Chapter 2: The Apology on Bent Knees
The mahogany scent of his father’s study still clung to Lu Yuan’s clothes, a comforting anchor after the disorienting whirl of the last few hours. General Lu’s embrace had been brief, gruff, but the concern in his eyes was unmistakable. “You look pale,” he’d said, his large hand lingering on Lu Yuan’s shoulder. “That fool boy Zhou Feng brought you home late. You rest.”
Lu Yuan had just nodded, leaning into the solid warmth. He was still trying to parse the strange, buzzing energy that had coiled in his belly after the incident at the club, a foreign heat he didn’t understand. The memory of Zhou Feng’s rough hands and his own helpless convulsions was a blur of shame and a peculiar, lingering ache.
He stepped out of his father’s hug when he heard voices and steps coming toward them.
The polished marble of the grand foyer was cool beneath his thin house slippers. From the west wing corridor, the clipped, confident cadence of a man’s boots echoed. Zhang Wei emerged, his tall frame silhouetted against the leaded glass of a hallway window, the gathering storm outside casting him in monochrome light. He was adjusting the cuff of his shirt, a slight frown of distraction on his handsome face. Behind him, from the doorway of the morning room, Bai Lian lingered, a porcelain teacup in her hand, her pretty features arranged in a mask of polite farewell.
Seeing his chance, Lu Yuan moved. He crossed the expanse of floor, his heart a frantic bird against his ribs, and placed himself directly in Zhang Wei’s path.
Without a word, he dropped to his knees.
The impact on the hard marble was a jolt that travelled up his spine. He did not look up, did not attempt a seductive glance. This was not the original Lu Yuan’s desperate pantomime. He folded his body forward, pressing his forehead to the cold, veined stone in a deep, traditional kowtow of apology. The submissive posture felt alien in his bones, but the intention was iron-clad.
“Zhang Wei,” his voice came out muffled, clear but strained against the floor. “I must apologize. My previous behavior was unacceptable. I misinterpreted… everything. Social cues, kindness, basic human interaction. It was a failure of understanding on my part, not a genuine affection. I caused you discomfort and dishonor. I am deeply, truly sorry.”
The words, rehearsed in the quiet of his new bedroom, tumbled out. He kept his forehead pressed down, exposing the vulnerable nape of his neck. The air in the foyer grew thick, silent except for the distant rumble of thunder.
Zhang Wei had frozen. He stared down at the prone form before him, at the elegant curve of Lu Yuan’s bowed back, the delicate wrists resting on the floor. This was new. The old Lu Yuan would have been clawing at his trousers, whining, painting a scene. This was… solemn. Disconcerting. A thread of genuine pity, unwelcome and irritating, wound through his initial surge of suspicion. The boy trembled, a fine, constant shiver that seemed involuntary.
“Get up,” Zhang Wei said, his voice harder than he intended.
Lu Yuan did not move. “I need you to understand. It was a mistake. It will not happen again. You have my word.”
From the doorway, Bai Lian watched with cold amusement. Her fingers, resting lightly in the pocket of her tailored skirt, found the cool, familiar handle of the hidden knife. She traced the patterned grip, her smile not reaching her eyes. In her previous life, this little worm’ obsessive pursuit had been a minor nuisance that later bloomed into a fatal betrayal. She’d waited for this scene, for the usual tears and theatrics. This sober apology was unexpected. Interesting. Perhaps he’d learned a new tactic. Her thumb pressed against the blade’s sharp spine. A part of her, the part still screaming from old memory, wished Zhang Wei would just kick him. Put his boot on that slender neck and—
Zhang Wei let out a short, exasperated breath. “Lu Yuan. Up. Now.”
The command brooked no refusal. Slowly, stiffly, Lu Yuan pushed himself back onto his knees. He kept his gaze lowered, directed at Zhang Wei’s polished boots. His face was pale, his eyes startlingly clear and free of their former calculated lust. He looked young. Naive. Actually remorseful.
It was this look that unsettled Zhang Wei more than any overture ever had. The calculation was gone. What replaced it was something emptier, and somehow more compelling.
“Your apology is noted,” Zhang Wei said stiffly, taking a step to the side to move around him. “Just keep your distance.”
