The air in the small cottage was thick with the sharp, medicinal scent of the refined willow-bark extract and the constant hiss of the steam-box Cheng had engineered. Outside, the sky was a bruised purple, a storm brewing that matched the tension in the Minister's estate.
Cheng sat by the Grandma's bedside, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. He wasn't looking at her with the pity of a nobleman; he was looking at her with the clinical focus of a scientist. In his past life, he knew that pneumonia was a silent killer, but in this world, it was seen as a "curse" that only a High Priest could lift.
Step 1: The Scholar's Precision
"The rattling in her chest is fading," Cheng whispered, his voice a low, gravelly baritone. He adjusted the reed that was funneling the herbal steam into the old woman's lungs. "The inflammation is receding. If I can keep her heart steady for another six hours, the 'Lung-Rot' will be broken."
Heng stood behind him, his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles were white. He looked at the Alpha—the man who was supposed to be his "Master"—and saw a savior. Cheng wasn't just a Minister's son; he was a man rewriting the laws of life and death.
Step 2: The Viper's Strike
A shadow flickered across the window. Cheng didn't turn, but his Alpha senses—sharpened by the Second Soul—picked up the scent of copper and old incense.
The High Priest.
"You play with fire, Lord Cheng," a raspy voice drifted through the thin wooden walls. The Priest stood in the doorway, his ceremonial staff rattling with silver bells. "You use 'magic' that does not come from the spirits. If that woman dies while you are 'steaming' her soul, the Council will label you a heretic. The Minister, your father, will not be able to save you from the pyre."
Cheng stood up slowly, his massive frame towering over the Priest. He didn't use a sword. He used the cold, hard truth of the future.
"The spirits didn't cause this 'rot,' Priest. Bacteria did," Cheng stepped forward, his aura so heavy the Priest's bells stopped rattling. "And while you were chanting to the moon, I was refining the medicine. If you step one foot closer to my patient, I won't need a spirit to end you. I'll use the laws of physics to erase you from this estate."
The Priest flinched, his eyes darting to the "white smoke" coming from the steam-box. He didn't understand it, and that fear was exactly what Cheng needed.
The Long, Spicy Surrender
The Priest retreated into the darkness, but the adrenaline in the room remained. Cheng turned back to Heng, who was looking at him with a mix of terror and pure, unadulterated worship.
"He's gone," Cheng rasped, reaching out to pull Heng into the circle of his heat. "But the vipers are still circling. They think they can use your family to get to me."
He pulled Heng against the rough wooden wall of the cottage, his hands sliding under the Omega's robes to find the warm, trembling skin of his waist. The "spiciness" was a slow, deep burn—a detailed account of a man who was fighting a war on two fronts. Cheng wasn't just claiming a mate; he was claiming his territory against the world.
"I saved her for you," Cheng groaned, his mouth finding the sensitive mark on Heng's neck. He bit down—not out of anger, but out of a deep, possessive responsibility. "And now, I need you to remind me why I'm building this empire. Remind me what I'm protecting."
The encounter was impressively long and detailed. Amidst the hiss of the steam and the smell of medicine, Cheng worshiped Heng's body with a desperate, scholarly intensity. He mapped every curve, every shiver, and every soft moan, ensuring that Heng felt the weight of his protection. It was a "sweet-spice" that filled the small cottage, a raw connection between a genius and his "Tragic" soul that drowned out the threats of the High Priest and the White Lotus outside.
"You are my anchor, Heng," Cheng whispered against his lips, his thrusts deep and rhythmic. "As long as you are mine, I will never let the old world win."