Morning sunlight spilled across Sixth Street—bright, warm, ordinary.
At the entrance of Heal Clinic, Belle scratched her head at the still-closed door. Wise stood beside her, wearing an expression that could only be described as tiredly unsurprised.
"Huh? Qianye's not home again?"
"Belle." Wise exhaled. "He messaged us this morning. Said he had to go out of town. There's a funeral."
"Another funeral? Whose?"
Wise paused, the answer catching slightly in his throat.
"…Probably one of his patients."
The rain started as something barely there—thin threads drifting in the air—then slowly thickened into a steady curtain, tapping against rows of tombstones with a constant, granular shh…shh…shh.
Grave markers—gray-white and upright—looked even more solemn under the wet sky. Each one stood like a silent watchman, holding all the sentences the living never finished speaking.
Water slid down the stone faces like soundless tears, washing dust away without touching the grief underneath.
A hunched elderly woman with white hair held Qianye's hand. Her skin was rough as bark, yet her palm carried surprising warmth—almost the only heat left in the cold rain.
Tears kept spilling from her deep-set eyes, mixing with raindrops and winding down the map of wrinkles on her cheeks. Even so, she forced herself into calm—into a small, comforting smile—as she looked at the young doctor who had wrestled three extra years out of an incurable diagnosis for her child.
Qianye's emerald eyes were clearer in the rain, silver lashes beaded with droplets that made every blink feel heavy, as if he were shaking off an entire world's weight.
He looked at her with an ache that was half sorrow and half self-blame—too much emotion for someone so young to hold without breaking.
"Doctor Qianye," the old woman said, gentle and firm, her words cutting through the rain cleanly. "Please don't grieve for my child."
"To be honest… after the diagnosis, he still had these years with me. And when he died, it wasn't painful." Her smile trembled, but didn't collapse. "That is enough."
Qianye felt the coarse warmth of her hand—the hand that had once touched her child's forehead, the hand that had wiped countless tears. He stayed silent for a long time. Water ran down his pale hair and soaked his shoulders.
In the end he whispered, almost inaudible:
"But… I still didn't cure him."
"That isn't your fault, little Qianye." The woman interrupted immediately—still soft, still kind, but with a startling clarity in her dim eyes.
She tightened her grip, as if trying to transfer something into him—strength, permission, release.
"Even when a person lies with their mouth… even when their words are sharp and their body resists… their smile cannot lie." She spoke slowly, as if laying down a truth she'd learned in blood. "It's the most moving power heaven gives people. Stronger than a thousand sentences."
Her gaze turned inward, bright with memory.
"I know how open his heart was at the end. How beautiful his smile was." Her voice did not waver. "He knew his life was still draining away—yet he had no regrets."
The rain grew heavier, striking stone and leaves and grass in a bleak, steady rhythm.
But the woman's voice stayed clear.
"He wasn't chained to a hospital bed. No loss of control. No endless nausea and vomiting. No sudden delirium, no bitterness. He could still live like an ordinary person in New Eridu—awake, in command of his body."
She exhaled, and something like gratitude sharpened into brightness.
"For those who have seen hell… for a mother and her child… that is a miracle. That is joy."
People said a smile was the truest window to character. But sometimes—sometimes—crying was the deeper path.
Because in sacred tears, eyes stained gray by the world could become clear again.
Qianye stared into her face, into eyes washed clean by rain and grief, and saw sincerity without a single drop of performance.
It wasn't polite social kindness.
It was a pure goodwill that had survived suffering and refused to rot.
He pressed a hand to his chest. The pain eased a fraction—yet shadows still circled inside him like dust storms out on the Outer Ring.
So he did what he knew she needed.
He forced a smile.
Not because he felt better—because he understood she didn't want to watch more tears. She'd seen enough.
Enough of the "daughter-in-law" screaming for show in the mourning hall. Enough of distant relatives who barely knew the deceased wailing like actors, their grief staged and loud.
The rain was merciful. It hid any new tears he might have shed. It also washed the air cleaner—scrubbing away falsehood.
The old woman understood perfectly. She watched those scavengers with cold eyes.
She knew their tears were not for a life.
They were for inheritance.
And her child's wealth would not feed them—not a single bite.
She almost looked forward to seeing their faces when they realized that.
But first, she had one task that mattered more than revenge.
She reached into a cloth bag and pulled out a thick folder. The kraft paper was darkened by rain, edges softened and beginning to curl.
"Child," she said, holding it out. "Take this."
Beside them, Seth—silent—shifted half a step closer. Raindrops beaded across his smooth shell, catching dim light with faint metallic sheen.
He made no sound.
