“Cough cough cough…”
Lin Zao collapsed onto the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling.
The ceiling spun around him, and the bed rocked beneath him.
His whole body swayed along with it.
His head swam, the world turning upside down.
It felt just like riding a roller coaster—truly magical.
Lin Zao blinked his eyes rapidly, trying to make the scene before him clearer.
But in the next second, the ceiling in his vision suddenly spun at high speed, hurtling straight toward him!
“Oof…”
Lin Zao let out a cry. In a flurry, he grabbed the edge of the blanket, yanked it over his head, and burrowed underneath.
The ceiling was falling!
Fu Cheng, look at the mess you’ve made!
The ceiling you personally supervised is about to crush your wife to death!
Hiding under the covers, Lin Zao suddenly remembered something. He quickly reached out and felt around beside him.
Little Bao? Little Bao!
Where was his Little Bao?!
In the very next moment, from outside the blanket came Lin Xiaobao’s voice, hoarse and pretending to be all grown up—
“Sick Dad, are you awake?”
“Mmm… huh?”
Lin Zao froze for a second before snapping back to reality. He lifted the blanket and poked his head out.
The ceiling hadn’t fallen. It had all been a hallucination.
His illness had left him a bit muddled.
Lin Zao patted his head and turned toward the source of the voice, looking at the bedroom door.
There stood Lin Xiaobao, carefully carrying a small iron basin as he entered from outside.
Lin Xiaobao’s hands were both occupied with the basin, so he had no free hand to open the door. Instead, he twisted his body and nudged the door open with his little butt, creating just enough of a gap.
He squeezed through like a little dog pup.
For a three-year-old little cub, that was some pretty advanced maneuvering.
Yet Lin Xiaobao walked in smoothly, holding the basin steady without spilling a drop.
He kept his head down the whole time, eyes fixed tightly on the contents, ensuring nothing sloshed out.
Once inside the room, the door swung shut behind him. Lin Xiaobao turned and walked toward Lin Zao.
“Sick Dad, are you hungry?”
“I’m okay…”
Lin Zao came to his senses and hurried off the bed, reaching out to help.
“Little Bao, what’s this? What time did you wake up? Why didn’t you call Dad to get up?”
“This is… ‘line strips.’”
“‘Line strips’?”
“Yeah. Tasty ‘line strips.’ I already ate a whole basin of them.”
Lin Xiaobao lifted the iron basin and held it up to Lin Zao’s face for inspection.
Puzzled, Lin Zao peered down.
Oh, so it was thin noodles.
Lin Xiaobao had taken one character from “thin noodles” and one from “noodles,” mashing them together into “line strips.”
It was a basin brimming with plain white thin noodles, topped with stir-fried fragrant mushrooms, lean pork, and dried fish floss. The broth was a rich, golden chicken soup.
Lin Xiaobao set the noodles on the bedside table, then turned back, grabbed Lin Zao’s hand, and tugged him to the edge of the bed with firm resolve.
“Dad, you’re a patient right now. You can’t just get out of bed!”
“Alright.”
Lin Zao climbed back onto the bed and glanced at the noodles. “Little Bao, these noodles…”
They couldn’t have been made by Little Bao.
Their family didn’t have thin noodles or chicken broth, and Little Bao didn’t have the skills for it anyway.
He and Fu Cheng had repeatedly stressed that the kitchen was dangerous—the little cub wasn’t allowed in there alone without an adult.
So…
Lin Zao thought for a moment. “Did Grandpa Zhang from next door make them?”
“Yeah!” Lin Xiaobao nodded vigorously.
“Dad slept in, so you went to the first-floor window and found Grandpa Zhang,” Lin Zao guessed. “Then Grandpa Zhang cooked the noodles and left them on the windowsill for you to pick up?”
“Right.” Lin Xiaobao kept nodding. “Dad’s sick, your forehead’s all hot. I didn’t want to wake you up, but I was hungry, so I grabbed some meat and raw veggies from the fridge to trade with Grandpa Zhang for something ready to eat.”
