CHAPTER 132: CHAPTER 132; BUT HE WILL LIVE?

Jin Shuren’s gaze flickered toward Yueyao’s sleeping form, the faint rise and fall of her chest a fragile rhythm against the drone of the engines. He did not answer immediately, as though weighing how much to let slip, and how much to keep locked away.

"She’s exhausted," he said at last, his tone cool, even. "Sleep is the only medicine she needs right now."

But Fang Lin’s brow furrowed. She had grown up around her uncle long enough to know when his composure was a shield.

The edge in his voice was not worry, it was something harder, something brittle, like glass ready to crack.

"She looks frightened! Did Shen Xiao do anything to her?" Fang Lin pressed, her voice dropping lower as though afraid to wake Yueyao, "Did they do anything to her?

Jin Shuren’s eyes shifted toward the window, the dawning light casting his features in sharp relief. His fingers tapped once against the armrest before stilling.

"She is afraid," he said softly, almost to himself. Then, after a pause, he muttered: "But she doesn’t have to anymore." It was normal for her to be frightened when he found her in that condition.

Fang Lin tilted her head, unsettled by the quiet finality in his words. There was no mistaking it, this was not merely concern, it was a vow.

Silence settled again, but it was not peaceful. It was taut, strung between the weight of secrets and the promise of dawn.

Yueyao stirred faintly in her sleep, murmuring something inaudible, her hand tightening protectively around her daughter.

Jin Shuren’s gaze softened for an instant, before hardening once more.

Outside, Hengzhou drew closer, and with it, the beginning of a storm none of them were ready to name.

— — — — — —

Five hours bled into dawn, Bai Zhi and Shen Xiao were taken in for another surgery that lasted one hour before being brought back to the ICU.

By the time the hospital clock struck eight, the sterile white corridors had softened in the pale glow of morning light.

Two of the Shen mansion maids arrived, their arms laden with covered trays.

The scent of warm congee and freshly steamed buns drifted faintly into the waiting area, but the atmosphere remained too heavy for appetite.

"Old Madam, Old Master," one maid murmured respectfully as she set the trays on the low table between them. "We thought you should eat something."

Old Madam Shen shook her head sharply, the handkerchief still clenched in her palm. "How can I swallow a bite when my son lies between life and death?"

The younger maid bowed lower, her hands twisting nervously. "Madam, you must keep up your strength..."

Old Master Shen, who had sat motionless for hours, finally shifted. He reached forward, removing the porcelain lid from the nearest bowl.

Steam curled upward, dissipating into the sterile air. He didn’t eat, merely stared into the pale broth as though the rising mist could tell him the future.

"You will collapse before he wakes," he said quietly, his voice hoarse from the long night. "Eat something."

Old Madam Shen glanced at him, startled by the rare gentleness in his tone. For a moment her lips trembled as though she might argue again, but the weight in his gaze stilled her.

Slowly, she accepted the porcelain spoon from the tray, though her hands trembled too much to lift it to her mouth.

The maids lingered by the door, unsure whether to stay or retreat. They exchanged glances, what they had witnessed in the night was already enough to keep their tongues tied for weeks to come.

Beyond the glass partition, the ICU remained locked in its quiet rhythm: the steady beep of machines, the faint rise and fall of their young master’s chest.

Morning had come, but within the waiting room, it was still a night that refused to end.

The minutes ticked by with agonizing slowness. The untouched bowls of breakfast cooled on the tray, their steam fading into nothing.

At last, the sound of measured footsteps echoed down the corridor. A doctor in a white coat approached, flanked by a nurse carrying a clipboard. Both Old Madam Shen and Old Master Shen rose immediately.

"How is my son? How is his condition?" Old Madam Shen demanded, her voice cracking.

The doctor adjusted his glasses before speaking in a calm, professional tone. "The surgery was successful, however, his condition remains critical. The next forty-three hours will be decisive. He is still unconscious, and his body must not be subjected to any emotional or physical stress."

Her eyes reddened, tears clinging stubbornly to the corners. "But he will live?"

"There is a high chance," the doctor said carefully, "but it depends on how well he responds during this observation period."

Old Madam Shen exhaled shakily, pressing a trembling hand to her chest. Yet relief lasted only a heartbeat before her expression hardened. "If not for that woman and all her misfortunes, my son would never be lying there!"

The doctor glanced at her but said nothing, merely nodding politely before excusing himself to continue his rounds. The nurse offered a bow and followed.

The corridor returned to silence.

Old Master Shen had not spoken a word during the exchange. He simply lowered himself back onto the waiting bench, his eyes fixed on the ICU door, unreadable.

Old Madam Shen snapped, her voice sharp. "If that girl had never set foot in our lives, Xiao’er would be at home right now, not hooked up to machines!"

But Old Master Shen only closed his eyes, his silence a shield against both her grief and her anger.

Through the glass, the faint green line of the heart monitor continued its steady climb and fall, every beat a reminder that the future was still hanging by a fragile thread.

— — — — — —

The flight into Hengzhou had been long, the steady thrum of Jin Shuren’s private Airbus humming beneath them.

Yueyao never truly woke, only stirred faintly now and then, clutching her daughter tighter, as though even in sleep she feared losing her.