Jiang Wu’s room fell silent, the only sound was the soft scratching of pen against paper.
Yin Wuzhi possessed exceptional mental and physical stamina; he could power through over a dozen exam papers in one sitting without pause. He was extraordinarily adaptable.
In short, tasks that seemed almost impossible for Jiang Wu were ones Yin Wuzhi always managed to accomplish with ease.
Jiang Wu slouched over his desk, still replaying the events of the previous day in his mind.
He truly hadn’t expected Yin Wuzhi to not only offer to help him with his homework but to actively seek him out to do so.
Perhaps noticing Jiang Wu’s gaze, Yin Wuzhi suddenly asked, “Did Aunt Wen talk to you yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Uncle Driver said we both cried pretty hard…” Yin Wuzhi seemed slightly disgusted with himself as he added, “Your mom is definitely going to find time to ask you about it.”
“She hasn’t yet because the situation just happened, and your parents are still worried about you,” he added.
“What will you say?”
“I’m in no mood to talk to them,” Yin Wuzhi replied, glancing at him. “I was so upset yesterday I almost died.”
For a moment, he’d thought Jiang Wu genuinely found him burdensome and was ready to break up with him. The fear had been enough to stir memories of their past life.
Deep down, Yin Wuzhi had always regarded Jiang Wu as more important than anything else.
Jiang Wu lowered his eyes and pressed a finger lightly on his notebook before slowly crawling over to touch the hand Yin Wuzhi was writing with.
Even with memories of their past life intact, Yin Wuzhi couldn’t help but feel his heart race whenever Jiang Wu initiated physical contact.
Allowing Jiang Wu’s hand to rest atop his own, Yin Wuzhi’s ears turned red. “What are you doing?”
Jiang Wu leaned forward over the desk, and Yin Wuzhi extended a foot to pull Jiang Wu’s chair closer. The two ended up pressed together, with Jiang Wu leaning against Yin Wuzhi’s arm.
Yin Wuzhi glanced at Jiang Wu’s dark head of hair and softened his voice. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry.”
Jiang Wu rarely showed any emotion in his words. To outsiders, he always appeared calm and detached. When he felt wronged, he didn’t seem particularly upset, and when he apologized, it didn’t carry much weight. It was as if he were an emotionless machine, simply emitting sound.
Yet Yin Wuzhi could always pick up on the faintest traces of emotion in Jiang Wu’s otherwise flat tone.
Jiang Wu wasn’t vibrant or animated; he lacked any obvious joy, anger, sorrow, or excitement. He didn’t blush, feel embarrassed, grow proud, or show surprise. Nothing seemed to startle him or ignite desire or temper.
If Jiang Wu had any defining trait, it was that he had none. He was plain, like a gentle breeze or a wisp of cloud—subtle and easily overlooked.
But this person, who seemed incapable of feeling guilt, was now apologizing to him.
Yin Wuzhi lifted his free hand to gently pat Jiang Wu’s head.
“Why are you apologizing?”
“For making you upset.”
“Were you upset yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you were upset, and I was upset. That makes us even. Why are you still apologizing?”
“Because I want us to be happy.”
“I’m not unhappy.”
Jiang Wu rested his chin on Yin Wuzhi’s arm, slowly sliding down until his neck was pressed against it. Concerned he might suffocate, Yin Wuzhi shifted his arm to adjust Jiang Wu’s position, allowing him to lie against his chest instead. “If I’d known you were so lazy, I wouldn’t have insisted on dragging you out yesterday.”
“Mm.”
“‘Mm’?” Yin Wuzhi could imagine the old him, with his past-life memories, never doing such a thing. Jiang Wu’s nonchalant response seemed to say, You shouldn’t have dragged me out.
It wasn’t a rebuke but a simple statement of fact.
Yin Wuzhi felt helpless against him. With a light push, he said, “Go, lie over there.”
He lifted Jiang Wu’s upper body, placing him back onto the desk before straightening his own sleeves and resuming his furious writing.
Jiang Wu watched him for a while before calling out, “Yin Wuzhi.”
“Speak.”
“What do you like about me?”
Although the Yin Wuzhi from their past life had given him an answer, Jiang Wu wondered if this current Yin Wuzhi, without those memories, might have a different reason. More than anything, Jiang Wu felt his actions yesterday had been excessive—he didn’t feel worthy of Yin Wuzhi’s affection.
So, what did high school Yin Wuzhi see in him?
“I like you because I like you. Why does there need to be a reason?” Yin Wuzhi replied. “Stop talking; you’re interrupting my train of thought.”
