RBNR Ch52: He has no intention of pursuing it

“He has no need to know.”

The old master replied, the smile on his face gradually fading, replaced by cold severity.

“When did you find out? Have you neglected your suppressants recently?”

Qin Bao had weighed this possibility on the way here, a fierce debate raging between two inner voices.

One voice insisted: Feng Chengyu must know. Maybe he even traded something with Grandpa. Why else would anyone marry someone they don’t love just over an old promise?

The second voice leaped up in immediate denial: Impossible. Your grandfather is so stubborn and dictatorial; how could he ever lay bare the Qin family’s vulnerabilities to an outsider!

Now, it appeared the second voice had held the truth all along.

The first voice shrank into a corner, lost and shaken, while the second flared in molten fury.

Qin Bao: “I was working abroad, surrounded by a group of Alphas, and suddenly became dizzy and started vomiting. If their medical staff hadn’t been experienced, I’d still think I was suffering from heatstroke!”

“Which is precisely why you should use your suppressants properly,” the old master bristled, his eyes widening. “Once you and Chengyu complete a permanent mark down the line, this won’t happen again.”

Qin Bao could hardly believe his ears: “You hid such a severe genetic defect from me all this time, and you don’t feel a shred of remorse? Don’t you think I had a right to know?”

The old master stepped out from behind the mahogany desk, gestured for an attendant to shut the double doors, and walked over to settle into an armchair reserved for guests.

The old man maintained his steady composure, deliberately tapping the floor with his cane: “Sit down first.”

“I’m not sitting,” Qin Bao replied coldly.

The old master didn’t press him, continuing instead: “You know this is an innate genetic defect. Our clan had a case of this before—one of your father’s cousins, who passed away in his early forties. He was diagnosed before he was ten, and lived the next twenty to thirty years steeped in melancholy. There is no medical cure for this condition. Your father and I knowing was enough; what good would telling you have done?”

Qin Bao said, “What good? The doctor said I could consider having my scent gland surgically removed, so I wouldn’t have to suffer through heat cycles.”

“Yes, you could remove the gland and live as a Beta; that’s the absolute worst-case scenario,” the old master countered. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to rebuild self-identity after such an involuntary gender transition?”

After Shan Yike’s incident, Qin Bao had developed some awareness of that struggle.

Before he could speak, the old master’s cane struck the floor with a heavy thud: “And above all else—an Omega whose scent gland is removed doesn’t live long either!”

The old man’s sharp eyes fixed on Qin Bao like a falcon: “It wasn’t easy for your parents to have you. You are the apple of our eye, the marrow of our bones! Having white hair bury black hair would tear my heart out!”

Qin Bao’s eyes reddened, his voice trembling in disbelief: “So, that’s why you forced me to marry Feng Chengyu back then?”

“Yes,” the old master admitted. “You and Chengyu had a betrothal, and we calculated in advance that your compatibility with him should be exceptionally high. But pheromone rejection is unpredictable. We merely held onto a sliver of hope; if the two of you truly couldn’t be together, we would have dropped it.”

Qin Bao froze.

Sure enough, the old master continued: “Yet you two did come together. Do you have any idea how overjoyed your father and I were on the night of your coming-of-age ceremony, seeing that you didn’t reject Chengyu’s pheromones! You had a betrothal since childhood, and you’re genetically compatible to this degree—this is practically a match decreed by fate. How could we not push you forward!”

Tears welled in Qin Bao’s eyes: “Whether I reject his pheromones, and whether I marry him—those should have been my choices to make. If the Alpha I didn’t reject wasn’t Feng Chengyu, but a homeless drifter on the street, would you have forced me to marry him too?”

“That hypothetical doesn’t hold; life isn’t made of ‘what-ifs,'” the old master said. “I know you still hold a grudge over me blocking your work back then. But Xiao Bao, our expectations of you have never been exorbitant. We never demanded you become some titan of the world. Indulging you in the past was meant to keep you happy, but our ultimate goal has always been for you to live safely, and live well.”

Qin Bao: “…”

The old master shifted his tone, softening his voice: “Now that you know, let it end here. There is no need to tell anyone else, including Chengyu. I don’t want anyone looking down on you because of this, nor will I allow anyone to use it as leverage over you—not even him.”

Qin Bao’s tears finally spilled over: “Grandpa, the person who has always looked down on me is you. The one who has always held leverage over me is you.”

