Sui Yuesheng’s expression changed drastically.

Zhao Jiayang claimed to not care about his life, his words filled with a sense of resignation, but the next moment he brought up Tao Fengche. Coupled with the barely noticeable tremor in his right hand holding the gun—was he trying to drag Tao Fengche down with him?!

Ever since learning of Tao Fengche’s disappearance, the thread of reason in Sui Yuesheng’s mind had been stretched to its limit. Too much tension can lead to snapping, and over time, it had become unbearable.

At this moment, with the hurricane howling, that last fragile thread finally snapped completely. In a mix of shock and fury, Sui Yuesheng suddenly pulled the trigger.

Tao Fengche’s pupils first dilated, then quickly constricted!

The large 0.44-inch caliber bullet cut through the air in an instant. Yet, in Tao Fengche’s eyes, this moment seemed infinitely prolonged, like a slow-motion scene in a movie, with each frame freezing before him.

His brain worked at full capacity. It seemed like he was thinking of everything and nothing at the same time.

In stark contrast to his overactive mind, his body failed to respond, as if missing a critical gear, unable to follow his brain’s commands.

He could only stand there stiff as a stick, watching helplessly as the bullet tore toward him with overwhelming force.

With a hint of resignation, he slowly closed his eyes.

But the pain he had anticipated did not come.

Suddenly, a sudden force hit him at the temple!

Caught off guard, Tao Fengche was pushed forward, nearly stumbling to the ground. He staggered a couple of steps, barely managing to regain his footing. His mind was blank, as if a hard drive had been completely wiped, leaving only a vast, white emptiness.

A few seconds later, his awareness returned. Realizing what had just happened, he turned around so sharply he almost strained his neck.

Tao Fengche stared at Zhao Jiayang in disbelief—his face filled with shock. Zhao Jiayang had killed Tao Zhixing, kidnapped him as a bargaining chip for negotiating with Sui Yuesheng, so logically, he should have wanted him dead.

Given their positions, Tao Fengche had been the perfect human shield for Zhao Jiayang. Why, then, did Zhao Jiayang push him aside, exposing himself to danger?

This development took everyone by surprise. Sui Yuesheng stared at Zhao Jiayang with a complex expression, much like Tao Fengche’s.

However, Sui Yuesheng’s reaction was not solely because of Zhao Jiayang’s strange actions.

After Zhao Jiayang pushed Tao Fengche away, nothing stood in front of him. The bullet followed its original trajectory and hit him squarely in the right shoulder.

Sui Yuesheng saw with his own eyes the bullet hit Zhao Jiayang, confirming that there was nothing wrong with the shot. However, there was no sign of blood seeping from his body.

Zhao Jiayang only took a step back due to the impact. His calm expression flickered for a moment—he grimaced in pain and clenched his jaw as if enduring some indescribable agony.

But this reaction was completely different from what would typically follow a bullet penetrating the scapula and causing a cavity effect. The level of pain on his face didn’t even compare.

Moreover, moments later, Zhao Jiayang’s expression returned to normal, and his right arm moved as if nothing had happened.

…Zhao Jiayang was wearing advanced body armor.

Sui Yuesheng narrowed his eyes, unconsciously pursing his lips into a thin line as he recalculated the situation.

Because of Zhao Jiayang’s actions, there was now a distance between him and Tao Fengche. Tao Fengche stared blankly at Zhao Jiayang’s “wound” for a while, subconsciously turning to take a couple of steps towards him.

But that was as far as he went.

It was as if his central nervous system had rebooted, or perhaps it crashed again. Tao Fengche stopped abruptly and stared at Zhao Jiayang, his lips trembling, seemingly wanting to ask something.

…Why? What are you really thinking?

The words were on the tip of his tongue. Tao Fengche tried to open his mouth but couldn’t bring himself to speak.

At this point, it seemed that asking anything would be redundant.

He couldn’t understand Zhao Jiayang. He wanted to know the answer but feared Zhao Jiayang wouldn’t answer truthfully, and more so, he feared softening again after hearing the answer.

He had already suffered once from his softness and trust in Zhao Jiayang.

“Cough, cough.”

Suddenly, Zhao Jiayang began coughing, his voice growing louder until he had to cover his mouth with his left hand. He bent over, hunching like a shrimp that had been cooked.

Neither Tao Fengche nor Sui Yuesheng spoke to interrupt him. A moment later, Zhao Jiayang finally stopped coughing. He pulled out a neatly folded white handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his hands.

