The seventh week began with a worry.
It wasn't a loud or dramatic worry. Just small observations that piled up like dust—until Li Yuan couldn't ignore them anymore.
Hakeem was moving slower today.
Not by much. Maybe half a second longer to stand up. Maybe a slightly heavier breath when they lifted the ladle. Maybe the way he rotated his shoulder—like he was trying to loosen something that wouldn't let go.
"Lift."
They lifted together. As usual.
"Walk. Five steps."
They walked. In sync. As usual.
"Stop. One, two, three."
They tilted the ladle. Molten metal flowed into the mold with a sound that was far too familiar.
"Enough. Back. Down."
The ladle returned to the ground.
As usual.
But not entirely as usual.
Because Li Yuan felt—through the handle they both held—that Hakeem's hands trembled a little longer than they had yesterday.
Not by much. But enough.
Rest came after a shift that felt longer than usual—or maybe Li Yuan had simply lost the ability to perceive time correctly.
They sat side by side—a position that had become a ritual. Within a two-meter radius, so Wenjing could capture Hakeem's intent if he wanted to speak.
But Hakeem didn't speak. He just sat. His breathing was a little heavier than it should have been for someone who was just sitting.
Li Yuan didn't ask. Said nothing.
But he listened.
Not with Wenjing—there was no spoken intent to capture.
Just with... presence. With a quiet attentiveness.
And he understood—without needing words—that Hakeem's body was beginning to give up.
Not quickly. Not dramatically.
Just little by little. Like a candle burning from both ends—bright for others, but consuming itself.
I said I wouldn't let you die, Li Yuan thought. And I won't.
But how?
He couldn't reduce Hakeem's burden—fifteen people still depended on him. He couldn't make the shift shorter or the rest longer. He couldn't change the reality that the Forge of the Damned didn't care whether a person endured or not.
But he could... maybe...
The Understanding of the Body whispered from within Zhenjing—always tightly wrapped, always held in check, never released unless to keep the projection of his own consciousness body real.
But maybe—just maybe—he could release a little bit. Just enough to... help.
Not a grand healing. Not something that would make people suspicious.
Just... a small reminder. A gentle touch. A subtle resonance that said to Hakeem's body: You don't have to carry all of this alone.
But is it safe? Li Yuan asked himself.
Will Hakeem know?
Will others feel it?
He didn't know.
But he knew one thing: if he did nothing, Hakeem wouldn't last until the ninth month.
And that... that was unacceptable.
Night came like a heavy blanket—not because of the dark (darkness meant nothing to Li Yuan), but because of the exhaustion that made everyone in the rest room fall into a sleep more like unconsciousness than rest.
Li Yuan sat. His back to the wall. The same position as always.
Hakeem was next to him—already asleep, his breathing heavy but regular.
Li Yuan waited.
He listened to the breathing of everyone in the room. One by one, they slowed. Became deep. Became the rhythm of a sleep that was not easily disturbed.
Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes.
Everyone was asleep now.
Except for Li Yuan—who didn't need to sleep like a human because he wasn't completely human, although no one knew that.
He turned his head slightly toward Hakeem—a small movement, not enough to wake anyone.
This is the moment.
If I'm going to do this, this is the moment.
The Understanding of the Body was still tightly wrapped within Zhenjing—as usual, as always, because its passive effects were too strong to be released haphazardly. The wrapping held it back, moderated it, ensured no one felt a resonance they shouldn't.
But now—carefully, very carefully—Li Yuan began to loosen the wrapping.
Just a little.
Like opening a window just one centimeter—enough for air to come in, not enough for the wind to blow everything away.
The Understanding of the Body flowed out—very subtly, very controlled.
Li Yuan extended his hand—slowly, very slowly—toward Hakeem's shoulder.
His fingers stopped a few centimeters from the cloth. He hesitated.
What am I doing?
What will happen if he wakes up?
What will happen if others feel it?
But then he remembered: Hakeem's trembling hands. His too-heavy breathing. The way his body moved like a machine beginning to break down.
And he continued.
His hand touched the shoulder—lightly, like touching something very fragile.
The Understanding of the Body flowed through the touch—not like a visible energy, not like a dramatic light or warmth.
Just... a resonance.