Jiang Wu: “.”
He opened his notebook, only for Yin Wuzhi to press it back down and, meeting Jiang Wu’s puzzled gaze, firmly say, “Stay put. Don’t tire out your hands.”
Jiang Wu relented. “Just one stroke.”
Yin Wuzhi lifted the page and saw the notebook covered in neat tally marks. His vision darkened briefly before he composed himself. “I’ll give you a few extra strokes.”
“Don’t falsify the count,” Jiang Wu warned.
“….” You really have principles.
Yin Wuzhi, feeling conflicted, took the notebook. As he stared at the marks, he suddenly thought about how Jiang Wu must have drawn each one by hand, turning the pages as he went.
Jiang Wu truly loves me, he thought.
Jiang Wu noticed something strange—Yin Wuzhi had suddenly become much more mature. For instance, it had become almost routine for him to carry Jiang Wu around, completely ignoring people, situations, or circumstances while letting Jiang Wu hang off him like a human shoulder strap.
As Jiang Wu laid draped over Yin Wuzhi like a literal backpack, he wondered how the top student of their grade had managed to overcome the embarrassment of adolescence. Back then, Yin Wuzhi would avoid people whenever he carried him.
“Good morning, Teacher.” See? Now he could casually greet teachers while carrying his human accessory.
The teacher glanced at the person slung over him, looking a bit shocked.
Naturally, this became the talk of the school. After all, Yin Wuzhi walking around with two backpacks in one hand and a human shoulder strap in the other was a rather striking sight.
Apart from Jiang Wu’s required daily exercises, Yin Wuzhi barely let him lift a finger. In the mornings, after getting himself ready, Yin Wuzhi would head to Jiang Wu’s room, wake him up, get him ready, and carry him straight into the car. Once they arrived at school, he’d lift Jiang Wu out, carry him across campus, up the stairs, and settle him at his desk. Then, he’d take out Jiang Wu’s books and start his own work.
During breaks, he’d even flip and switch Jiang Wu’s textbooks for him, helping distract teachers so Jiang Wu could nap.
Not that Jiang Wu slept all day. With most of his physically demanding tasks now handled by Yin Wuzhi, he actually had enough energy to pay attention in class.
By the time midterm exams rolled around, Jiang Wu moved up two spots from the bottom of the class rankings.
When Jiang Wu’s mother saw the results, she was stunned. “I can’t believe his grades actually improved.”
Yin Wuzhi calmly explained, “If he rests well before an exam, he’s willing to tackle the more challenging questions.”
Reflecting on it, Yin Wuzhi began to understand why Jiang Wu held grudges. Back when he didn’t help, Jiang Wu had to climb the stairs on his own, carry his own papers, and work hard just to maintain barely passable grades so he could stay close to Yin Wuzhi.
Jiang Wu really loved him.
Jiang Wu’s father, however, found this arrangement troubling. “Ah Zhi, you can’t keep spoiling him like this. He needs to walk more on his own.”
“It’s not spoiling,” Yin Wuzhi explained. “I just think it’s better if he focuses his energy on more important things. After all, we’re aiming to attend the same university.”
Jiang Wu’s parents even sat him down to discuss it, but Jiang Wu dejectedly said, “He insists on carrying me. I can’t stop him.”
As someone who embraced laziness, Jiang Wu found resistance too exhausting. Besides, it would only drain Yin Wuzhi’s energy too, so he figured it was better to just go along with it.
It was a win-win situation.
Jiang Wu’s status as a human shoulder strap soon attracted the attention of the school newspaper. The two of them were interviewed as a result.
“Hello, Jiang Wu. Are you satisfied with your school life?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a rumor that your improved midterm results are thanks to Yin Wuzhi. What’s your take on that?”
“No comment.”
“What do you usually do at home?”
“Stay home.”
“Were you like this back in middle school?”
For the first time, Jiang Wu answered in a full sentence: “Back in middle school, Yin Wuzhi ignored me.”
Yin Wuzhi immediately looked at him. The school paper’s reporters perked up, sensing a juicy story. Before they could ask more, Yin Wuzhi cleared his throat. “Isn’t it my turn now?”
Yin Wuzhi, already known as a top student and a personality on campus, was even more intriguing now with Jiang Wu as his human attachment. The school newspaper reporters eagerly shifted their focus to him.
“Jiang Wu said you ignored him in middle school. Can you explain why?”
“I didn’t ignore him; I was just busy.” Busy gaming with a group of bad influences, Yin Wuzhi silently judged his past self. “To be precise, I was too preoccupied.”