“But Grandpa Zhang wouldn’t take our meat or veggies. He told me to put them back and made noodles for me instead.”
“Oh, right!”
Lin Xiaobao suddenly remembered something and dashed off.
“Hey…”
Lin Zao couldn’t stop him.
Moments later, Lin Xiaobao returned, clutching a big handful of green and purple mixed leaves, brimming with excitement.
“And this! Grandpa Zhang said it’s called ‘perilla’—a herb that cures colds. He told me to bring it for Dad.”
“Grandpa Zhang said it needs to be decocted. But not like frying eggs or chicken cutlets with oil—it’s boiled in water.”
“I didn’t get it, but Grandpa Zhang said Dad would. Dad, do you?”
“Dad does.” Lin Zao’s lips curved up as he nodded gently.
He took the hefty bunch of perilla, eyeing the fresh, clean water droplets on the leaves. His eyes reddened, and his throat tightened with emotion.
Grandpa Zhang must have grown it himself.
Hearing Little Bao say he was sick, the old man had gone out to the yard and picked it fresh.
Last time it was chicken legs and soup; this time, thin noodles and perilla.
All told, this made twice Grandpa Zhang had helped their family.
And during such a dire time, no less.
Lin Zao sniffled and asked, “Little Bao, did you thank Grandpa Zhang?”
“Of course!” Lin Xiaobao puffed out his little belly. “I said ‘thank you’ like a dozen times.”
“Good boy.” Lin Zao ruffled his hair. “Once Dad’s feeling better, we’ll make something to thank him properly.”
“Then Dad, eat up quick and get better fast.”
“Alright.”
Lin Zao picked up the small iron basin, looked down at it, then up at Lin Xiaobao. He blinked, then raised his right hand.
Lin Xiaobao’s eyes widened. He lunged forward, hugging Lin Zao’s hand tightly. “Dad, no grabbing with your hands! That’s not hygienic—it’s what little savages do! Don’t rush, I’ll go get you chopsticks!”
“Alright.” Lin Zao lowered his hand, grinning with crinkled eyes like a mischievous little fox, drawing out his words. “No rush from you either—take it slow.”
Lin Xiaobao scampered downstairs like a little rocket.
How could he take it slow? He couldn’t!
Dad was sick with a fever, burning up into a little goofball!
Lin Xiaobao raced to the second-floor dining area, flung open the cabinet, grabbed chopsticks and a spoon, and bolted back up.
“I’m here! Chopsticks are here! Spoon’s here!”
Lin Zao watched him and teased, “Who are the chopsticks and spoon?”
“It’s this.” Lin Xiaobao trotted up and plopped them into the basin. “Dad, eat up! Do you even remember how to use chopsticks? Want me to teach you?”
“Sure.”
Lin Zao sat up in bed under the covers, cradling the iron basin as he ate the thin noodles.
Lin Xiaobao perched beside him, watching Dad intently.
He had to keep an eye out, or his goofball Dad might start grabbing the noodles with his hands.
Eating with hands would get all the germs from them into you.
Dad was already sick—he couldn’t afford to get even sicker.
He was the family’s little mainstay!
Smarter than Dad, stronger than Big Daddy.
Dad and Big Daddy both relied on him to live better and safer!
Lin Xiaobao felt the heavy weight of his responsibility to protect Dad and Big Daddy and see them grow old safely. He puffed out his chest even more.
His eyes grew wider.
He leaned in closer, staring harder.
“Alright already.”
Lin Zao spread his palm over Lin Xiaobao’s eyes.
“Why are you staring at Dad like a little calf? Trying to butt me away?”
“I’m supervising Dad!” Lin Xiaobao declared proudly.
“Got it.”
Lin Zao chuckled and set down the half-empty basin of noodles.
Lin Xiaobao glanced at it anxiously. “Dad, you’re not finishing?”
“Yeah, I’m full.”
“No way! Eat a bit more! No wasting!”
“I really can’t.” Lin Zao patted his belly and let out a burp.
The noodles soaked up the broth, getting bulkier and drier with every bite.