A subtle vibration that spoke in a language older than words:
Body, listen. You are tired. I know. But you are not alone. I am here. And I will help—just a little. Just enough to make tomorrow a little easier to bear.
There was no visible response. Hakeem didn't move. His breathing remained regular.
But Li Yuan felt something—very subtle—like Hakeem's body taking a slightly deeper breath. Like a muscle that had been tense for too long finally relaxing a little.
Maybe it was just his imagination.
Maybe not.
Li Yuan didn't know.
He just knew he had to try.
Five seconds. Ten seconds.
No longer. He didn't dare to stay longer.
He pulled his hand back—quickly but not roughly.
He wrapped the Understanding of the Body back up—tightly, as before, as if it had never been released.
Nothing had changed in the room. No one woke up. No one felt anything.
Hakeem was still sleeping—his breathing was still heavy, but maybe—just maybe—a little more peaceful.
Li Yuan leaned against the wall.
His hands were still shaking a little—not from fear, but from something deeper.
From understanding that he had just crossed a line.
The line between observing and intervening.
The line between letting Hakeem struggle alone and secretly helping without permission.
Is this right? he asked himself.
Is this what I'm supposed to do?
The Understanding of the Body didn't answer with words.
But there was a feeling—very subtle—like a recognition:
Sometimes, the best love is the one that is never known.
Sometimes, protecting someone means not letting them know they are being protected.
Because if they know, they will feel indebted. And debt... debt turns friendship into a transaction.
Li Yuan closed the eyes that couldn't see.
I will never tell you, Hakeem, he thought. Never.
This is a gift that doesn't need recognition.
This is a love that doesn't need to be reciprocated.
Just... let me keep the small fire inside your body burning.
A little longer.
Until you can stand on your own.
Or until you don't need me anymore.
Whichever comes first.
He didn't sleep—never slept.
He just sat in the darkness.
Listening to the breathing of fifteen souls who were still alive.
And he promised—silently, just to himself—
—that he would continue to do this.
Every night.
As long as he still could.
As long as Hakeem still needed him.
Even if Hakeem would never know.
Especially because Hakeem would never know.
Morning came with the harsh sound of a trumpet.
Everyone woke up—or tried to wake up.
Hakeem sat up, moved his shoulder—a small rotation, as usual.
Then he stopped.
He moved it again.
"Hmm."
Li Yuan—who was already "awake"—didn't turn his head. Didn't ask. He just sat quietly.
"Strange," Hakeem mumbled—more to himself than to anyone else.
"What's strange?" Li Yuan finally asked—his tone neutral, not too interested, not too indifferent.
"My shoulder. It's usually stiff in the morning. Today... it's not so bad."
"Maybe you slept in a better position."
"Maybe." Hakeem stood up, stretched his arms. "Or maybe my body is finally learning how not to completely give up."
Li Yuan didn't answer.
He just gave a small smile—very small, invisible to anyone in the room.
Yes, he thought. Or maybe someone is helping you without you knowing.
But you don't need to know.
You will never know.
And that... that's okay.
They walked together toward the next shift.
Hakeem moved a little lighter today—not by much, maybe it was just an imagination, but Li Yuan felt it.
And he knew—knew with his entire soul—
—that he would continue to do this.
Every night.
One touch at a time.
One silent gift at a time.
Until Hakeem was strong enough not to need him anymore.
Or until Li Yuan's own consciousness body couldn't anymore.
Whichever came first, he didn't know.
But he knew one thing:
He wouldn't stop.
Not when Hakeem still needed him.
Even if that "needing" was never spoken.
Even if that "helping" was never known.
Because that was what friends did.
Protect in silence.
Give without recognition.
Love without needing it to be returned.
One night at a time.
One secret touch at a time.
One gift that would never be opened but would always be felt—
—in the way the body moved a little lighter.
In the way the shoulder wasn't as stiff as yesterday.
In the way tomorrow felt a little more possible to bear.
That was enough.
More than enough.
And Li Yuan—who chose not to see but was finally learning the deepest way to see—
—would keep this secret.
Until the end.
No matter what happened.
No one would ever know.
Never.
And that—
—was how love was supposed to be given.
In silence.
In darkness.
Without expecting anything in return.
Except to see the person you love—
—endure one more day.
That was enough.
Always enough.