POTINS 39

Meng Chuan had hit his head hard, and he felt dazed all the way until dinnertime.

Worried he might have done real damage, Wen Zhongyi said, “Maybe you should get checked at the hospital. I read online that hitting the back of the head can cause internal bleeding in the skull.”

“It’s not that bad,” Meng Chuan replied. “I’ll be fine after a night’s sleep.”

He did seem mostly fine. After dinner, he even insisted on doing the dishes himself—refusing any help from Wen Zhongyi.

Because there was a bump on the back of his head, Meng Chuan didn’t dare sleep flat on his back and had to lie on his side instead.

Before bed, Wen Zhongyi told him some stories from a year after they first met. But even after listening, Meng Chuan still didn’t recall anything. He just said he was sleepy and wanted to rest.

This time, he really was exhausted.

Not long after, he fell asleep.

His scalp still throbbed painfully. Frowning in his sleep, Meng Chuan didn’t know how much time had passed before a sudden golden light shattered the murky blackness before his eyes.

He was having a strange and surreal dream.

In the dream, he was engaged in a fierce gunfight. Bullets whizzed past his face, and blood ran into his eyes.

But it was as if he couldn’t feel pain—he charged forward through the hail of bullets without hesitation.

It felt like he was searching for someone.

Finally, the gunfire ceased, leaving only the thick, choking smoke and a mist of blood in the air.

Meng Chuan stepped out from behind cover, wiped the blood from his face, and regrouped with his comrades. Together, they headed deeper into the jungle.

He stepped over corpses, waded through blood-red streams, and scavenged weapons from the dead as he went. It was a horrifying scene—but to him, it was routine. He even joked around with his comrades.

Someone said, “The colonel’s probably been waiting a while. Let’s move.”

They cleared out a few more enemies hiding in the shadows. When they finally spotted a pickup truck up ahead, a smile rose on Meng Chuan’s face.

A tall figure stood by the vehicle, his outline lean and upright in the shifting light—like a sword drawn, gleaming with a chilling sharpness. Just looking at him was breathtaking.

Meng Chuan’s smile deepened. He strode over, stopped in front of the man, and said, “Kept you waiting.”

Even in the dream, Meng Chuan couldn’t see the man’s face clearly. But he caught a familiar scent of roses.

The man seemed to be examining him closely, his gaze sweeping over Meng Chuan from head to toe before asking briefly, “Any other injuries?”

“No,” Meng Chuan replied. He only had a few scratches on his face—nothing serious.

The man didn’t look at him again and turned to speak a few words to the other soldiers.

Everyone addressed him as Colonel Wen, their tone respectful.

Meng Chuan kept smiling at him, but in that respectful gaze was something more.

“Everyone, get in the truck,” the man said. “It’s not safe here.”

Meng Chuan was about to respond when he suddenly caught an unusual sound—

The click of a trigger being pulled.

His expression changed instantly. “Watch out!”

At that moment, a gunshot shattered the stillness, the bullet streaking toward them at high speed.

Without thinking, Meng Chuan lunged forward, shoving the man aside. The next instant, something tore through his chest.

He felt no pain—only relief.

“Meng Chuan!” the man cried his name. The calm in his voice had vanished, replaced by sheer panic—a soul-deep scream of terror.

Meng Chuan tried to say he was fine, but his lips moved soundlessly.

He felt cold. His consciousness blurred. His knees buckled, and he collapsed heavily to the ground.

In the haze, he heard more gunshots. Then someone staggered over and pulled him into their arms, repeating words over and over.

Warm drops landed on his face—one fell on his lips, salty and wet.

Tears.

Why are you crying? Don’t cry.

Meng Chuan tried to lift his hand and wipe them away. But his fingers only twitched slightly—then everything went dark.

The scene suddenly shifted at blinding speed. His head throbbed in agony.

When he opened his eyes again, all he saw was a dim, grimy wall.

It looked like some lightless dungeon, the air thick with a nauseating stench.

His hands and feet were shackled. His upper body was bare, covered in brutal scars.

It was clear—he had been captured.

But Meng Chuan didn’t panic.

He sat on the ground with his back to the wall, already planning his next move.

Soon, his thoughts were interrupted by faint gunfire from outside.

Then someone kicked the dungeon door open with a loud crash. The sudden light made Meng Chuan squint in discomfort.

A familiar voice called out from the doorway: “Meng Chuan, where are you?”

He froze for a second—then sprang to his feet, chains clanking heavily.

“I’m here,” he rasped.

His throat, parched from two days without food or water, felt like it was being torn apart with every word.

Meng Chuan saw the man walk up to him and say, in a voice light with the relief of survival, “I finally found you.”

The prison break didn’t go smoothly. Meng Chuan’s shackles had only just been removed, and before they could leave the dungeon, they were surrounded by enemies.

The man tossed him a gun without looking back and said, “I won’t let you die.”

Staring at his back, Meng Chuan’s eyes began to burn.

They fought fiercely in the dungeon, emptied two pistols, and finally, reinforcements arrived.

Meng Chuan let out a breath. “Took them long enough.”

But before he could exhale completely, he saw something roll in on the ground—it was a grenade.

His pupils contracted. He grabbed the man’s hand and bolted. “Run!”

