The threat hung between them long after Weitian's last word faded.
Watch me burn us both...
Linhuan's scalp still throbbed where his hair was twisted in that merciless grip, yet when Weitian finally loosened his hold, he did not scramble away. He merely adjusted himself on the cushions with quiet composure, silver strands sliding over his shoulder like spilled moonlight.
He lifted himself, sitting sideways yet his waist remained upright. There was no fear in his expression. Only detachment.
"If that is your will," he said evenly, voice neither trembling nor defiant, "then I will witness it."
The calm answer struck harder than resistance ever could yet no one spoke again that night.
Nor the next.
Nor the next after that.
The carriage rolled on beneath changing skies, through forests stripped bare by winter wind, across rivers thin with frost. Inside, silence reigned like an uninvited sovereign. It coiled between them, stretched thin and sharp, never quite breaking.
Long Weitian did not look at Linhuan unless necessary meanwhile the quiet man did not acknowledged his presence at all.
Three times a day, without fail, meals were brought into the carriage, and three times a day Weitian watched as the slender hand lifted the chopsticks, paused faintly before the food touched his lips, and swallowed with quiet restraint.
Two bites, sometimes three, often less—but never more—before the chopsticks were set down again with the same calm finality, as though that small measure alone was all he intended to claim from the world.
Zhan Linhuan had always been a picky eater. Weitian remembered it with unwanted clarity.
He loved dishes with spice — heavy and unapologetic, salt that lingered and sour that stung the tongue. He tolerated sweets only sparingly, and never mixed two flavours together.
If even a trace of sugar touched a savory dish, he would set it aside without complaint. Most dishes in any kitchen carried a hint of sweetness to balance flavor — a pinch of sugar in broth, a glaze brushed lightly over meat.
Linhuan would simply not eat them.
He never demanded alterations. Never explained himself. If nothing suited his palate, he would quietly abstain, as though fasting were a natural extension of breathing.
In the past, it had been the young Weitian who noticed, who learned the precise balance of chili oil and black vinegar, who taught himself to cook, entered kitchens unannounced, ordered sugar withheld, and ensured dishes were kept separate so the flavors would not mingle. More than once, Linhuan had finished a bowl without ever knowing who had prepared it.
Now, when Linhuan lowered his chopsticks after barely tasting a meal, Weitian no longer thought of sugar hidden in the broth. Instead, a darker thought took root — that he intended to starve himself to death. The idea settled quickly, anger surging in response. Yet Weitian restrained himself, waiting to see how long that stubborn resolve could truly withstand hunger.
A week passed likewise.
Linhuan grew paler — not dramatically, but enough to draw Weitian's attention despite himself. The faint hollow forming beneath his cheekbones, the slight slackness in his wrists when he folded his hands — nothing escaped his notice.
On the sixth day, Weitian's patience thinned. He ordered his men to bring in an array of dishes — rich broths, braised meats glazed to perfection, fragrant stir-fries, delicacies fit for court. The small carriage table filled until there was barely space between bowls.
He pushed the heavy tray closer to where Linhuan sat by the narrow window, winter light brushing pale silver hue across his profile. Then he seated himself opposite him, gaze cold and unyielding.
"Finish it," Weitian said evenly. "This time, if you dare leave even a bite, I might personally put my hand down your throat along with the meal."
Linhuan looked at him briefly for once, as though words hovered at the edge of his lips — but in the end, he said nothing.
He lifted his chopsticks in silence and took a bite, chewing slowly before swallowing with visible effort. The muscles in his throat tightened, betraying how forced it was. Without protest, he reached for another dish and managed to place a second bite into his mouth. That was his limit.
He tried to withdraw after the second bite, but this time Weitian's hand shot out, catching his wrist before the chopsticks could leave the air.
"Planning to die through a hunger strike?" Weitian's voice turned sharp. "Do you think I'll let you have your way?"
Before Linhuan could react, Weitian picked from another plate — a richly seasoned slice glistening faintly under the lamplight — and held it close to Linhuan's lips.
"Open your mouth."
The command was low, uncompromising.
