POTINS 45

Meng Chuan slept for a long, long time.

Wen Zhongyi kept watch from morning until noon, before Ji Ying and Zhou Lu forcibly dragged him to the neighboring ward to rest for two hours. When he returned, Meng Chuan still hadn’t opened his eyes.

“How long until he wakes up?” Wen Zhongyi couldn’t help but ask the nurse.

The nurse changed out the IV drip, the white liquid falling in slow, steady drops. She said to Wen Zhongyi, “The exact time depends on how well his consciousness recovers, but all of his vital signs are stable. He should wake up soon.”

But even as the sun began to set, Meng Chuan showed no sign of waking—aside from a deeper crease in his brow.

Wen Zhongyi sat quietly, holding Meng Chuan’s hand, until the ache in his lower back forced him to stand.

There was an empty sofa in the room, and it was spacious enough. Wen Zhongyi lay down carefully, intending just to rest for a bit—but before he knew it, he had drifted off to sleep.

On the hospital bed, Meng Chuan’s breathing suddenly grew rapid.

He was in the middle of a very, very long dream.

Images shifted one after another, like a lantern slideshow. Unlike the broken flashes of past dreams, this one unfolded in full, vivid detail.

The once-blurred face in those dreams now came clearly into focus.

He remembered the brutal car crash from four years ago. He remembered the confusion of arriving in a foreign world. He remembered the first time he met Wen Zhongyi.

At the time, Meng Chuan hadn’t yet grasped what an omega truly was. He only knew that the uniformed Wen Zhongyi stood out strikingly from the crowd—capturing his entire attention with ease.

He eventually joined the assault team as he’d wished, became Wen Zhongyi’s right-hand man, and fought alongside him.

But war was far more cruel than he had imagined.

Meng Chuan saw mountains of corpses and rivers of blood, comrades and enemies alike falling before him. He saw dying sunlight the color of blood and a desolate land soaked in steel and silence.

He stood atop the high city walls, listening to the wind howl—and to an even deeper, clearer sound: the trembling of his own heart.

Coming from a peaceful twenty-first-century nation, Meng Chuan never imagined he’d one day kill so many people. And yet he didn’t feel anything exceptional—just a numbness that had become familiar.

He grew quieter. More steady. Hardened by fire and ash, he completed his transformation.

Sometimes, Meng Chuan felt that the pampered young master he used to be was nothing more than a dream—that the bloodied battlefield was the real world.

But he was also keenly aware that he wasn’t like the others.

He wasn’t some local beta. He had no family here. Sanka wasn’t his homeland.

So who did he fight for? What was he shedding blood to protect?

Others fought for their country, for their loved ones. But what about him?

Before long, Meng Chuan found his answer: he represented no one. Wen Zhongyi’s position was his position.

He defended this land simply because it was everything Wen Zhongyi wanted to protect.

Meng Chuan had often wondered when he first started falling for Wen Zhongyi. Tracing it back—it had probably been love at first sight.

Even though he was convinced he was straight, he couldn’t deny that from the moment he laid eyes on Wen Zhongyi, he’d been drawn to him with fierce curiosity.

Some people are born to lead. Meng Chuan acknowledged that Wen Zhongyi was one of them.

But he wanted to see more—wanted to know if, beneath that cold and composed exterior, there was another side.

As a commander, Wen Zhongyi was calm and decisive, leading them through death traps and into victory time after time.

In everyone else’s eyes, Colonel Wen was sacred and untouchable. No one dared treat him as an equal.

Except Meng Chuan.

He had seen countless sides of Wen Zhongyi that others never would.

He had seen him writhing in the agony of heat, eyes filled with helpless desire. He had seen him offer flowers to fallen comrades with a calm face, pressing down sorrow behind closed eyes.

They all looked up to Wen Zhongyi. Only Meng Chuan met him eye to eye.

He wanted to see past the surface and into his heart. He wanted to shield him from the wind and rain, to be the shoulder he could lean on—so he wouldn’t always have to be so invincible.

That was why Meng Chuan willingly had the alpha gland implanted.

That was why he willingly took a bullet for him.

Every moment they spent together flashed through his mind like lightning.

War gave those memories a bleak, gray filter. But Wen Zhongyi made them vibrant again.

Meng Chuan saw himself standing in a wasteland, rocket launcher in hand, flames raging in the distance and turning the sky red.

Someone intertwined fingers with his and whispered, “It’s over. We won.”

He turned his head and saw a familiar face.

Wen Zhongyi’s face was streaked with blood and dust, firelight gleaming in his eyes. He smiled—bright and radiant.

After the war, they rebuilt their home together and held a grand wedding. Aside from the absence of Meng Chuan’s friends and family, it had been perfect.

Meng Chuan didn’t know if he would ever return to his original world. He didn’t know if it was even possible to cross between the two worlds freely.

No matter what, he would never part from Wen Zhongyi.

Every day spent with Wen Zhongyi had been a blessing from the heavens to Meng Chuan. He thought that kind of happiness would last a long time.

Until one day, without warning, Meng Chuan was thrown back.

And it was nothing like he’d imagined. He hadn’t even had the chance to speak to Wen Zhongyi one more time.

Back in normal society, Meng Chuan had forgotten everything from those four years.