But they weren’t that lucky this time.

With a deafening blast, shrapnel from the explosion struck the man’s knee.

He dropped to the ground instantly, blood gushing from his leg. He no longer had the strength to stand.

At that moment, the dream merged with reality, and Meng Chuan finally understood why Wen Zhongyi had that scar on his knee, and what bloody truth lay behind his casual words.

It no longer felt like someone else’s story. He was in it, clearly feeling every emotion from that time.

A storm of pain and fury surged through Meng Chuan’s chest. Gritting his teeth, he carried the man to safety, dressed the wound, and told his comrades firmly to take care of him.

“What are you going to do?” one comrade asked.

Meng Chuan gripped his gun and said, one word at a time, “I’m going to kill them.”

Moments later, everything in the dream receded like a tide.

Meng Chuan hadn’t remembered much, but even just these two scenes were enough for him to understand what those four years meant to Wen Zhongyi.

They were unforgettable years of life and death together in the midst of war—an enduring love etched deep into the soul.

_____

The next morning, Wen Zhongyi slowly woke up to find Meng Chuan staring at him with an intense gaze.

“Mm.” Wen Zhongyi rubbed his eyes and yawned. “What time is it?”

“Not even six,” Meng Chuan murmured, brushing aside the messy hair on his forehead. “Sleep a bit more.”

Wen Zhongyi wasn’t fully awake yet, so he closed his eyes again—but he could feel an unhidden gaze fixed on his face.

He tolerated it for a while, but eventually opened his eyes and glared. “Why are you staring at me?”

Meng Chuan opened his mouth, about to speak, but Wen Zhongyi cut him off. “Close your eyes. Go to sleep.”

“I can’t sleep,” Meng Chuan said, but he still obediently closed his eyes.

After another half-hour of sleep, Wen Zhongyi got up to wash, only to find Meng Chuan leaning against the bathroom door, watching him, which gave him the creeps. To a stranger, it would’ve looked like Meng Chuan had a terminal illness.

Spitting out the toothpaste foam, Wen Zhongyi eyed him suspiciously. “You didn’t actually knock your brain loose, did you?”

“I had two dreams last night,” Meng Chuan suddenly said.

“About what?” Wen Zhongyi asked casually.

“First I dreamed of getting shot, then I dreamed of your knee injury.” Meng Chuan’s voice was calm. “Why didn’t you tell me that scar on your knee was from saving me?”

Wen Zhongyi’s hand shook, and the cup fell into the sink.

He didn’t pick it up. Instead, he looked up at Meng Chuan in stunned silence, his eyes trembling slightly. “You… remembered?”

The last syllable was soft, like he was afraid to shatter a rare and precious dream.

“I only remembered those two things,” Meng Chuan replied.

Wen Zhongyi was quiet for a few seconds, then gave a small smile. He looked comforted. “No rush. Take it slow. It’s good that you’re remembering at all.”

But Meng Chuan didn’t feel happy about remembering, his heart only felt heavy.

Wen Zhongyi sat on the couch, and Meng Chuan knelt beside him, gently tracing the scar on his knee, his eyes full of emotion.

It was hard for Wen Zhongyi to see him like this. “It’s okay now. I’m lucky I got to keep the leg.”

Meng Chuan stayed silent, lowered his head, and kissed the scar.

No one had expected that hitting his head would cause Meng Chuan to regain some of his memories.

Wen Zhongyi reached out and touched the bump on the back of his head, stopping him from attempting to hit it again.

“No.” Wen Zhongyi frowned. “We’ll try something else. This is too dangerous.”

“It didn’t do any harm,” Meng Chuan said.

“You think your head is made of iron?” Wen Zhongyi scoffed. “You can’t go around using your skull like a switch.”

But regardless, there was finally hope that Meng Chuan would recover his memories.

Wen Zhongyi looked at him with expectation, and began to talk more.

As Meng Chuan listened to stories of their past, he finally began to feel a sense of familiarity. He still couldn’t recall it, but he no longer felt like an outsider.

At the beginning of the month, Meng Chuan’s susceptibility period came, and he stayed home the entire time.

He dozed off while hugging Wen Zhongyi, doing nothing, just holding him. Wen Zhongyi’s body was soft and warm, and Meng Chuan’s hand rested on his round belly. Without thinking, he said, “Let’s give the baby a name.”

Wen Zhongyi was lying with his back to him and couldn’t see his expression. “Now? Isn’t it too early?”

“It’s not,” Meng Chuan mumbled, nuzzling his nape. “Just a nickname.”

“Alright.” Wen Zhongyi didn’t have any particular ideas, so he asked, “Got anything in mind?”

Meng Chuan thought for a while and mumbled, “Not yet.”

Wen Zhongyi laughed. “Then why bring it up? Tell me when you think of one.”

Meng Chuan didn’t say anything. He just held him tighter.

The Meng Chuan from the past was slowly returning, while the current Meng Chuan was quietly fading. It was a contradiction, but to someone who hadn’t fully recovered his memories, it felt true.

He just wanted to leave something behind before he disappeared.

That way, when Wen Zhongyi called their child by that nickname in the future, he would remember that somewhat childish, a little silly—but deeply loving—Meng Chuan.