But his presence was a kind of pressure: You're not alone.
Qianye's hand trembled. He didn't take it right away. Water slid down his fingers and fell into wet grass.
"Auntie… it's too heavy. I can't—"
"Take it." The woman didn't withdraw her hand. The rain carved rivers down her wrinkles. "This was his last wish."
"When he was still clear-minded, he told me again and again—when he goes, these things must go into your hands. Only then will they not be stained."
Her tone didn't rise. It didn't need to. It carried the weight of something unarguable.
"You gave him three years of living like a person." Her eyes glistened, fierce with meaning. "That is more valuable than any wealth."
"Don't reject a dead man's gratitude."
"And don't refuse a mother's request."
Qianye fell silent again.
He looked toward the new grave marker. The name carved into clean stone—each stroke a reminder of someone he couldn't keep.
He remembered the patient's final smile.
No fear of death.
Only gratitude for life.
At last, he reached out.
His fingertips stopped for a beat when they touched the folder—as if the intent inside burned hotter than the cold rain.
Then he took it.
He hugged it to his chest like a promise that couldn't be dropped.
"I… understand," he said, voice thick with a restrained crack. "Thank you. And… thank him."
The woman's face softened with relief.
Then her eyes sharpened, sweeping to the side—toward several vague figures lurking in the rain, circling like they "just happened" to be nearby.
Her mouth curved into something cold.
Scavengers.
Hyenas who smelled blood and came running.
"Rest easy, little Qianye," she murmured, lowering her voice. "This is his heart, given to you. No one can take it."
"As for those hyenas…"
She paused. The quiet that followed tasted of iron.
"Whatever they call themselves—whatever 'family' mask they wear—if they dare reach their claws toward what belongs to you…"
Her words were light.
But the threat inside them was absolute.
"I will chop those claws off. Tendon, bone, all of it. Grind them until nothing remains."
"This old body is near its end." Her eyes flashed with a mother's ruthless devotion. "I don't mind staining it with dirty blood—if it protects my child's last wish."
Qianye's pupils tightened. His arms around the folder pulled in unconsciously.
"Auntie… you don't need to—"
"This is my choice," she cut him off. "My responsibility."
"You only need to be well. Walk your path."
Seth shifted closer again, releasing a steady, faint glow that painted Qianye's pale profile and the old woman's iron resolve against the gray rain.
Qianye finally stopped arguing.
He inhaled cold air that smelled of wet soil, crushed grass, and rain.
Then he bowed deeply—toward the woman, toward the new grave, toward the name he would not forget.
Raindrops fell from his hair into puddles, spreading circles outward.
"I will use it well," he promised.
In his emerald eyes, grief remained—but it was being reshaped into something gentler and stronger.
A doctor's reverence.
A living person's obligation.
A promise that wouldn't decay.
The rain kept falling—washing the cemetery, washing the heart—until the weight on his young shoulders felt different.
Still heavy.
But now… threaded with something else.
Like a seed taking root beneath soaked earth.
Hope.
Continuation.
A trust that crossed the border of death.
The woman watched him leave, watched the silent Bangboo at his side, until both disappeared into the rain.
Then she turned back to the grave.
And smiled—truly calm.
"Rest easy, child," she whispered to the stone. "Your last gift has reached the one most worthy."
In the deep rain, the handoff between life and death became its own solemn music.
And in the rain's farthest edge, a new story began to move.
A call: "appointment" becomes "promise"
Somewhere else—
On the Victoria Housekeeping estate, Lycaon held a phone to his ear while dealing with a growing pile of paperwork.
"Lord Qianye," he said with measured respect, "I understand your feelings."
Then a faint helplessness entered his voice.
"However… as much as I dislike admitting that man is correct—Victoria Housekeeping must act with caution as the 'loyal hounds' of the Mayflower family."
On the line, Qianye's voice sounded low, worn.
"…Sorry, Lycaon. I didn't think of that."
Lycaon wiped sweat from his forehead.
Behind him, the atmosphere seemed to turn sharp—an instant spike of murderous intent from Rina and Corin, who were apparently listening in and disapproving of someone making Qianye feel bad.
Lycaon spoke faster.
"No harm done. That you considered us first is an honor."
"But… we truly cannot accept further gifts."
He paused, then offered a path out.
"Among those you know, there will be someone skilled in this matter. You may seek their assistance."
"…I'll think about it," Qianye said. "Thank you, Lycaon."
"You are too kind," Lycaon replied. "Victoria Housekeeping will always answer your summons."
The call ended.
Qianye stared at the trophy Seth had previously won—apparently with a Speedboo—now sitting on his table like a joke with too much meaning.