The old master: “You—”

“The ‘living well’ I want isn’t the same as what you envision. I want to know the truth about my own condition, pursue what I genuinely love, and love the person I truly choose,” Qin Bao cut him off.

“I am not one of your soldiers, meant to know nothing and follow your orders blindly. Nor am I a piece on your chessboard, to be moved wherever you see fit.”

“From start to finish, you have never treated me as a human being with independent thoughts. I am a living person, not just your grandson. I don’t just bear the label of the Qin family; I am my own individual, and I don’t need you deciding every single aspect of my life!”

“You’re using the name of love to take my entire life hostage!”

“Fine, fine. I’ll take whatever you say,” the old master’s face changed, his cheeks trembling with agitation. “To claim I’m holding you hostage…”

“I’ve had enough.”

Qin Bao wiped away his tears.

“I won’t be returning to this house again. Take care of yourselves.”

Without waiting for the old master’s reaction, he turned and strode out of the study.

Down in the garden, a domestic worker looked over from a distance.

Qin Bao checked his stride, walked over, and murmured with reddened eyes: “Go check on my grandfather.”

The worker stared blankly: “Yes, Young Master.”

Qin Bao hurried out of the estate.

Snow was still falling over the capital, thick drifts piling along the curbs.

Qin Bao walked with his head down, plumes of white breath rising in the freezing air. His vision blurred, shivering with every uneven step. Reaching up to touch his face, his fingers came away wet with cold tears.

It was utterly suffocating.

How could a person’s life end up like this?

Barely twenty, without a single confidant to turn to, without a single home he could return to.

Qin Bao used to think he was far more fortunate than most, but he didn’t dare believe that anymore.

Perhaps someone with nothing to their name was spiritually far richer than he was.

The Empire Council Building.

Inside his forty-fifth-floor office, Feng Chengyu was concluding a three-way call with representatives from the Imperial Military and the Fuxing Conglomerate.

As the discussion drew to a close, the holographic projection of the Fuxing representative vanished first.

The colonel representing the military was young, barely in his early thirties.

He seemed to hesitate for a moment before addressing Feng Chengyu: “Designating Planet Feilu as a fifty-year mining moratorium zone is a staggering shift. Congratulations, Councilor Feng. You pulled it off.”

“I assumed the military would take issue with that outcome,” Feng Chengyu tapped his fountain pen against his desk. “I didn’t expect you to be so supportive, Colonel.”

The military had always prioritized mecha production, yet the colonel tasked with liaising on this portfolio had cooperated smoothly, revealing the armed forces’ underlying stance.

“Objections exist, naturally—factions and political squabbles run through every department. But looking at the broader picture, this isn’t necessarily a bad development,” the colonel said. “With Feilu under a fifty-year moratorium, primary extraction for Dysprosium-X must pivot to more distant sectors. Operating costs will rise, and profit margins will narrow significantly. If anyone is genuinely aggrieved, it would be the Fuxing Conglomerate.”

Feng Chengyu: “Judging by their financial disclosures, their earnings over recent years haven’t been as astronomical as assumed, frequently disrupted by Tuoduo’s pirate raids. Their reserves may already be strained, so any dissatisfaction on their part is understandable. I can only offer them my best wishes; now that they’re shifting trade routes with the military directly escorting their convoys, one hopes they won’t fall victim to further raids.”

“I can only extend the same well-wishes,” the colonel smiled. Turning toward Feng Chengyu, he offered a formal military salute. “I have revered the late Marshal since childhood, and his grandson warrants equal respect today. Councilor Feng, with pirates ahead, wolves behind, and the eagle circling above—I wish you the best of luck.”

“Thank you,” Feng Chengyu smiled. “Farewell, Colonel.”

The colonel’s hologram dispersed, officially concluding the call.

Feng Chengyu pinched the bridge of his nose, pulling the smart terminal interface toward him: “What is it?”

The display flagged an unread prompt.

Flashing red, denoting Urgent.

Lin Zi’s voice came through: “Councilor Feng, Qin Bao has arrived.”

Evidently, Qin Bao’s sudden appearance had caught Lin Zi completely off guard.

Ever since Feng Chengyu temporarily relocated from their shared home, Qin Bao hadn’t sent him a single text. Occasionally, Feng Chengyu would unlock his terminal to stare at their chat log; Lin Zi had expected him to send a message as he used to, but Feng Chengyu had always pocketed the device in silence.