He stole a glance at Jiang Wu.
Jiang Wu, expressionless, had already slumped over on the newspaper office’s couch, his pale cheek pressed against the armrest.
A reporter snapped a picture of the scene while the school paper continued their questions. “It’s said you two have known each other since childhood. Has Jiang Wu always been like this?”
“Yes. He’s always been more of a homebody, and… rather laid-back.”
“Why do you help Jiang Wu so much?”
“Recently, there’s been a school sports competition. I signed up for the handball event, so carrying him helps train my arm strength.”
The reporters’ faces fell in disappointment at the unexpected practicality of his answer. “It’s said you often cover for Jiang Wu in class, even distracting teachers so he can sleep. Didn’t the teachers confront you about it? How did you convince them not to intervene?”
Yin Wuzhi waited patiently for the question to finish before calmly replying, “That’s just a rumor. Jiang Wu never sleeps in class.”
Another click of the camera captured Jiang Wu, fast asleep on the couch.
As they left the interview, Yin Wuzhi hooked an arm around Jiang Wu’s waist, lifting him up effortlessly.
The school paper reporters whispered among themselves. “Some students think your relationship goes beyond normal friendship. What’s your take on that?”
Feigning surprise, Yin Wuzhi leaned in and whispered back, “That obvious?”
The reporters: “!!!”
Jiang Wu heard it all clearly.
As Yin Wuzhi carried him, Jiang Wu pondered. Was Yin Wuzhi really this bold now? Was he actually trying to reveal their relationship at school?
Something didn’t seem right.
Back at his desk, Jiang Wu bit down on a jelly pouch Yin Wuzhi had placed in his mouth, sipping on it while watching him. Yin Wuzhi said, “I’m heading to the teacher’s office to pick up our assignments.”
“Mm.”
As Yin Wuzhi left the room, he overheard a hushed discussion about him and Jiang Wu. People were discreet, keeping their voices low, but Yin Wuzhi had to strain his ears to catch snippets.
Some complimented Jiang Wu’s looks, others praised Yin Wuzhi’s dominance. A few said, “Jiang Wu is so lucky to be pampered by Yin Wuzhi.”
Yin Wuzhi thought to himself, Pampered? This doesn’t even begin to describe it. No one but me can define my relationship with Jiang Wu.
Then, a sharper voice pierced his ears. “What’s wrong with Jiang Wu anyway…? Lazy to the point of absurdity, right? He’s practically a sloth.”
In an instant, Yin Wuzhi grabbed the collars of two classmates.
With a hand on each, his strikingly handsome features stood out even more against the startled expressions of the onlookers. Without even glancing at them, he spoke coldly: “Don’t go defining people so carelessly. Watch your words unless you want to get hurt.”
The two classmates twisted their heads to face him. Yin Wuzhi gave their heads a casual pat and released them.
Even without direct eye contact, the aura of someone who had clawed his way out of life-and-death struggles radiated from him.
Yin Wuzhi was used to shutting down rumors about Jiang Wu. He was used to controlling everything related to him. Insults against him didn’t matter, but no one was allowed to speak poorly of Jiang Wu.
Even if Jiang Wu truly was lazy, only Yin Wuzhi could say so. But the truth was, Jiang Wu wasn’t lazy at all.
He simply wasn’t used to this way of life. For Jiang Wu, the boundless sky and wind were his true home. He could have been rolling in the wind, drifting in the clouds, yet he chose to stay by Yin Wuzhi’s side.
From a human perspective, perhaps he did seem lazy—but that was only because this world failed to stir his emotions.
Even from a human perspective, Jiang Wu wasn’t lazy; he just suffered from “puppet drowsiness syndrome,” not laziness.
That night, back home, Yin Wuzhi opened his laptop and created a new entry: Puppet Drowsiness Syndrome.
He then navigated to a forum, clicked on the section for Xia Dynasty history, and began typing thoughtfully.
Even though his memories were fragmented, Yin Wuzhi was beginning to understand why their world seemed to exist within two overlapping timelines.
His obsession had once created a new worldline, a parallel timeline. Normally, their reincarnations would continue in separate worlds. But…
Yin Wuzhi’s fingers paused slightly over the keyboard.
Back when he and Jiang Wu had promised to meet again in another life, Jiang Wu had asked him:
“What about the versions of us at Mount Wudao?”
The statues that remained there, unmoving in the wind—what would become of them?
If their parallel lives continued, it would mean the original Yin Wuzhi was forever a statue, eternally kneeling at Mount Wudao, never finding peace.