Linhuan disliked being forced. That much had always been clear. Even as a general, even as a master, he never yielded anyone's control. But now, drained from weeks of neglecting his own body, he simply lacked the strength to resist.
His lashes lowered as he resumed eating — one more bite, then another — drawn from different dishes, each carrying a distinct flavor.
Weitian finally released his wrist and set aside his own chopsticks, watching in silence. For a brief moment, it seemed the order had been obeyed.
Then out of sudden Linhuan's breathing changed.
Subtle at first — a tightening along his jaw, a pause drawn too long between breaths. The color slowly receded from his face. His fingers slackened, and the chopsticks slipped from his grasp.
He turned sharply toward the carriage window, bracing himself against the frame as a harsh, involuntary retch overcame him, expelling all that he had been forced to swallow.
Even under command, even under force, his body would not accept it.
Weitian rose halfway, fury igniting at once. "Are you doing this on pur—"
The words died the moment Linhuan looked at him.
His eyes were faintly misted, not in weakness, but in quiet grievance — as though the injustice lay not in the coercion, but in being misunderstood. Then he turned away again, toward the narrow window, and retched a second time. His thin shoulders trembled despite his effort to remain composed.
The sharp scent lingering in the carriage did not escape Weitian's now calm mind either.
At last, he reached for the bowl Linhuan had eaten from, lifted a portion, and tasted it himself.
Realization struck him instantly.
On the following evening, as night fell like ink poured across the heavens, Weitian ordered that they lodge at an inn.
They had entered Chénxī, the capital of Yuèlín, two days prior. By tomorrow night, they would stand within the imperial palace once more. There was no longer any need to hasten their return.
The convoy halted before a roadside inn, lanterns swaying in the cold night wind. The guards moved at once, clearing rooms and securing every entrance.
Long Weitian had already stepped down from the carriage when he turned back and extended a hand toward the figure still seated within.
"Come down," he said. "What are you waiting for?"
Linhuan did not take the offered hand.
"If you wish to stay," he replied evenly, "then stay. I am quite well where I am."
Weitian did not argue back. Instead, he seized Linhuan by the wrist and pulled him down from the carriage.
Linhuan struggled in a dignified manner and yet it was futile. The difference between them was no longer merely status, nor spiritual core.
It was physical.
Weitian stood half a head taller now. Linhuan, who had once cast a shadow over him in every sense, scarcely reached his chin.
For a fleeting moment, something sullen passed over Linhuan's face —a quiet irritation at the reversal. A temper tightly leashed. The faint displeasure of a prideful man unaccustomed to losing — least of all to his own disciple.
And Weitian saw all of it, even that brief, unguarded sulk.
The faint furrow of his brow. The subtle tightening of his lips. A touch of childish vexation that slipped through the cracks of his usual aloof composure.
Linhuan would never admit to such a thing. Perhaps he did not even know he did it.
Although he did not smile, but the ache beneath his ribs tightened all the same before he dismissed that feeling.
The smaller figure stumbled once, then steadied himself. His silver hair hung loose, wind-tangled across pale shoulders. A few travelers in the courtyard looked up — some startled, some recognizing the dark-gold dragon insignia upon imperial sleeves — and quickly lowered their gazes.
Weitian paid them no heed.
He dragged Linhuan through the main hall and up the wooden stairs, each step striking hard against the boards.
Once inside the prepared chamber, he released him with a sharp shove, sending him back toward the edge of the bed.
"Stay put obediently until I return."
With a sweep of his sleeve, the shutters and windows shut as one. His fingers traced a sealing sigil through the air; dragonlight flared for a breath before settling over the chamber, silent and binding as unseen chains.
Linhuan's gaze followed the fading glow, and his heart tightened as the faint thread of escape he had not even acknowledged to himself was extinguished in that instant.
"What are you doing?"
"Laying a barrier," Weitian replied coolly. "So that one accustomed to fleeing does not attempt it again."
"Aren't you unrivaled in pursuit?" Linhuan asked evenly. "Why such caution, then?"
Though he sat at the edge of the bed with measured composure, a quiet irritation simmered beneath the surface.