Lin Zi had watched them sign the contract, watched them marry, and observed how they interacted. Bearing witness through it all, he felt Feng Chengyu bore an exhausting weight.

Often after prolonged, grueling travel on official business, the man would head straight to Qin Bao’s side without pausing for breath—sometimes burning the candle through two or three nights just to carve out a few spare hours—only to be met with a cold shoulder.

The young were invariably willful: stepping radiantly through flashing crowds, vanishing for weeks or months at a stretch, and regularly stirring up gossip. Yet proud as Councilor Feng was, he was always the first to close the distance, always the first to yield.

Furthermore, Councilor Feng was arguably far more steadfast in their marriage…

Granted, Qin Bao possessed a genuine warmth.

He was driven and hardworking, treating everyone with unpretentious courtesy regardless of rank or background. Lin Zi liked him quite a bit.

Yet Qin Bao’s warmth felt like a fleeting breeze: brushing past lightly, leaving nothing tangible to hold onto.

Carefree to the point of detachment.

That was the cruelest cut of all.

Feng Chengyu asked, “When did he arrive?”

Lin Zi: “About half an hour ago.”

“Notify me via audio directly next time,” Feng Chengyu said.

“Understood. Should I ask him to head back for now?” Lin Zi glanced toward the secondary secretarial suite, sounding hesitant.

Though legislative matters were tentatively settled, everything remained in an uneasy transition. Feng Chengyu hadn’t been away from their home for very long; right now wasn’t an ideal moment to meet.

Feng Chengyu, however, refused to wait any longer, answering without hesitation: “Send him in.”

Having received clearance, Qin Bao rose from his seat, handing a hand towel back to the prominent Beta secretary: “Thank you.”

The woman was poised, elegant, and exceptionally considerate.

As though aware of his identity, she offered Qin Bao a warm smile: “You’re very welcome. Go on in to see our boss; I’ll bring you a cup of hot coffee shortly.”

The Empire Council Building—Qin Bao had passed it countless times, but never imagined he would step inside.

Leaving the Qin estate earlier, his thoughts had been in complete disarray, his feet carrying him here without conscious intent, unaware if cameras had tracked him along the way.

It wasn’t until he looked up at the statue of the Queen and was stopped by the guards’ sharp warnings that his senses abruptly cleared.

With Lin Zi’s assistance, getting upstairs had required little effort.

Once on the floor, he had fallen into a quiet daze.

Now, stepping across the dark red carpeting amidst the hushed, solemn atmosphere, he realized this was his first time truly stepping into Feng Chengyu’s world.

Along the corridor walls, portraits of past Vice Presidents hung in orderly rows, their names neatly inscribed. Feng Chengyu’s name was etched into the heavy bronze double doors ahead.

Beyond lay a sprawling, fan-shaped corner office offering an expansive vista of the capital’s skyline.

Roughly twenty paces from the threshold sat a massive executive desk, where a figure sat bent in concentrated work.

In a setting like this, doors opened and steps fell without a sound.

Feng Chengyu looked up right on cue, his dark eyes fixing directly on the entrance. Their gazes collided, sending Qin Bao’s heart hammering violently against his ribs, leaving him momentarily unmoored.

Qin Bao’s state was clearly not what Feng Chengyu had anticipated.

A single glance at the boy caused Feng Chengyu’s brow to knit slightly. Tapping the intercom immediately, he instructed: “Bring a pair of dry shoes and socks.”

“Right away, Councilor Feng,” the secretary replied.

Qin Bao recovered his voice: “No need. I won’t be staying long.”

He stepped toward the desk in disarray.

“Feng Chengyu, I have something to tell you. It won’t take much of your time.”

Qin Bao was pale, his eyes rimmed in red as though he had been crying. Rounding the desk, Feng Chengyu’s sleeve caught a picture frame on the surface, knocking it face down.

He stepped directly before Qin Bao: “Tell me.”

Setting everything else aside, he knelt down on one knee and began unlacing Qin Bao’s soaked footwear himself.

The socks were sodden through, the skin beneath icy to the touch. Feng Chengyu cupped his foot in his palm: “You walked here?”

Qin Bao didn’t pull away, staring down at him with bloodshot eyes: “Yeah.”