He patted Seth, who lay comfortably in his arms.
"So… who do I go to?"
Seth responded with bright certainty:
"Mm-ne mm-ne?" (How about Miss Lucy?)
"Lucy… no." Qianye frowned. "She's already buried under work. If Caesar slips up, everything blows up. I can't bother her."
Seth continued, unshaken:
"Mm-ne." (I guarantee she'd be happy to.)
Qianye hesitated.
"But the company's over in the Thorne District…" His face tightened. "And over there…"
A figure flashed across his mind.
His whole body shivered.
"No. No way." He muttered like he was arguing with gravity itself. "If it's her, she'll definitely ask for something shady."
But then he looked down at the folder again—at what it meant.
"…This is his gift. I can't waste it."
After a long silence, Qianye picked up a second phone and dialed a number he clearly hated knowing.
It rang.
Once.
Twice.
Then a voice answered—elegant, refined, and yet rotten to the bone with amusement.
"Who is it?" she purred. "Whoever you are, I'll remind you—interrupting my afternoon tea with my sisters is—"
"Jacqueline," Qianye cut in. "It's me."
The other side went quiet.
Qianye couldn't see her—but he could hear the expression forming.
"Hey." He snapped, suddenly sharp. "Don't try to trace this phone's location. Or I'm hanging up and throwing it as far as I can."
A pause.
Then an almost wounded sigh.
"…Qianye." The sweetness was weaponized. "Why do you have so many misunderstandings about me?"
"Because you tried to kidnap me more than once." He didn't let her breathe. "Forget it. Help me with one thing, and everything in the past—clean slate."
"Oh?" A smile you could hear. "Say it."
He explained.
Time passed in silence.
Then Jacqueline laughed—soft, delighted.
"If that's the case… I'm very willing."
Qianye's shoulders tightened.
"But?"
"But." Her voice became velvet. "Promise me one small condition."
"…Say it."
"It's simple." The smile sharpened. "When you come to the Thorne District again…"
"Let me properly host you."
Qianye exhaled—caught between suspicion and necessity.
A promise, made because he had to.
An appointment, that would become a hook.
And somewhere beneath that—dangerously close to fate—
a new thread quietly tied itself to the story.
Join here to read ahead.
In Star Rail, Ultra-Beast Armored — Have I Caught "Equilibrium"? l (Chapter 80)
Uma Musume, But I Only Have Five Years Left to Live (Chapter 178)
Zenless Zone Zero: I'm a Doctor, Not a Bangboo (Chapter 139)
Ben Tennyson Wants to Join the Justice League ( 126 )
TYPE-MOON: Redemption Beginning with the Holy Grail War (Chapter110)
Yu-Gi-Oh! — Transmigrated into the White Dragon Girl (Chapter171)
"Is this chat group even serious?" (Chapter100)
I, Lord Ravager, Utterly Loyal! (Chapter184)
Can Playing Games Save the World? 65
Crossover Anime Multiverse: The Demon Hunter of an Unnatural World 77
From Junkman to Wasteland 66
Weekly Refresh of Overpowered 31
I'm Grinding Proficiency Like 46
From Kiana, Lord Ravager, Onwa 168
Honkai: Is This Still the Prev 42
Elf: My Starter Pokémon Is Inc 65
Warhammer: My Primarch Is Remi 156
From Demon Slayer to Grand Ass 105
The Way the Umamusume Look at 68
Uma Musume, but My Cheat Power 185
Naruto: Weaving the Future, Be 65
Zenless Zone Zero, but Kamen R 76
Multiverse Crossover: The Perf 66
My Cyberpsycho Girlfriend 65
Uma Musume: The Dark Trainer 160
Uma Musume: A Calamity Born fr 150
I, a Reincarnation-Loop Player 76
The Violent Girl Group Is Beat 97
Uma Musume: The Horse Girl Who 66
Uma Musume: From Beginner 116
Becoming a Horse Girl, I Will 75
Uma Musume: I Want All 93
I Can Copy Unique Skills 79
Summoning an Evil God, but the 55
Supernatural Multiverse 75
My Harem Is Indescribable 68
Jujutsu Kaisen: Heroic Spirit 70
"I'm just a Valkyrie passing through." 66
Uma Musume: Today Is Another Romantic Battlefield 69
Still playing traditional Honk 49
The Most Filial Son Under Heav 53
What Should I Do After Switchi 42
Reincarnated as a Demon, Skill 50
Hell-Difficulty Dungeon? 38
Transmigrated as Sukuna 35
Checking In in Demon Slayer 40
The Reincarnating Trainer of Tracen Academy 55
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