“Big Daddy hasn’t had breakfast yet. Let’s send the rest down to him.”
Anyway…
Fu Cheng often ate his leftovers before. It was past ten now—too late to make fresh breakfast. Might as well give him these.
But Lin Xiaobao said, “Big Daddy has some too. Grandpa Zhang made three big basins!”
“Ah… what?” Lin Zao was stunned.
“I carried them up basin by basin, three trips. Super tiring.”
“I see.” Lin Zao thought it over. “Then we don’t need to cook lunch.”
Lin Xiaobao looked puzzled. “That much? But I finished mine already.”
“Impressive.” Lin Zao reached out, poked his rounded little belly, and gave a thumbs-up. “Little Bao, you’re a ‘Thin Noodle Little Warrior.’”
After breakfast, Lin Zao regained a bit of strength. He threw off the covers and got out of bed.
He slipped on cotton shoes, added a sweater, then bundled up in the military coat, wrapping himself tight.
Lin Xiaobao hadn’t wanted him getting up, but Big Daddy still needed feeding, and he wasn’t tall enough to reach even with a stool. Dad had to step in.
“Dad, pinky promise: once you deliver Big Daddy’s food, come straight back to bed—immediately, right away, super fast.”
Lin Zao bent down to button the coat. “But Dad still needs to decoct the herbs.”
“Then come back after.”
“Deal. Pinky promise.”
The two headed downstairs.
Sure enough, an identical basin of thin noodles sat on the living room coffee table.
To keep out dust and bugs, Lin Xiaobao had cleverly covered it with an even bigger basin.
“Wow, Little Bao, so thoughtful. Good job.”
“Piece of cake, Dad. No need to worship me too much.”
Lin Xiaobao raised his head proudly and waved a little hand.
Lin Zao smiled, transferred the noodles into a thermos bucket, and headed down to deliver the meal.
Meanwhile.
Fu Cheng stood on the bed in the utility room, reaching to pry off the iron exhaust fan mounted on the wall.
Sunlight arced over his head and vanished completely behind him.
Normally by now, that pretty young man he adored would have come to bring him food.
But today, the young man hadn’t shown up.
He’d waited ages.
He’d heard the kid running up and down stairs, telling someone that his dad was sick.
Sick!
The kid’s dad was sick!
Sick with a burning fever, too weak to get out of bed, sleeping the whole time!
Fu Cheng panicked instantly!
A fierce surge of anxiety, irritation, and unease boiled up from his heart, clenching it tight and driving him mad.
He lunged at the door, shaking the big iron door hard.
But the lock held firm—he couldn’t budge it.
He opened his mouth to speak, to tell the kid to unlock it.
But all that came out was an unintelligible roar.
The kid didn’t understand—in fact, he said, “Big Daddy, are you hungry? Hang on a bit, Dad’s not awake yet.”
He wasn’t hungry! Not at all!
His heart hurt! It hurt so bad he couldn’t breathe!
He roared again, and the kid said, “Big Daddy, you got this! Keep it up!”
Keep it up? Keep what up?
His favorite young man was sick!
He had to get out and see him! Take care of him!
He had to… go keep him company!
The kid ignored him and ran off.
Fu Cheng slammed into the door, yanking with his hands, kicking with his feet, throwing every ounce of brute strength at it to force the iron door open.
But whoever had installed it had made it rock-solid.
After ages of trying, all he’d done was dent the door panel.
The deformation only made the lock clamp tighter.
Unable to open the door, Fu Cheng turned to battering the walls and windows.
He even climbed onto the bed to wrench at the exhaust fan.
He wanted to rip it off and crawl out through the tiny vent.
For some reason, though, before climbing up, he remembered to take off his shoes and set them on the floor.
At some point, a crowd of zombies had gathered below the exhaust fan.
Hearing his pounding on the walls and door, the zombies grew even more frenzied, roaring in excitement.
They howled and cheered, welcoming his arrival.
But Fu Cheng wasn’t trying to escape for their sake.
