the sleeping emperor in the corridor, and the murderous madness in his eyes softened into a tender affection. “Don’t think of asking for more.”
“You’ve already proven that even if you’re no longer the person who gave everything for him, he still loves you deeply.”
“Wake up, Yin Wuzhi… cherish him and live this life well.”
When morning came, Jiang Wu was still asleep.
By noon, he was still sleeping.
At 3 p.m., he was still asleep.
It wasn’t until evening that Jiang Wu finally woke up.
He had been utterly exhausted. But as soon as he opened his eyes, he couldn’t shake the thought that he had done something terribly wrong the previous day.
Yin Wuzhi had only asked for something normal, yet Jiang Wu couldn’t even meet that small request.
He felt immense guilt, thinking he was truly awful.
He had promised to love and cherish Yin Wuzhi.
A shadow fell over him.
Someone crouched before him. Jiang Wu met a pair of dark eyes and froze. “Yin Wuzhi…”
He had thought Yin Wuzhi wouldn’t speak to him again.
“Mm.” Yin Wuzhi looked at him, pursing his lips slightly. “You’re awake. Eat something.”
Jiang Wu observed his expression.
Based on his assumptions, Yin Wuzhi should at least be angry for a while before forgiving him for what he did yesterday.
Jiang Wu hesitated. “You…”
“I thought about it.” Yin Wuzhi spoke, lowering his head with a slightly embarrassed and troubled expression. “I still don’t want to break up with you.”
His voice was soft as he asked, “What do you think?”
Jiang Wu replied, “I never intended to break up with you.”
Yin Wuzhi sighed in relief. He hadn’t expected that even with his memory loss, Jiang Wu would willingly date him. His heart felt warm and fuzzy until Jiang Wu continued, “I just wanted to take a break.”
Yin Wuzhi immediately looked at him.
The depths of his dark eyes turned serious.
Jiang Wu explained, “I mean we could continue our relationship later, when there aren’t so many things going on.”
“What do you mean by ‘not so many things’?”
“Like no school, no homework, and nothing else to worry about.”
“Winter break?”
“Yeah.”
Yin Wuzhi considered it and accepted. “I can agree to winter and summer breaks—when you have enough time to rest—for our dates. But I can’t agree to pausing our relationship.”
Jiang Wu understood his point but was troubled. “I don’t want to go out to eat while school is in session.”
“Then we won’t.” Yin Wuzhi immediately abandoned the idea of creating memories at the snack street. “If you don’t feel like eating out, we won’t go. If you want to eat something, we can just pack it and bring it home.”
For a moment, Jiang Wu noticed a difference in Yin Wuzhi’s demeanor.
It wasn’t that Yin Wuzhi had been indecisive before, but in the past, he’d still held onto some of his own desires—such as wanting Jiang Wu to accompany him to create fond memories in various places. If Jiang Wu couldn’t comply, Yin Wuzhi would feel disappointed, conflicted, and then begrudgingly agree.
But now, this Yin Wuzhi didn’t show any of that.
He seemed afraid—afraid that Jiang Wu would distance himself or abandon him because he couldn’t meet Yin Wuzhi’s expectations.
But this version of Yin Wuzhi had no reason to be afraid.
Jiang Wu propped himself up, and Yin Wuzhi naturally helped him sit upright, tucking a pillow behind his back.
Jiang Wu’s gaze fell on the desk. Yin Wuzhi asked, “What do you want?”
Jiang Wu : ”.”
After a pause, he looked back at Yin Wuzhi. “I’m hungry.”
“What do you want to eat? I’ll bring it to you,” Yin Wuzhi offered.
“Noodles.”
“Got it. Wait here.” Yin Wuzhi left the room. Jiang Wu sat in confusion for a while before getting up and walking to his desk. He opened his bag and retrieved his “grudge notebook.”
His movements were slow, so by the time Yin Wuzhi returned with a bowl of noodles, Jiang Wu had just closed the notebook.
Yin Wuzhi’s gaze flicked to the notebook, and his pupils constricted slightly.
For a moment, he felt dizzy.
The memoryless version of him had foolishly assumed that Jiang Wu noted down their shared moments because he was grateful for the homework help.
How naïve.
While this memory loss had made Jiang Wu’s affection for him apparent, it also left many potential problems.
He absolutely couldn’t let Jiang Wu find out that he’d regained his memory.
Yin Wuzhi placed the bowl in front of Jiang Wu and carefully wrapped some noodles around the chopsticks to feed him. He glanced at the notebook again and asked, “That notebook—have you gone through several of them?”
“Yeah,” Jiang Wu replied. “I’ve filled up several.”
The chopsticks held too much, so Jiang Wu took small bites.
Yin Wuzhi asked, “Why do you even keep track of these things?”
Jiang Wu shot him an aggrieved look. “For when you regain your memory, so I can settle the score.”
Yin Wuzhi: ”.”
He couldn’t let Jiang Wu have that chance.
“I’m just saying, isn’t that a bit much?” Yin Wuzhi grumbled. “Haven’t I taken good enough care of you? And yet, you still hold grudges.”
“The old empress wouldn’t have dragged me around shopping,” Jiang Wu muttered.
He’s complimenting me, Yin Wuzhi thought, feeling a twinge of happiness. Then came the ache—he was complimenting the old me. Which meant he wasn’t satisfied with the current me.
Yin Wuzhi frowned. “If he was so great, why don’t you go find him instead?”
Jiang Wu: ”.”
Clearly, he’d been mistaken.
If Yin Wuzhi had regained his memory, he wouldn’t be jealous of himself.
He dejectedly said, “That’s not what I meant.”