Weitian smiled yet his gaze did not soften.
"I fear nothing," he replied. "Only that Shizun is exceedingly skilled at concealment. I would rather not exhaust myself hunting you again."
Saying that, he stepped outside, locking the door behind him. Two guards stationed themselves without question.
He went downstairs and requested the use of the kitchen, and the innkeeper immediately bowed again and again, face pale beneath the weight of imperial presence, clearly convinced he had somehow failed to satisfy the sovereign.
Weitian did not waste time on explanations, speaking clearly,
"I want the kitchen vacant." he said.
The man nearly choked on his own breath.
"Y–Your Majesty—?"
"Now."
"Y-Yes, absolutely, My Lord!"
The innkeeper wiped his forehead nervously before turning and shouting at the staff. "What are you waiting for, you fools? Clear the kitchen immediately for His Majesty!"
Within moments, the hearth was cleared. Not a single chef remained. Even the servants were dismissed. The kitchen fell silent except for the crackle of fire and the steady rhythm of a blade striking wood as the tall man — Emperor of two nations — tied an apron around his waist and began searching for whatever ingredients were still available.
There was little left, as it had been the final batch prepared before the kitchen closed for the night.
Still, he found enough.
Cold noodles.
Yes. That would do for tonight.
He remembered exactly how his Shizun preferred them. Hand-pulled and rinsed until firm. Chili oil bloomed in hot fat. Crushed garlic. A sharp pour of black vinegar. Salt measured with precision.
No sugar.
None. Not even a trace.
His hand hovered over the spice jar. Instinct urged him to add the usual generous amount — the way Linhuan liked it. But after a week of near-starvation, he hesitated. The man's stubborn body might not endure such heat.
In the end, he added only a restrained measure — just enough so the flavor would not fall flat. If it lacked bite entirely, that picky man would not even touch it.
Steam rose into the dim kitchen air. The scent was sharp, clean, uncompromising. Outside the kitchen, the atmosphere was as calm as the silent street of a winter night.
Several pairs of eyes watching in bewilderment from time to time, admiring, withhelding the most unbelievable scene live which will surely go down in history.
When Weitian finished, he plated the noodles carefully, adding a few simple stir-fried side dishes he had prepared alongside them, and filled a jug with water, decorating them nicely on a tray.
Every single soul in the inn stared like a ghost as their Emperor lifted the simple tray with his own hands with precious care, walking upstairs without acknowledging them.
At the door, he dismissed the guards with a glance and unsealed the room, letting it shut behind him with a final, decisive click.
Inside, Linhuan remained where he had been left — seated by the bed, back straight despite fatigue, silver strands falling over his shoulders like spilled frost.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Weitian crossed the distance and set a tray upon the low table. The scent of vinegar and chili rose into the air — sharp, clean, familiar.
Linhuan did not move.
He assumed it was not for him. A man whose pride outweighed his hunger would sooner endure emptiness than request a dish suited to his own taste.
Weitian watched his indifference for a few seconds, then turned slightly away.
"Start eating, Shizun." he said evenly. "Or shall I feed you myself?"
"Impudent!"
The word came swift and low. Linhuan was a thin-skinned man when it came to propriety; such shameless speech was not something he would tolerate lightly. The calm mask he wore faltered at the edges.
But Weitian was the very opposite. Not only did he not retreat, he held his ground — and his gaze.
Reclining against the couch opposite the table, he watched without restraint, crimson eyes fixed and unyielding, observing every flicker of expression as though nothing in the room could escape him.
"I can be far more than impudent," he replied. "So it would be wise to eat without further display."
Color crept visibly along Linhuan's pale features — anger, unmistakable and unhidden. Yet he said nothing more. There was no telling what further insolence might follow.
At last, he rose and took his seat beside the low table and began to eat.
The flavors were clean. Separate. Exact.
Vinegar bright. Chili warm, but restrained. No sweetness to blunt the edge.
He did not pause in the middle and when he finally set the chopsticks down, the tray stood empty.
Linhuan stared at it in disbelief.
Had he… truly eaten both portions alone?
.
.
.
To be continued...