He walked past, his boots clicking decisively toward the main doors. He did not look back at Bai Lian, whose amused smile had tightened at the edges. Her fingers tightened around the knife. Not today. But soon. The storm was coming, in more ways than one.
Lu Yuan remained on his knees, watching the retreating back. The hollow feeling in his chest wasn’t entirely from the apology. It was from the stark dismissal. But he’d done what he needed to do. He’d severed the old thread. Now, in this strange world with its low, murky qi and even murkier human relationships, he could begin again. He climbed to his feet, brushing nonexistent dust from his knees, and turned, only to meet Bai Lian’s unblinking stare from across the foyer.
Her eyes were like chips of frosted jade. She gave him a slow, meaningless smile before turning and disappearing back into the morning room, the door clicking shut with a sound of finality.
The first fat raindrop smacked against the window. The storm had arrived.
Lu Yuan climbed the sweeping staircase, the memory of Zhang Wei’s dismissive boots and Bai Lian’s glacial smile clinging to him like a chill. His room was a sanctuary of unfamiliar opulence. He shut the heavy oak door and leaned against it, closing his eyes. The silence here was dense, broken only by the ticking of an ornate clock and the accelerating drum of rain against the windowpanes.
He pushed off from the door and began to examine the space. It was a museum of someone else’s life. Silken cushions were embroidered with exotic birds, and shelves groaned under the weight of leather-bound books and polished mechanical trinkets whose purposes he could only guess. So different from the sparse, disciplined chambers of his wood cultivation sect. He ran a finger along a row of book spines, dislodging a faint plume of dust that danced in the grey afternoon light.
Settling cross-legged on the thick carpet, he tried to center himself. He closed his eyes and reached for the qi of this world, drawing a long, measured breath. The response was a weak, pathetic trickle. It seeped into his meridians like cold syrup, circulating with a sluggish indifference that made his spiritual senses scream in frustration. He could feel it, a scant and muddy stream, doing little but passively clarifying his bloodstream.
With each deliberate exhalation, a faint, foul tint left his lips—the putrid waste of this body expelling its physical impurities. His frame did feel subtly lighter, cleaner, but the power was useless. He couldn’t coax it to his fingertips, couldn’t make a leaf tremble. After half an hour of futile concentration, a headache began to pulse behind his eyes. He released the effort with a sigh, the vestigial energy settling into a dormant pool low in his abdomen.
He stood, stretching limbs that felt strangely hollow. Seeking distraction, he selected a book at random from the bedside table and slid beneath the cool linen sheets. It was a novel, a story of mundane intrigue and romance in a city not unlike this one. The prose was simple, the conflicts trivial, yet he found himself utterly absorbed by the depiction of ordinary life. He read until his eyes grew heavy, the storm a constant roar outside, and fell asleep with the book splayed open on his chest.
Morning arrived sharp and clear, the storm having scrubbed the sky a brittle blue. At the long breakfast table, sunlight caught the silver cutlery. Bai Lian sat across from him, methodically eating her porridge. She did not look at him. Her silence was an active force, a wall of polished ice.
“The sausages are good,” Lu Yuan said to his father, helping himself to another. “The seasoning is different.”
General Lu looked up from his tablet, eyebrows raised. The old Lu Yuan had picked at food, complained about calories. This boy ate with a focused, appreciative gusto. “Cook will be pleased,” he rumbled, a faint warmth in his voice. “Sleep well?”
“Very,” Lu Yuan replied, smiling. It was a bright, unguarded expression that momentarily startled the older man. They talked of minor things—the storm damage to the old greenhouse, an upcoming military charity gala. The conversation was easy, peppered with Lu Yuan’s genuinely curious questions. His father’s responses grew gradually longer, less guarded. He was surprised, and a deep, quiet part of him was welcoming this unforeseen closeness.
Bai Lian placed her napkin beside her plate with precise finality. “Father, I need to speak with you in your study. It’s urgent.” Her gaze flicked to Lu Yuan and away, dismissal absolute. “Zhang Wei and Zhou Feng will be joining us. They should be here shortly.”
The unspoken words hung in the sunlit air: You are not invited. This does not concern you.
