Chapter 46: The Lion (6)

Tan Zhao thought he was awake, but his state was little different from being unconscious.

He had no idea how he had been moved into the vehicle, only vaguely feeling a few injections that dulled the pain and left his wounds feeling cool. His entire upper body no longer felt like his own.

The car was the same one he and Wen Mingwei had driven there in, but with his eyes half-open and his vision blurred, he had failed to recognize it. In truth, he could see nothing clearly; there was only a patch of sunset spilling through the window.

"Wen Mingwei..."

Tan Zhao called out in his semi-conscious state, "Are you there?"

"I'm here. Save your strength."

Wen Mingwei was holding his hand. Just moments before, he had personally administered the anesthesia, staunched the bleeding, and bandaged him. The two gunshot wounds on his shoulder were manageable, and the shrapnel had been extracted. However, the third bullet was in a dangerous location and required surgical removal at a hospital.

Pubang had no proper hospitals, only unmarked underground clinics. Even if a hospital were available, the vicinity was unsafe for medical treatment.

Gu Jing was driving in the front, casting a cautious glance in the rearview mirror as he asked, "Are we heading back?"

Wen Mingwei nodded. "Let's go. We've startled the enemy; Wen Ming哲 won't show up again anytime soon."

This meant the operation had failed. Catching him next time would require a complete replanning, and the difficulty level would inevitably rise by a notch.

Gu Jing was the primary commander of this operation, overseeing personnel deployment, bomb placement, and tactical coordination in the field.

He had been nearby when Tan Zhao was taken hostage. The unexpected event had happened too swiftly for him to process fully, yet he was utterly astonished. Tan Zhao usually appeared reluctant, and he had never expected him to risk his life to protect Wen Mingwei at a critical moment.

Though such an action was unwise and led to an undesirable outcome, Gu Jing knew that Wen Mingwei was precisely the type to be moved by it.

Therefore, regardless of his own disbelief, suspicion, or regret over the failed mission, he could not afford to voice any complaints. His sole task right now was driving.

Driving from Pubang back into Alliance territory to the nearest city would take approximately six hours.

Throughout those entire six hours, Tan Zhao remained fast asleep, and Wen Mingwei never once let go of his hand.

In truth, what did such injuries even matter to Wen Mingwei? Having grown up amidst flying bullets, over the years he had been shot not just a hundred times, but at least a few dozen.

Gunshot wounds were unlike any other injuries; different types of bullets and varying points of impact produced entirely different levels of pain. Wen Mingwei was so accustomed to them that a single glance was enough to tell him exactly what kind of agony Tan Zhao was enduring. Yet precisely because of this familiarity, the feeling of empathy was all the more intense.

Wen Mingwei was someone who felt no pity for himself and found it difficult to truly pity others. Yet he had never seen Tan Zhao look so devoid of vitality, which abruptly reminded him of that cold corpse of Jian Qingzheng after his death years ago.

The interior of the car was cramped, and Tan Zhao was lying uncomfortably. As the effects of the anesthesia began to wane with time, Wen Mingwei frowned and urged Gu Jing to drive faster.

Their destination was not a domestic hospital; Wen Mingwei had his own medical team, whose leader had received advance notice and arrived in a private jet to meet them.

His team was far more adept at treating gunshot wounds than ordinary doctors. From the moment they laid eyes on Tan Zhao to the conclusion of the surgery, a little over an hour had passed.

In this era, medical technology was advanced; any trauma that did not result in instant death was classified as a minor injury capable of swift recovery.

Tan Zhao's wounds had been re-bandaged. Perhaps due to an excess of anesthesia, he had not yet regained consciousness when the surgery ended.

Unwilling to linger in a foreign region, Wen Mingwei flew him back to Xijing overnight to recuperate at home.

Dawn was just about to break by the time they arrived.

The temperature in Xijing was at least ten degrees lower than in Pubang, and a night breeze was blowing. Wen Mingwei took off his own coat and draped it over Tan Zhao's shoulders, personally supporting him as he stepped out of the vehicle.

It was the same coat he had worn all day, left unchanged and still stained with blood.

Tan Zhao was the same. Aside from the clean hospital gown he had been changed into for the surgery, none of his attire had been replaced.

By now, he was awake. The moment his feet touched the ground, it felt as though his soul had just returned to his body, and in his daze, he failed to recognize where he was.

"We're home," Wen Mingwei said. "How do you feel now? Does it hurt?"

"..."

Tan Zhao's consciousness was still trapped in Pubang, in that abandoned self-built house in the suburbs where Wen Ming哲 had discussed with him how to overthrow Wen Mingwei, telling him to think it through carefully before getting in touch again.