“Eat up,” Yin Wuzhi said, bringing the egg to his mouth. “Take a bite.”
Jiang Wu took a bite and asked again, “You’re really not mad at me?”
“Mm.”
“I’m a useless person.”
“Right.”
“…” He could call himself that, but how could Yin Wuzhi agree?
Yin Wuzhi couldn’t hold back a laugh. “I like you just like this.”
He was being honest.
Jiang Wu being this way meant very few people could tolerate him. In this world, no one would like Jiang Wu more than he did, no one would treat Jiang Wu better than he did, and therefore, no one could take Jiang Wu away from him.
If someone dared to try…
He would kill them.
“Be good. Eat properly.”
Jiang Wu only finished half a bowl. Yin Wuzhi ate the rest of the noodles and the barely-bitten egg in a few bites, set the bowl aside, and opened his workbook.
The two of them had spent the whole day fooling around yesterday, leaving their homework undone.
Yin Wuzhi deeply realized how fortunate it was to do homework with Jiang Wu. At least this way, Jiang Wu wouldn’t push himself to exhaustion, risking a breakdown that might strain their relationship.
Jiang Wu laid on the table, watching him.
He loved watching Yin Wuzhi quietly like this.
Yin Wuzhi was aware that he often watched Jiang Wu, but he didn’t know Jiang Wu did the same, silently observing him.
Back in the day, when Yin Wuzhi reviewed memorials to the throne, he was always serious. He would smile at reports of the common people doing well, frown at complicated issues, and press his lips tightly, his expression murderous, at reports involving treacherous officials.
Jiang Wu loved every one of Yin Wuzhi’s expressions.
Even though, after entering the palace, he had killed many palace staff who had ulterior motives about him.
Jiang Wu didn’t care about their lives.
To him, their deaths simply meant it was their fate.
He didn’t mind people impeaching Yin Wuzhi as a corrupt official, nor did he care about accusations that Yin Wuzhi was overly domineering.
So what if he was domineering? He had spoiled him into being that way.
Yet Yin Wuzhi always suppressed his own desires when facing him.
Jiang Wu suddenly understood why Yin Wuzhi had once said that even if he lost his memory, he would still want Jiang Wu to like him and wouldn’t feel disrespected.
Because Yin Wuzhi had emotional needs too.
He always cautiously protected Jiang Wu, afraid of exhausting him or pushing him toward despair.
He had waited so long to have what he desired that he became indulgent, taking what he could from Jiang Wu, though most of it was confined to moments on the dragon bed. But Yin Wuzhi wasn’t just a man; he was a person with normal emotions. He could feel joy, anger, sorrow, and happiness. When he gave, he also wanted to receive. He wished Jiang Wu would show his love more clearly.
But he didn’t dare ask for it.
So, whenever Jiang Wu made even the smallest gesture, he would be overwhelmed with gratitude.
But deep down, he wanted more than this.
He had told Jiang Wu that if there were another life, he hoped to forget everything.
Jiang Wu asked, “Even me?”
“Even if I forget everything, I won’t forget to love you,” Yin Wuzhi replied. “I just want to keep loving you without any distractions. What, does that make you unhappy?”
He pinched Jiang Wu’s cheek.
But it wasn’t just that.
Perhaps he was simply too tired.
He had become less and less like himself. Often waking from nightmares in the middle of the night, he would instinctively hold Jiang Wu tightly. Then, as Jiang Wu looked on in confusion, he would kiss him and ask for more.
He wished he could stop feeling anxious, stop being afraid, stop worrying about loss. Perhaps he thought himself too weak.
So, through this new version of himself, Yin Wuzhi indulged in arrogance, acting recklessly, leaning on the excuse of lost memories.
Truly reckless.
While working on his homework, Yin Wuzhi suddenly glanced at Jiang Wu’s workbook and asked, “If I remembered my past life, what would you do?”
Jiang Wu froze and instinctively said, “I would tell you how much I like you.”
Maybe he would also settle some scores. But mostly, he wanted Yin Wuzhi to understand that it wasn’t necessary.
He would never leave Yin Wuzhi.
Even if Yin Wuzhi regained his memories or had certain needs, Jiang Wu would do his best to meet them.
Was it because Yin Wuzhi had rebuilt him?
No. Most of the time, Jiang Wu didn’t deliberately recall the role Yin Wuzhi had played when he was drifting in the void, how moving and profound his efforts were.
He loved Yin Wuzhi, but not because Yin Wuzhi had rebuilt him.
Yin Wuzhi was no different from anyone else.
Even if he was a bit more handsome, smarter, and better at martial arts, that wasn’t the main reason.
If he had to give a reason, it was simply that when he saw Yin Wuzhi, he didn’t want to die anymore.
No matter how detached he felt from the world, he could bear the boredom and keep living.
Yin Wuzhi was the most vibrant color in his life.
Yin Wuzhi glanced at him, his heart filled with doubt.
Was Jiang Wu testing him?
This lazy egg might be lazy, but he was a millennium-old wandering spirit with two lifetimes of human experience.
Though they were evenly matched, Yin Wuzhi wasn’t entirely confident he could fool Jiang Wu.
If he hadn’t regained his memories, what should he say?
Holding the pen, Yin Wuzhi said, “Why must I regain my memories for this? Can’t you tell me how much you like me right now?”
Jiang Wu: “…”
Yin Wuzhi, feeling sour, added, “So, without my memories, you don’t like me anymore? Even without them, I’ve been trying my best to treat you well. Isn’t that enough for you to like me?”
Jiang Wu was now certain—Yin Wuzhi definitely hadn’t regained his memories.
The jealousy was far too genuine.
A Yin Wuzhi with his memories intact wouldn’t be so childish.
