Chapter 3#
This Is… a Yinnest?#
Rong Yu had a dream—a dream about his past life.
He was what everyone called a prodigy, admitted to the University of Science and Technology’s gifted youth class at just thirteen. He should have had a life of smooth sailing, a future of boundless promise.
But at fifteen, a car accident took his legs.
His ambitions, his ideals, his aspirations in scientific research—all vanished into thin air overnight.
He spent an entire year in a hospital room with stark white walls on every side, barely managing to recover his broken body. When classmates, teachers, and relatives came to visit, he refused to see any of them.
His personality grew gloomy and withdrawn; he didn’t want to communicate with the outside world. The only thing that could keep him company was books.
Though his legs were crippled, he still had his mind. Like a sponge, he frantically absorbed knowledge—astronomy, geography, language, history, biochemistry, medicine… he could learn all of it at lightning speed, yet had nowhere to put it to use.
Emotions accumulated in his chest with no outlet. Sometimes he was manic, sometimes despondent, sometimes depressed—he even began to entertain thoughts of suicide.
In the third year after the accident, the doctors said he had bipolar disorder.
The hospital room was plastered with impact-absorbing foam, not a single sharp edge in sight. Occasionally his hands and feet would be restrained, bound to the bed like a mental patient.
He couldn’t even read the books that were his sole comfort anymore, because paper pages could cut his skin.
He had to stay away from all potential danger.
The doctors played a projector for him; that was his only amusement.
But most of the time, he just lay in bed staring into space. White walls on all four sides, a row of white pills on the table.
He felt like a fish drowning in a sea of white, unable to see the sun or the ocean floor.
He lingered on in a miserable existence, yet found no meaning in living at all.
On his twenty-first birthday, the doctor brought in a slice of birthday cake. He snapped the plastic fork in half and ended his tedious life.
When the dream ended, Rong Yu was drenched in sweat.
Mo Shu arrived promptly, helped Rong Yu sit up, and wiped the sweat from him. “Look at you, Young Master, soaked through with sweat. Would you like a bath?”
Rong Yu nodded listlessly.
The underfloor heating and charcoal braziers in the room blazed hot; several hand warmers were still stuffed under the quilt. Outside it was freezing, but Rong Yu’s bedroom was hotter than summer, and his body was sticky with sweat.
Mo Shu went to the outer room to order hot water, then carried Rong Yu to the wheelchair and pushed him toward the bath.
Rong Yu’s courtyard was named Bicui Pavilion—the largest compound in the sprawling Rong estate, second only to Rong Xiuyong’s own quarters. But its interior furnishings were several times more luxurious than Rong Xiuyong’s courtyard.
Yang-shi had only one child, Rong Yu, and he had been frail since birth. She had always known Rong Xiuyong didn’t love her—that he loved that Bai-shi—and that even her Yu’er wasn’t as favored by his father as the concubine-born son. So she doted on her own child all the more, naturally funneling every good thing into her son’s courtyard.
Gold, silver, jade, rare antiques, and strange exotic goods sent by her natal family—all of it flowed into Bicui Pavilion without exception.
Decorating Bicui Pavilion with the splendor of a golden house.
After Yang-shi’s death, all the dowry and property in her hands was managed by the wet nurse and held in Rong Yu’s possession. With his legs crippled, self-loathing and excessive pride warring within him, he grew even more extravagant and fastidious in his expenditures.
Take the bath, for instance. Beneath the floor ran heating ducts, piping hot. In the center of the room was a huge circular pool built of marble, adorned with warm jade and gold inlays. The bottom of the pool connected to a boiler in the outer room, delivering a constant stream of heat to keep the water temperature perfectly pleasant at all times.
Fresh fruit and wine were set out at the edge of the pool.
Inside, wisps of steam curled through the air like a celestial realm.
Thick curtains covered every door and window, so not a breath of winter wind could slip in. When Rong Yu turned his head to check the sky, he couldn’t see a thing.
Mo Shu understood at once. Tossing herbs and flower petals into the pool, he said, “Young Master, it’s nearly three in the afternoon.”
Rong Yu lowered his eyes and trailed his hand through the water. “Still kneeling out there?”
“Still kneeling.” Mo Shu gently helped Rong Yu out of his clothes. “That Chu Tan is stubborn as nails. He faints, wakes up, faints again—his face is blue with cold—but the bastard just won’t die.”
Rong Yu snorted derisively. Of course he had a tenacious grip on life—this was the protagonist of the book. If Wei Jingtan died, this world would probably collapse too.
Mo Shu removed the jade hairpin from Rong Yu’s head, and ink-black hair cascaded down like a waterfall. “But it’s strange, honestly. The Second Young Master wanted to save his life—why wouldn’t he go? Any other servant in this courtyard would have trotted off happily.”
Everyone in the entire Rong estate knew that the Second Young Master was the son their lord cherished most. Positions in the Second Young Master’s courtyard were the finest appointments around—servants would kill for a spot in Chaohui Hall.
As for the Third Young Master’s Bicui Pavilion—that was a hell-house. The Third Young Master beat and killed servants at the slightest provocation. Blood-curdling screams drifted out from the compound from time to time, and every few days, a tortured corpse was carried out.
So Chu Tan’s decision had not only baffled Rong Yue—everyone present that day was surely cursing Chu Tan for a fool.
Rong Yu played with the ends of his hair. This body had indeed been raised with the utmost care, gold and jade; even the hair was as smooth and fine as silk brocade.
“Would you have run off too, in his place?”