Tao Fengche, standing closest, caught a glimpse of a flash of red. He doubted his eyes and tried to look again, but Zhao Jiayang had already wiped his hands clean and calmly stuffed the dirty handkerchief back into his pocket.

Then he slowly straightened up, his eyes sweeping over the two men’s different expressions. His face was especially calm: “Many pioneers have been considered madmen. Sui Yuesheng, you’re the ones trying to resist the tide of history.”

Tao Fengche looked bewildered, not understanding what Zhao Jiayang was trying to convey.

Sui Yuesheng, with a cold face, held his gun in his left hand, his finger brushing the trigger before tightening his grip again. The barrel was aimed squarely at Zhao Jiayang, and his gray-blue eyes glinted with a cold, sharp light.

Zhao Jiayang observed their contrasting reactions but seemed oblivious. He turned to Tao Fengche and suddenly asked, “Xiao Che, do you remember what your aunt’s favorite flower was?”

“Camellia,” Tao Fengche instinctively replied.

Zhao Jiayang nodded and smiled—no longer with his usual cruelty and madness, but with a touch of tenderness and warmth, mixed with something Tao Fengche couldn’t quite understand.

“Yes,” Zhao Jiayang said, his thumb sliding over the gun grip. “When you have time, visit him often. He’s quite lonely by himself.”

The next second, he swiftly turned the gun toward his temple and pulled the trigger.

…

His vision began to blur.

Many people say that before dying, one sees a life review, but Zhao Jiayang only saw the day when Chu Yin died.

The sky hadn’t cleared for many days; the sky was gray, shrouded in a murky dusk.

In the evening, the doctor came out, shaking his head at him and said, “Go in; say a few last words.”

Zhao Jiayang couldn’t afford to delay for even a second.

The nurse was helping Chu Yin take off his breathing machine. The body beneath the covers barely moved, so thin it looked like a piece of paper.

Zhao Jiayang couldn’t bear to keep looking but also couldn’t bring himself to look away.

“Do I look ugly?” Chu Yin noticed his emotions and asked with a smile.

Zhao Jiayang forced himself to shake his head, suppressing his sadness, reaching out to touch Chu Yin’s sunken, emaciated cheek, and straining to muster a smile: “No, you look good.”

If he shed a tear at that moment, he would never forgive himself.

“You’re lying again.” Chu Yin still smiled, gently, but tears slid down the corners of his eyes, “Stop smiling; you look ugly when you do.”

His breathing was shallow and rapid, like a worn-out bellows leaking air everywhere; no matter how much air was injected, it all escaped through other holes.

“You need to live well and have a long life. When I become an omega, I’ll come find you.” Chu Yin coughed, trying to regulate his breathing, and painfully finished the second half of his sentence, “When you have free time in a few years, remember to visit a kindergarten or orphanage. Maybe there’s your future wife inside.”

Zhao Jiayang desperately tried to move the muscles in his face, wanting to pull the corners of his mouth to support Chu Yin’s joke, but this time, he just couldn’t smile.

He didn’t dare to speak, struggling to control the lump in his throat, afraid that if he wasn’t careful, he would cry out loud.

—If there’s a next life, would you be willing to be a beta with me?

Zhao Jiayang wanted so badly to ask this recklessly, but he knew he couldn’t.

He couldn’t disdain Chu Yin’s obsession like that in his final moments.

So he nodded vigorously, as if trying to squeeze out the last bit of strength in his body. Then he bent down, holding Chu Yin’s hand, feeling the remaining warmth gradually fading between his fingers.

“Beep—”

A straight line appeared on the heart monitor, followed by a shrill alarm.

The nurse stood silently by for a long time, while Zhao Jiayang stubbornly kept Chu Yin’s hand pressed against his face, trying to warm it with his body heat.

He was initially bent over but later, as his back muscles couldn’t hold up anymore, he ended up sitting beside Chu Yin’s bed.

When he realized that no matter how hard he tried, that hand was becoming irrevocably colder and stiffer, tears finally flowed from Zhao Jiayang’s eyes, running down Chu Yin’s forearm and gradually wetting the blue and white striped sleeves.

The muscles in his face finally obeyed him for once; Zhao Jiayang painfully curved his lips and murmured in a hoarse voice.

“What if you reincarnate as an alpha? Silly.”

Memories came and went; in a daze, he seemed to see Chu Yin on the hospital bed smiling, playfully tilting his head, then furrowing his brows as if facing a complex problem.

Zhao Jiayang stared at him without blinking for a while, finally closing his eyes with some satisfaction and relief.

At that moment, everything fell into silence, and the world returned to chaos and darkness.