In the blink of an eye, however, he was back in Xijing. Wen Mingwei's coat rested on his shoulders, and eyes as deep as a stagnant pool were right before him, inquiring with deep concern if he was in pain.

For a fleeting second, a wave of guilt washed over Tan Zhao, even though he had not yet done a thing.

He recalled the events of his semi-conscious state. Nothing else came to mind, save for the distinct memory that Wen Mingwei seemed to have been holding his hand the entire time—just like now, gripping it with immense force, as if terrified that he would not wake up and needed to be anchored down.

Yet, because he had been unclear-headed at the time, Tan Zhao could not be certain whether it was merely his own illusion.

Habitually, he denied it, saying, "It doesn't hurt." Yet his footing felt terribly unsteady, as though all the strength had been drained from his body, forcing him to rely entirely on Wen Mingwei's support to move forward.

In truth, it hurt immensely. The anesthetic had worn off, and a relentless burning sensation radiated from the three gunshot wounds. Even with the aid of advanced medication, he would have to grit his teeth and endure it for a while.

With his injury centered on his shoulder and his arm difficult to lift, Wen Mingwei wrapped an arm around his waist, guiding him inside. As they reached the foot of the stairs, he asked, "Does it really not hurt?"

"...Mn." Tan Zhao tried his best not to lean his full weight onto the other man, relying on his own strength to walk.

He did not want to appear overly delicate in front of Wen Mingwei, who had suffered numerous gunshot wounds himself—Wen Ming哲 had also been shot today, yet despite the pain, he had shown no special reaction. People from their world were long accustomed to such things and thought nothing of it.

Tan Zhao forced himself to climb the steps, but nearly lost his footing and was promptly steadied.

"Don't push yourself," Wen Mingwei said. "You've lost too much blood. You need to rest for at least a few days to recover."

Tan Zhao remained silent for a long moment before asking, "Don't you blame me?"

"Blame you for what?"

"If I hadn't acted on my own accord to save you, Wen Ming哲 wouldn't have had the chance to escape."

Tan Zhao lowered his head, taking slow steps up the stairs. The light cast a deep shadow along the bridge of his nose, masking his emotions in ambiguity.

Wen Mingwei continued to hold his hand, keeping his grip firm to this very day. Naturally, there should have been a great deal to discuss—whether it was the relief of surviving an ordeal after being rescued from the tiger's jaws, or the cold-blooded suspicions prompting questions like: *Did Wen Ming哲 say anything to you? Didn't he want to kill you? Why did that bullet miss?*

Yet, to his surprise, Wen Mingwei seemed not to have thought of these things, or perhaps he had, but simply had no desire to discuss them.

Wen Mingwei led him into the bedroom, switched on the lights, and remarked casually, "It doesn't matter. I'm in no rush to kill him."

He shed his blood-stained garments, cast a glance at Tan Zhao, and asked, "I haven't asked you yet—why did you save me?"

Tan Zhao faltered for a moment, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. "I didn't mean to."

"'Didn't mean to'?" Wen Mingwei murmured, savoring the words. "Because you were worried? Panicked? Afraid something would happen to me? Lost your mind?"

"..."

A burning heat rushed to Tan Zhao's face, a mix of embarrassment and awkwardness. Dealing with someone like Wen Mingwei was always like this: he rarely got angry when he was supposed to, nor was he ever moved when he ought to be.

Of course, there was indeed nothing particularly moving about this incident, and Tan Zhao knew he shouldn't have done it, but being interrogated about it was an entirely different matter.

Sitting weakly on the edge of the bed, he suddenly felt his wounds throb with a sharper ache.

Unwilling to answer anything, he decided that ending the conversation right here was for the best. To his surprise, however, Wen Mingwei suddenly walked over and kissed him. "Tan Zhao."

"Mmm?"

"Are you deeply in love with me?" Wen Mingwei asked. "Even after being hurt by me, you're still deeply in love?"

"..."

Tan Zhao maintained a stiff expression and instinctively uttered a "No."

Instead of accepting it, Wen Mingwei kissed him again, swallowing that word of denial right on his lips. For reasons unknown, he seemed particularly fond of holding his hand today, gripping it tighter and tighter.

Those sensations perceived during his unconsciousness had certainly not been mere illusions.

"If you say 'yes,'" Wen Mingwei said, his voice calm, steady, and dangerously seductive, "how about we give being together a try?"

"...What?"

"I won't treat you as a substitute for him; you are simply yourself. We can treat each other well. Would you be willing?"