Irritated, he roared at the wall outside.
—“Roar! Roooar!”
—“Get lost! Scram!”
His bellows drowned out every zombie outside—louder, more piercing, more commanding!
Earth-shaking.
In the next second, every zombie beyond the wall fell silent.
Fu Cheng ignored them, silently repeating “Little Zao” to himself twice in his mind.
Eyes bloodshot, teeth gritted, he gripped the fan blades to tear them loose.
Then his hand slipped on the metal blades—
They sliced through his flesh, carving a deep gash from palm to forearm, down to the bone.
Black blood oozed from the wound, trickling along his palm lines and dripping onto the floor.
The world went utterly still.
Not even the kid’s footsteps sounded.
Right then, a soft click came from behind him.
The window lock unlatched.
Fu Cheng whipped around, too late to hide the wound. With hands full of blood, he lunged forward.
He was here! Finally!
The young man still wore a mask, showing only his round eyes, peering in from the window.
Like an angel descending.
Fu Cheng rushed to the wall, craning his neck. His scarlet eyes locked onto him unblinkingly, drinking him in.
Fu Cheng’s aura was overwhelmingly dominant.
Even though Fu Cheng was below and Lin Zao stood above on a stool, separated by a wall and a window.
Yet Fu Cheng’s gaze bored into Lin Zao like it was solid—turning into hands, claws, ropes, ready to yank him inside.
He’d seize Lin Zao like prey, drag him into his territory.
Guard him like a dog with a bone, a wolf with its kill.
Never let him go again!
In that shared gaze, it was as if Lin Zao peered through Fu Cheng’s eyes into his very thoughts.
Lin Zao raised a hand, pulled off his mask, revealing his deathly pale face, and gave him a gentle, serene smile.
He spoke softly, his voice tender and tone soothing.
“Brother Cheng, I’m fine.”
Just five short words.
And suddenly Fu Cheng felt aggrieved.
His fierce, reddened eyes turned pitiful.
He’s fine.
Then why didn’t he come sooner?
“Why on earth did you let yourself end up like this?”
Fu Cheng stared fixedly at him.
Lin Zao met his gaze, staring right back.
Lin Zao hesitated for a long moment. In the end, though, he closed the window and turned to leave.
Why was he leaving?
Why did he have to go?
Fu Cheng lunged forward, desperate to grab him and pull him back.
A solid wall stood between them, leaving him powerless to do anything.
He wanted to roar, just like he did at those zombies—roaring ferociously, bellowing out commands.
Come back!
But he was afraid of frightening the young man, so he held back, not daring to sound too savage or brutal.
The roar caught in his throat, twisting into a choked, rumbling gurgle.
Little Zao, come back! Come back!
Don’t go! Don’t leave so soon!
Let me look at you just a little longer! Let me talk to you just a bit more!
It wasn’t clear if Lin Zao had heard Fu Cheng’s hoarse cries.
In the next instant, though, Lin Zao returned.
He climbed onto a long bench, slid the window open, and appeared outside it once more.
Tentatively, he reached out his hand, stretching it in from beyond the window.
It turned out he hadn’t left at all—he’d just gone to put on gloves.
He wore two layers: winter wool gloves beneath a pair of fluffy ones.
With the gloves on, he wasn’t afraid anymore.
Not afraid of Fu Cheng biting him.
Lin Zao leaned over the windowsill and extended his hand toward Fu Cheng. The soft, fuzzy glove brushed gently across Fu Cheng’s face.
Fu Cheng froze for a moment. Then he drew back his sharp fangs, tilted his head, and nuzzled his cheek into the young man’s palm.
Docile and obedient, he let down every guard, showing no hint of aggression.
Like a wolf. Like a dog.
Like something tamed.
But it lasted only a second—
Fu Cheng could no longer suppress his bloodthirsty instincts. His mouth cracked open, fangs gleaming as he lunged for the wrist.
Lin Zao jumped in shock. On instinct, he slapped Fu Cheng across the face and even let loose a curse.
“Fu Cheng, you—you—you bastard!”