“Of course not.” Mo Shu immediately countered. “I grew up with you since we were little, Young Master. Our bond isn’t something just anyone can compare to. My loyalty to you is witnessed by heaven and earth.”
Rong Yu gave a derisive snort but said nothing. Mo Shu’s mother was the original owner’s wet nurse; Yang-shi had been lenient with her servants, allowing the wet nurse to bring her son into the household to help care for the child. Speaking of which, he and Mo Shu had been fed from the same breast—Mo Shu was practically his foster brother.
Mo Shu lifted him up and lowered him into the pool. The heat seeped through his skin, flowing through his pores to every limb. Rong Yu leaned back comfortably against the pool’s edge, let out a long sigh, and finally answered Mo Shu’s earlier question. “He didn’t leave—of course he’s after something.”
“Young Master means, he harbors ill intentions?” Mo Shu’s expression sharpened. “Should I send someone to investigate?”
“No need.” Rong Yu picked up the wine cup at his side, brought it to his nose, sniffed it, then took a small sip. “Let him be.”
If the protagonist wanted to do something, how could a bunch of extras like them dig up the truth so easily?
Mo Shu remained uneasy. “What if he does something terrible and hurts you, Young Master?”
Rong Yu chuckled softly. Hurt him… if Chu Tan could actually kill him, Rong Yu would thank him for it.
He had suddenly transmigrated into this unfamiliar place, knowing that Wei Jingtan—whom he had beaten—was the protagonist of the book, and knowing that his own future would end miserably. Yet he had never felt fear or panic, never tried to curry favor with the protagonist. Instead, he was even more crazed and vicious than the original owner.
The most fundamental reason was simple: he wasn’t afraid of death.
Rong Yu pinched a petal between his fingers and squeezed hard. Vivid red juice ran down his pale fingertips, dripping drop by drop into the water, where it dissolved into a faint blush before vanishing in an instant.
He didn’t want to live.
Rong Yu leaned against the pool with his eyes half-closed while Mo Shu scrubbed his back and chattered away—nothing like the silent, composed facade he wore before outsiders. He was simply a chatterbox.
Rong Yu didn’t interrupt. In his past life, he had always been alone, with no one to talk to. Right now, having someone chattering beside him felt rather nice.
“Young Master, this afternoon, you didn’t tell Lv’e to stand up, so she kept kneeling. She fainted after about half an hour, so I had someone carry her back to her room.”
The hot water had Rong Yu blissfully relaxed, every pore open. He lazily hummed an “mm” from his nose in acknowledgment.
“If you ask me, Young Master, you spoil Lv’e far too much. She’s practically started acting like she owns this courtyard.” Mo Shu’s tone was full of dissatisfaction. Lv’e had only been in the estate for two years, and she already dared to order him around—all because Yu’er indulged her too much.
He had originally thought the Young Master liked Lv’e, but judging by today, that look in the Young Master’s eyes, that behavior—he clearly treated Lv’e as nothing more than a toy for his amusement. There wasn’t a shred of affection in it.
“Serves her right, being punished in front of the whole courtyard. Let’s see her put on airs now!”
Rong Yu’s eyes were half-lidded as he downed a cup of fruit wine. Ancient brewing techniques weren’t as advanced as modern ones; the alcohol content was low, so it tasted more like a drink. But even a drink—Rong Yu had rarely touched such things in his past life.
The fruit wine carried the tartness of green plums, followed by the fragrance of fermented grain and a sweet aftertaste. He found himself rather addicted.
Cup after cup, he drank, too lazy to speak.
Mo Shu kept up his endless prattle. After massaging Rong Yu’s shoulders, he stripped off his own clothes, got into the water, and began to massage Rong Yu’s legs.
Rong Yu’s legs had been slashed across the knees by bandits. Both kneecaps had shattered, and everything below the knees had completely lost sensation. Without vigorous massage to keep the flesh and blood active, they would wither and deform.
Even with Mo Shu’s daily massage, those legs were still thinner and paler than an ordinary person’s—his calves were no thicker than an adult man’s wrist, looking as if they’d snap with a single bend.
Mo Shu draped Rong Yu’s legs across his own knees, found the familiar acupoints with his fingers, and worked at them with practiced skill. The Young Master’s skin was fair and delicate, like fine mutton-fat jade. He massaged it every day, and still he couldn’t get enough of touching it.
With each movement, water splashed up with a splash, and Rong Yu’s head was growing fuzzy from the wine. He was on the verge of dozing off.
But just before sleep could claim him, he felt a pair of hands climb up his inner thigh—his upper thighs still had sensation, and they were highly sensitive.
Rong Yu cracked open an eyelid. Through the faint veil of steam, he saw Mo Shu’s handsome, delicate face.
“Young Master… shall I continue the massage today?”
Rong Yu stared fixedly at Mo Shu, but his gaze was slightly unfocused, as if he were thinking of something else.
Until Mo Shu, assuming silence meant consent, had already slipped a hand between his legs—then Rong Yu let out a soft cough and said flatly, “No need. You may go.”
“Yes.” Mo Shu immediately withdrew his hand, his ears burning red as he got up, dressed, and left.
After Mo Shu was gone, the vast bathhouse was left with only Rong Yu. Empty silence echoed with the drip of water.
Rong Yu reached a hand into the water, then between his legs. Beneath the quiet, dormant penis, he indeed felt a soft slit—both familiar and strange.
Deep in his tea-colored pupils, a flicker of confusion and bewilderment surfaced.
This is… a yinnest?