Yin Wuzhi had said, “What we have now is enough.”
But for the Yin Wuzhi still kneeling at Mount Wudao, the life they were living would seem like nothing more than an illusion.
Because he was still there—bereft of love, pleading for eternity.
Jiang Wu had replied, “I can’t bear it.”
He couldn’t bear for any version of Yin Wuzhi to suffer alone.
“Yin Wuzhi, what do you think sustains our world?”
“Time?”
“Can you see time?”
No one could see time. They could only observe its effects—growing bodies, sprouting branches, filling buckets, melting candles.
In modern times, there were even more tools to measure time. Seconds, minutes, hours.
“Your obsession can create this world, and it can bring us back,” Jiang Wu told him. “You must break your perception of the world. Stop defining it by time.”
“You mean…”
Yin Wuzhi caught on immediately.
The long-haired emperor gazed at him unwaveringly, then pulled him close, placing a kiss on his lips. “Exactly.”
The world wasn’t sustained by time—it was sustained by causality.
If Yin Wuzhi defined this world as their perfect new beginning, they’d remain trapped in it—a fabricated reality, no different from a dream. At least, that’s how it would appear to the original timeline.
In this new world, they’d live on as new versions of themselves. No one would remember Yin Wuzhi as the peerless emperor, nor Jiang Wu as the infamous ruler.
It seemed ideal, but for that original Yin Wuzhi, it was deeply tragic.
Jiang Wu didn’t mind tragedy, but he cared about Yin Wuzhi.
A world could have multiple timelines as long as they were connected by cause and effect.
He made Yin Wuzhi abandon his obsession with the fabricated world and take him back.
Because Jiang Wu wanted to see that battered, weathered Yin Wuzhi once more.
He wanted to embrace that Yin Wuzhi.
No one knew how it worked—by conventional logic, it was full of holes. Yet when they left that dream world hand in hand and opened their eyes, they saw each other.
At Mount Wudao, as real as could be.
Every moment they had experienced was like a grand, lavish dream. And for a fleeting moment, Yin Wuzhi regretted it. More than himself, he cared about Jiang Wu. He wanted the world to know that Jiang Wu was the true saintly emperor.
But then, a gust of wind enveloped him.
His soul, hardened like stone for countless years, suddenly came alive again.
“Yin Wuzhi, do you see it?” Jiang Wu took his hand. Their two souls swirled in the air. Jiang Wu’s joy was boundless, and Yin Wuzhi had never seen him so happy. “This is real. This is our reality.”
For a thousand years, Yin Wuzhi had used his obsession to create a single lifetime together.
But he was too greedy. After that life, he wanted the next, and the one after that.
If he could, he would have stayed in that dream forever.
He thought that was reality.
But Jiang Wu never forgot what was truly real.
He had wandered for too many years, his way of thinking long detached from that of humanity.
He reshaped Jiang Wu, and Jiang Wu saved him.
But he knew, despite Jiang Wu awakening something within him, Jiang Wu himself lacked confidence. If that weren’t the case, he wouldn’t have made a promise about their next life.
Jiang Wu had no way of knowing that he and Yin Wuzhi could truly return to their soul state. As long as they crossed the dried-up Lanhai, they could still follow the trajectory of their first life and achieve immortality.
Their happiness was short-lived, though, as a piercing scream shattered the moment:
“The statue! The statue is gone!”
The wandering spirit of Jiang Wu was quick-witted. He immediately grabbed Yin Wuzhi, urging, “We’ve been discovered! Run!”
But soon enough, they were forcibly separated and reincarnated into the human world.
The world operates on more than one framework of understanding. Its laws don’t merely follow the passage of time; they also adhere to the principles of cause and effect.
If one is confined to a narrow perspective, they will remain trapped within it.
Yin Wuzhi’s fingers hovered over the keyboard before pressing down.
They were real.
Whether it was the pain of the first life or the salvation of the second, they had lived through it all. No one understood better than they did.
He would continue to tell this world that Jiang Wu was not a tyrant. He wanted everyone to know how extraordinary Jiang Wu had once been.
And as for himself, he was no so-called emperor for the ages. He was merely a selfish, vengeful soul clinging to existence.
Unifying the land? Serving the people? None of that mattered. If not for losing Jiang Wu—if not for the fact that becoming emperor granted him greater power and convenience in searching for that person—he was nothing more than a grain of sand in the vast sea.
Ah.
Better not write that.
It would only make him seem unworthy of Jiang Wu.
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