He didn’t just lose his memories—his entire personality and temperament had reverted to what they’d been four years ago.

He was so childish, treating his past self like a separate person, throwing fits of jealousy, unable to understand why Wen Zhongyi was so desperate to restore his memory.

He didn’t understand Wen Zhongyi’s pain and grief. Didn’t understand how terrifying it was to be forgotten.

And even more so—Wen Zhongyi was pregnant. That had been the child they’d both looked forward to.

It wasn’t until he hit his head that Meng Chuan began to remember more and more about Wen Zhongyi.

He began to feel it—began to want to retrieve everything.

And finally, in this moment, he remembered it all.

Meng Chuan slowly opened his eyes. A clean white ceiling came into view.

His heartbeat hadn’t yet settled. Memories of the past and present tangled in his mind, making him feel dizzy and overwhelmed.

Pain from the wound on his head flared up again. Meng Chuan furrowed his brow and closed his eyes, waiting for the discomfort to ebb.

Suddenly, he heard a faint rustling nearby.

He also smelled a soft, faint trace of rose pheromones.

Wen Zhongyi sat up from the sofa and glanced at the clock on the wall. He had been asleep for just over twenty minutes.

Outside the window, the sky had already grown dim. The lighting in the room was vague and subdued.

Wen Zhongyi originally meant to find the light switch, but then remembered Meng Chuan was sleeping, so he turned to look behind him.

On the hospital bed, Meng Chuan was lying slightly turned, quietly watching him.

Wen Zhongyi froze at first. Then his eyes widened a little, and his lips lifted into a faint smile. “You’re awake?”

Meng Chuan let out a soft “Mm,” and didn’t say anything else—just stared at him, unblinking, with too many complicated emotions hidden in his dark eyes.

“When did you wake up? Why didn’t you call me?” Wen Zhongyi looked delighted. He had always been restrained in expressing emotions—but probably only in front of Meng Chuan would he show them so openly.

He had taken off his coat when he came in. His sweater couldn’t hide the belly of seven months’ pregnancy. He walked toward Meng Chuan with a slight sway, hair a little messy from sleep, eyes gently curved.

Meng Chuan’s gaze followed him the whole way—watching him come closer, watching the smile on his face—and as he watched, his eyes began to turn red.

Wen Zhongyi sat on the chair by the bed. Sensing that something wasn’t right with him, he asked in concern, “What’s wrong? Is the wound hurting?”

He was about to press the call button when Meng Chuan suddenly grabbed his hand.

Startled, Wen Zhongyi saw him trying to sit up despite the bandages on his head. He immediately tried to hold him down. “What are you doing? Don’t move!”

But Meng Chuan didn’t listen. The IV line on his hand wobbled as he stubbornly propped himself up in bed.

Wen Zhongyi didn’t know where he got the strength. He couldn’t stop him. “You—”

“Zhongyi,” Meng Chuan released his hand, opened his arms, and pulled him into a hug. He closed his eyes, feeling Wen Zhongyi’s warmth and breath. With his lips close to his ear, he whispered, “I’m back.”

It was such a strange thing to say, but Wen Zhongyi understood it.

The strength he had used to resist instantly faded. He leaned dazedly into Meng Chuan’s embrace, thinking he had misheard.

Maybe he was still half-asleep. Just a hallucination from being overtired.

That afternoon, Wen Zhongyi had been forced to lie in the next ward for two hours, but hadn’t managed to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he’d open them again quickly. His body had rested a little, but his nerves had remained taut the entire time.

Only when he was in the same room with Meng Chuan did that tension finally start to ease on its own. Even so, he’d only slept twenty minutes.

Far from enough for a normal midday nap.

So it was reasonable that his brain felt muddled.

But then he met Meng Chuan’s gaze again.

It was a pair of eyes he had stared into countless times.

During the days when Meng Chuan had forgotten him, Wen Zhongyi had often recalled the way Meng Chuan used to look at him.

Meng Chuan’s eyes were darker than most. And when he looked at Wen Zhongyi, something would subtly shift in them—like the depths of a vast sea—making Wen Zhongyi feel, with utter clarity, that he was loved.

He had thought he would have to wait a long time before seeing that gaze again.

He had waited so long, hoped so long—and now that it had suddenly become real, Wen Zhongyi found it hard to believe.

He didn’t dare blink. He breathed slowly, as if afraid to wake from a dream.

Meng Chuan looked at the growing redness around his eyes. He couldn’t hold back anymore. He bowed his head and took a deep breath, then slowly let it out.

The room went silent, filled only with the sound of their breathing.

It felt as though they had been apart for ages, only now finally reunited, red-eyed and wordless, tears brimming silently.

After a long moment, Meng Chuan rasped, “I’m sorry for making you wait so long.”

He owed Wen Zhongyi far too much—not something a simple ‘sorry’ could ever make up for. But for now, it was all he could say. The rest, he would make up for in time.

Wen Zhongyi couldn’t hold it in any longer. He leaned down and hugged Meng Chuan tightly, burying his face in his neck, a trembling sob escaping from his throat.

Warm tears fell onto Meng Chuan’s neck, slid under his clothes, and burned like fire—like they would carve a hole into his heart.