ritual

The rain had stopped by the time Zhao Meiling’s footsteps faded from the gates of the Li estate, but inside the house the storm was only beginning.

“Yuren,” Shen Lian whispered, opening the door to his bedroom. “Son, we’re here.”

Li Yuren was sitting on the edge of the bed, his face pale, his breath shallow. The effort of standing when she entered had clearly drained him; sweat clung to his forehead, and his hands trembled slightly on the blanket.

“Come, sit properly,” his father said softly, sliding an arm behind his back to help him lean against the pillows. Shen Lian brought a glass of water to his lips, steadying his hands as he drank.

“Slowly. That’s it. Good boy…”

Yuren managed a faint smile. “I’m not a boy anymore, Mother.”

“You’ll always be my boy,” she whispered, brushing damp hair from his forehead.

For a long moment, no one spoke. The air in the room was heavy — with medicine, with silence, with grief too large for words. Finally, Shen Lian’s composure cracked.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “We’re so, so sorry, Yuren.”

“Mother—”

“I know you’re hurt,” she continued, clutching his hand in both of hers. “I know you loved her. I know you dreamed of marrying her. But we… we can’t lose you. Please understand. We can’t.”

Yuren looked down at their joined hands. He didn’t have the strength to argue. Not anymore.

His father, Li Zhenghua, stood by the window, his shoulders bowed. “We’ve tried everything,” he said hoarsely. “Every doctor. Every medicine. Every prayer. Nothing is working. We’ve searched for someone with the mark, but they’re so rare — it’s like they don’t exist anymore.”

Shen Lian’s voice broke into sobs. “Why… why is Heaven so cruel? Why you, Yuren? What did we do wrong?”

Her hands went to her chest, trembling as if she could tear the guilt from her heart. “It must be me. It must be my fault. My womb was defective, wasn’t it? That’s why my brilliant son was born sick… why he suffers like this…”

“Mother, stop,” Yuren said weakly, reaching for her. “Please don’t say that.”

But she only wept harder, pressing his hand to her cheek as if trying to memorize the warmth of it. “I would trade my life a thousand times over if it meant you could live. But I can’t. All I can do is beg you… beg you to do this ritual. Please, son. Please, for our sake.”

From the doorway came the sound of quiet sniffles. His grandparents had come too — Li Hongwei and Liu Fanghua, who had built empires and weathered wars, now standing small and trembling like children.

“Yuren…” Grandmother’s voice cracked. “We’re too old to bury our grandson. Do you understand? Too old to watch you go before us.”

“Please,” Grandfather whispered, eyes glistening. “We’re trying everything. Everyone is searching. This ritual… it has to work. It will work. It must.”

Yuren closed his eyes.

How many times had he promised them he would live? How many times had he told them not to cry? How many times had he watched them crumble in front of him, these strong people who had always seemed unshakable?

And how many times had he lied — lied to Meiling, lied to himself — because the truth was too cruel to speak aloud?that he is dying slowly.

The silence stretched until it was unbearable.

Finally, he whispered, “Alright.”

Shen Lian’s sob caught in her throat. “You… you’ll do it?”

“For you,” Yuren said quietly. “If it means you won’t cry like this again… I’ll do it.”

His mother buried her face against his shoulder, weeping harder. His father turned away, pressing a hand to his face. His grandparents sank to their knees and thanked the heavens.

And Yuren — Li Yuren, the most beloved man in the world — stared at the rain-soaked window, watching the clouds drift apart to reveal a pale, thin moon.

“Please,” he murmured to no one, to everything, “let it work.”

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