He had inhaled a heavy dose of suppressants today, entirely blocking Feng Chengyu’s scent—and found he had already begun to miss it.

The secretary reappeared with dry socks and footwear, setting them down with measured discretion before departing without a word.

The cavernous office fell dead quiet, save for the rhythmic sweep of the wall clock’s second hand.

Feng Chengyu moved to slip a clean sock onto his foot. Qin Bao took it from his hands in silence, pulling it on himself before curling his legs up onto the seat to stave off the chill.

“Feng Chengyu, I had a fight with my grandfather today,” Qin Bao murmured, his voice low. “I’m never going back there again, and I won’t listen to anything he says. I came to thank you for helping me all this time, but I’m sorry—they didn’t just control me; they used you too.”

“What happened?” Feng Chengyu asked.

“I only found out today. They didn’t force me to marry you because of some childhood promise to your grandfather. It was because I have a condition—I can only tolerate your pheromones,” Qin Bao laid it bare. “If I could tolerate anyone else’s, they never would have pushed to honor—”

Feng Chengyu cut in: “What condition?”

Qin Bao sniffled, looking at him: “Pheromone Rejection Disorder.”

Feng Chengyu: “Pheromone Rejection Disorder?”

“Yes! Pheromone Rejection Disorder! A congenital genetic defect!” Qin Bao’s frustration flared. “It means I can’t tolerate any other Alpha’s pheromones; I can only be marked by you. That’s why I always said other Alphas smell revolting. It gets worse the closer I get to a heat. I only found out after collapsing and being rushed to the hospital two days ago—”

“I understand,” Feng Chengyu stood, looking down at Qin Bao, his expression unreadable. “And then?”

Qin Bao was thrown off by his calm reaction: “Aren’t you furious? You were used like this, and you don’t feel angry at all?”

Straightening his cuffs, Feng Chengyu replied, “A little. But anger doesn’t solve problems.”

Recalling the polished tact the man always displayed before the family elders, Qin Bao asked in disbelief: “Are you planning to lecture me, saying I shouldn’t have fought with my grandfather?”

“No, of course not. You have every right to be furious,” Feng Chengyu’s tone remained calm. “Had it been me, I would be furious too.”

Qin Bao paused, not expecting that response: “…”

He hadn’t come here seeking emotional validation.

Yet he seemed to have received some anyway.

Bracing both hands against the arms of Qin Bao’s chair, Feng Chengyu leaned in, lightly resting his forehead against Qin Bao’s to gauge his temperature: “You fell ill. Are you still hurting anywhere?”

“No.”

“Are you still hurting after the argument with your grandfather?”

Of course he was hurting, but the worst of the wave had passed.

Running here with red eyes was embarrassing enough; Qin Bao wasn’t about to act as though the sky had collapsed—the sky hadn’t fallen after all.

“I’m just furious, ready to detonate,” Qin Bao said. “More furious than when he forced me to marry you. Back then, I thought they were just saddling me with an unwanted marriage and ruining my life. Now I realize the sabotage didn’t start there—if it weren’t for you, they would have shoved any random person I didn’t want down my throat!”

Feng Chengyu seemed to genuinely share his frustration, falling silent for a long time.

If anyone had the right to be furious, it was Feng Chengyu. It turned out the elders’ high regard hadn’t stemmed purely from who he was; the underlying medical contingency had driven most of it.

That Feng Chengyu showed no overt rage was simply because his respect for the older generation ran deep, aligning his public composure with his private principles.

The clock on the wall clicked along, second by second.

In the quiet, Qin Bao felt he had let his tongue run too far.

His chest twinged with a dull ache.

The words he had turned over on the walk here needed to be said.

Time to cut the knot.

Regardless of how it unfolded, as the person at the center of the mess, Qin Bao had a duty to state why he had come: “Feng Chengyu, what I’m trying to say is that they were in the wrong from the start. If you don’t want to continue this arrangement, we can actually—”

Feng Chengyu cut in: “What are the clinical symptoms when it flares up? What is the recommended treatment protocol?”

The sudden shift caught Qin Bao off guard, but he answered anyway: “Dizziness and nausea. Taking the medication on schedule keeps it manageable.”

Pausing, he added, “It can’t be cured.”

He had no intention of mentioning the permanent mark. Even if that could “cure” him, what right did he have to ask for it?

A permanent mark was far too profound; he had no standing to demand such a thing.