General Lu nodded, his demeanor shifting into one of business. “Of course. I’ll be ready.” He gave Lu Yuan an apologetic glance that was also a command to stay out of it.
Not long after, the front bell chimed. Lu Yuan, from the upstairs landing, watched Zhou Feng and Zhang Wei stride into the foyer, their faces set in lines of seriousness. They followed Bai Lian and the General into the west wing study. The heavy door clicked shut, sealing him out.
Shrugging, Lu Yuan padded barefoot down to the kitchen. He discovered a tin of powdered chocolate and, after some experimentation with hot milk, created a vast, sweet concoction that delighted him. He carried the overflowing mug to the living room, curled up in the corner of a large sofa, and pulled a heavy volume on ancient civilizations from the bookcase.
He was instantly transported. The descriptions of fallen empires, of wars fought with spear and chariot, were more fantastical to him than any cultivation manual. He lost all sense of time, sipping his chocolate, toes curling against the velvet cushion.
Two hours later, the study door opened. Footsteps descended the hall, heavy and slow. Lu Yuan looked up from a diagram of a siege engine.
The four of them entered the living room. His father’s face was ashen, his jaw clenched. Zhang Wei looked like he’d been punched in the gut, his eyes staring at something distant and horrific. Bai Lian was pale but composed, a brittle certainty in her stance. Zhou Feng’s expression was grim, his hands curled into loose fists at his sides. The air around them vibrated with a shared, terrible knowledge.
Lu Yuan marked his page with a finger. “Is everything alright?” he asked, his voice soft in the weighted silence.
Zhou Feng was the one who broke from the group. He walked over to the couch, his eyes cataloging Lu Yuan—the soft pajamas, the bare feet, the huge mug, the open book on his lap. A world away from their conversation in the mirrored VIP room, yet the memory of it flashed in Feng’s eyes.
“Everything's fine. I heard you apologized to Wei,” Zhou Feng said, not bothering with preamble. “In the foyer. What was that?”
Lu Yuan blinked, setting his book aside. He repeated the explanation, his tone the same as it had been to Zhang Wei: measured, sincere, devoid of guile. “I misunderstood social cues. He was kind to me and I didn't know how to get close to him properly. I misunderstood the want to get closer as infatuation. I caused discomfort. It was my mistake, and I apologized for it.”
Zhou Feng listened, his dark eyes fixed on Lu Yuan’s face. The hard line of his mouth softened, almost imperceptibly. He had never truly hated this boy; his disgust had been reserved for the relentless, manipulative pursuit of his best friend. This clarity, this simple admission, disarmed him. The snarling, spoiled brat was gone. In his place was someone who looked at you with unnervingly direct eyes.
“Huh,” Feng grunted. He sank onto the sofa beside Lu Yuan, the leather creaking under his weight. He nodded at the book. “What’s this one about?”
“The Assyrian Empire. Their military logistics were fascinating. They used a system of standardized supply depots along their conquest routes.”
A short, surprised chuckle escaped Zhou Feng. “Read that already, did you?”
“Just that chapter. The scope of their cruelty is… documented very thoroughly.”
They talked. Lu Yuan spoke with keen interest, asking questions, listening intently to Feng’s additions—bits of military theory, parallels to later strategies. His expressions were vivid, his hands moving slightly as he explained a point. The earlier tension drained from Zhou Feng’s shoulders. He found himself watching the way the late afternoon light gilded Lu Yuan’s cheekbones, the way his lips curved around a complex word.
Beautiful. The thought arrived, unbidden and absolute. Not pretty, not handsome. Beautiful, like a sharp, rare blade or a stark landscape. It was a purely aesthetic assessment that carried a sudden, visceral heat.
The conversation lulled. The quiet hummed between them, charged with a new potential. Lu Yuan smiled at him, a thanks-for-talking-with-me smile, utterly naive to the trajectory of Feng’s thoughts.
Zhou Feng stood abruptly. The movement was stiff. “I have to go,” he said, his voice rougher than before.
He turned and left, joining the others in the foyer. Lu Yuan listened to their muted, urgent goodbyes, the front door opening and closing. He picked up his history book again, but the words blurred. Outside, the sky began to darken again, prematurely. The air itself tasted of metal and decay.