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Chapter 4 - Quiet Departure:(静沉)

Hàn Zài did not open his eyes, nor did he turn toward the sound. His voice came rough and hoarse, scraped thin by sleeplessness.

"You may come in," he said..then murmured while lightly tightening his hold over his hair "The door's already unlocked."

Then, after a breath that trembled at the edges—"Just… don't bring any bad news."

The heavy, lacquered door slid open without a sound. Through the muted glow stepped his fifteenth elder brother, Hàn Zì—four years his senior, born to the fifth of their father's ten wives.

Within the vast Hàn household, every child was a son, and every son carried the same name. Their father, Yè Hàn Shēn Zài, ruled the clan with ten wives and twenty heirs. Hàn Zài, the nineteenth, was one of the youngest—his own mother long gone from this world.

​The room's subdued lighting was a heavy mirror to Hàn Zài's depressive mood. His meticulous books were now scattered haphazardly on the desk, the restless disarray suggesting a night spent searching for a solution that never came. Fast-written notes lay scattered, some crumpled into tight, discarded balls—evidence of the sudden, brutal drop in his assessment score.

​Hàn Zì moved with quiet, practiced grace, seating himself softly on the edge of the bed beside his brother. "Hàn Zài?"

​His silver-gray eyes instantly registered the knife, but he chose a silent management of the crisis, gently using his foot to nudge the dangerous object beneath the bed, out of immediate sight.

​"Who…?" Hàn Zài murmured, his hands still clutching his hair, his eyes shut tight. "We all brothers sound almost the same from vocal, looks, and names… after all, we share the same lineage."

​Hàn Zì's eyes softened, flickering gently in the dim light. He knew his brother, even in this state, possessed an awareness of his presence, yet the question was part of the ritual of their bond—a little irritating, perhaps, but ultimately endearing. He replied gently, his voice a warm anchor. "It's Hàn Zì… your fifteenth number gēge"

​Hàn Zài's eyes snapped open, blazing with an immediate, acute anxiety. The first thing he demanded, his voice strained and quick, was: "Father returned? Then— murmured like hissed " does he know?… I hope not."

​"He has not," Hàn Zì stated firmly, preempting any further worry. "Our mothers collectively… were concerned for your sudden sickness. So, I came personally to check on you and manage the external narrative."

​Hàn Zài sighed, the tension finally easing its brutal grip, allowing his hands to fall onto the bed. His faintly weak eyes softened with a mixture of fondness and sadness—fondness for the one brother who had come, and ​sadness for those who hadn't. He looked around lightly. "Hàn Yū didn't come?" He searched for the youngest, his twentieth brother, who was barely five years old—even younger than Hùa Yǐng was. He murmured, "I thought he would too…"

​Hàn Zì smiled faintly, his hand reaching out to gently smooth Hàn Zài's disheveled hair, an act of silent comfort that almost lulled the younger man back to sleep. "The others were busy with their studies, rigorous training, and various tests. And Hàn Yū is soundly sleeping."

​Hàn Zài nodded, a soft hum escaping him as he visibly tried to relax, battling his own worst habit: overthinking. He was known as a flawless figure, a symbol of composure, but beneath the required perfection, he harbored hidden imperfections, just like anyone else.

​After a few minutes, Hàn Zì broke the silence, his tone deepening into a more adult, serious register. "You… didn't attend your class today. I heard from one of the Shīfù… that you also didn't achieve full marks on your teaching demo test."

​Hàn Zài's eyes instantly met his brother's—sick, yes, but still desperately determined to conceal the unexpected slip in his performance. His voice rose, sharp, controlled, and fiercely defensive: "Those red eyes were a gross distraction. I acted for his own good. The notebook… it was a necessary enforcement of boundaries. And I didn't properly pay attention..." He murmured the rest, his gaze distant, looking at the ceiling. "...on following the rule 12 and 14... a slip... a pathetic slip."

​Hàn Zì sighed, a faint, knowing smile touching his lips as he closed his eyes, already anticipating the direction of the conversation.

​Hàn Zài continued, his defense passionate: "Teaching isn't merely repeating words. Discipline, attention, focus—these are core tenets that cannot be passively spoon-fed." He let out a faint huff, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "my Shīfù could cut three or five marks for a mistake, which would be just. But he cut a whole ten… just for the notebook…"

​Hàn Zì raised a soft, assessing eyebrow. "Hmph? Or perhaps your heart is becoming too hardened, Zài. You administered an excessively harsh punishment to the young boy..the hit over his plam was already enough for his age.."

​Hàn Zài's jaw flexed, a tremor of intense panic flashing and vanishing in his eyes—a fleeting, fiercely private terror. "I… I deserve full marks," he muttered, almost to himself, the belief absolute. "If I don't—" He cut the thought off sharply, as though the articulation itself would invoke a curse.

​"I know the pressure you are under. Relax. I will handle the necessary communication with the Shīfù if required. Father listens to my counsel," Hàn Zì assured him, resting a warm, stabilizing hand on his shoulder. "You performed the instruction well. Simply return the notebook tomorrow. That is enough to settle the matter. No one else knows the truth; the assessing Shīfù has managed the situation by officially citing a 'minor clerical counting error,' while the mark remains unchanged. So, calm down, Zài."

​Hàn Zài drew a slow, profound breath, finally sitting up from the bed. His long, perfect hair was a little messy, unbound and tangled. He looked through his lids—tired, yet silently, powerfully angry at the circumstances.

​"Hungry?" Hàn Zì asked softly, wanting to shift the atmosphere.

​Hàn Zài simply nodded once.

​Hàn Zì smiled faintly and stood, pulling in a waiting tray of food he had already prepared. He placed it carefully in front of Hàn Zài.

​Hàn Zài blinked, the action unexpected. It was his absolute favorite lotus soup. The tray also held two jade cups: one with water, and the other containing a faintly sweet, amber liquid—the forbidden liquor named Yū Zāo. It was forbidden for youngers in the Hàn Clan, but these two brothers would occasionally indulge, often mixing it with water to prevent intoxication or, more dangerously, unwanted physical and emotional effects.

​"You brought it!…" he whispered, his eyes softening. Then, lower: "That's what I needed." He immediately reached for the liquor cup, only to have his hand gently but firmly slapped away by his brother.

​"Eat the soup first, then that. Or you'll risk getting more sick and ruining our little secret in no time," Hàn Zì whispered, his tone a soft, affectionate scolding.

​Hàn Zài huffed, a flash of childlike annoyance, but obediently started spooning the soup. Hàn Zì watched him, his expression one of calm, professional concern, then spoke again, his voice sinking to a level of deep, confidential intimacy.

​"Now, tell me what actually happened yesterday… from the start to the absolute end. Think of it, Zài, not as a confession, but as the painful, necessary act of discovering a hidden page of your own diary."

​Hàn Zài almost choked on his soup, the sudden, intense heat of embarrassment rushing to his ears at the precise, poetic description. He had to concede the point; perhaps his brother was right. This terrifying moment might, in the distance, truly become a hidden page—a memory to either cry over or laugh at, one day.

​He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial murmur, ready to share the embarrassing, profound secret that had brought him to this fragile state. The truth, he knew, was his only path to catharsis.

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