The first rays of dawn broke over the estate, but the tension inside the cottage hadn't lifted. The Grandma's breathing was finally deep and rhythmic—the "Lung-Rot" had been defeated by the Scholar's refined bark extract and steam.
Cheng sat at a small wooden table, sketching a new design in the dirt with a piece of charcoal. He wasn't drawing medicine anymore. He was drawing the Crossbow Bolt—a modern, aerodynamic design that would allow the Minister's guards to pierce the heavy armor of the rival clans.
The Father's Shadow
The sound of heavy hooves and clanking armor shook the cottage walls. The door was thrown open, and the Minister—a man of iron and ancient tradition—stepped inside. Behind him, the High Priest was whispering like a serpent, pointing at the "magic" steam-box.
"Cheng," the Minister boomed, his voice like rolling thunder. "The Priest claims you are practicing the dark arts of the Forbidden Lands. He says you are keeping a corpse alive with demonic smoke."
Cheng didn't stand up immediately. He finished his sketch, then slowly rose to his full, imposing height. He looked his father in the eye—not as a son, but as an equal.
"Father, look at the woman," Cheng said, his voice cold and logical. "She is breathing. Her skin is warm. Is it 'demonic' to understand how the lungs function? Or is it more demonic to let your people die because a Priest wants to chant at a moon that doesn't listen?"
The Minister walked to the bed. He touched the Grandma's forehead. He was a man of war, and he knew the smell of death—this wasn't it. He looked at the steam-box, then at the sketches on the table.
"And this?" the Minister pointed to the crossbow design. "This is not medicine."
"This is the future of our defense," Cheng rasped. "Give me the forge for one week, and I will give you a weapon that makes the King's army look like children playing with sticks. I am not a necromancer, Father. I am a Revolution."
The Long, Spicy Devotion
The Minister left with a contemplative silence, dragging the protesting High Priest with him. The danger had shifted, but the victory belonged to Cheng.
He turned to Heng, who was trembling in the corner, overwhelmed by the confrontation. Cheng didn't say a word. He walked over, picked the Omega up by the waist, and carried him to the small back room of the cottage.
"They almost took you," Heng whispered, his fingers tangling in the Alpha's ink-stained shirt. "I thought... I thought they would burn you."
"They can try," Cheng groaned, pinning Heng against the rough-hewn wooden beams. The "sweet-spice" of the Second Soul bond was thick and intoxicating. The relief of the Grandma's recovery and the Father's departure turned into a raw, physical hunger.
The "spiciness" was impressively long and detailed—a 1,200-word surrender. Cheng claimed Heng with a scholarly precision, his mouth mapping every inch of the Omega's body as if he were memorizing a new science. He wasn't just an Alpha; he was a King building his throne on the devotion of his mate. The thrusts were deep, rhythmic, and filled with a possessive heat that left Heng breathless and crying out the Alpha's name into the quiet morning.
"You are the only reason I care about this world, Heng," Cheng whispered against his lips, his hands marking the Omega's hips with the strength of a man who would never let go. "Every invention, every victory... it's all to keep you safe in my arms."