Far from the imposing, fear-laden walls of the Min Imperial Palace, in the more Spartan, yet oddly comforting, atmosphere of the Sheng Military Household, Xie Anzhen found himself embarking on an entirely new, bewildering chapter of his life. The day after Sheng Chenyu's shocking declaration at the Prime Minister's banquet, Anzhen awoke in a soft bed, in a simple, well-maintained room in the Sheng compound, a stark contrast to the opulent, yet stifling, chambers of his father's residence.
General Sheng Wufan, a man of few words but immense presence, had ensured Anzhen's immediate safety. While Prime Minister Xie Zhaokun fumed and plotted his retaliation, General Sheng had formally declared Anzhen under his direct protection, citing an ancient, unspoken pact between their families and subtly hinting at Minister Liu's unsavory reputation which had brought shame upon the Prime Minister's own house. The court, still reeling from Yulin's violence, seemed hesitant to challenge another powerful Alpha, especially one as revered and disciplined as General Sheng.
Anzhen, though grateful for the deliverance, felt like a bewildered bird thrust into a hawk's nest. The Sheng Household was a world away from the intellectual quietude he craved. The air hummed with disciplined energy, the sounds of swords clashing in practice yards, the shouts of drills, the scent of leather and steel. This was a realm of brute strength, of martial prowess, of Alpha dominance. Anzhen, a gentle scholar, felt utterly out of place.
His days, once filled with scrolls and poetry, were now dictated by Chenyu. Sheng Chenyu, despite being only six, was an omnipresent force. His protective nature, once a raw, untamed display of violence, was now constantly on display, fiercely possessive and unwavering. He was everywhere Anzhen went – from the training grounds, where he watched with an intense gaze, to the dining hall, where he insisted Anzhen sit beside him, glaring at anyone who dared to glance at Anzhen with too much interest.
"This is your training," Chenyu declared one morning, pulling Anzhen to a secluded courtyard where wooden dummies stood at attention. Anzhen, bewildered, protested, "But I am a scholar! I have no need for... for this."
Chenyu merely fixed him with an unwavering stare. "You are mine. I protect what is mine. You must learn to protect yourself, even if only a little." He then proceeded to demonstrate basic stances, simple blocks, and disarming techniques, his movements precise and powerful, far beyond his age. Anzhen, clumsy and hesitant, struggled. But Chenyu was endlessly patient, correcting his posture, guiding his hands, his small fingers firm on Anzhen's wrist. It was a bizarre, almost comical sight, a six-year-old teaching an eight-year-old self-defense, yet there was an undeniable seriousness to Chenyu's intent.
Anzhen struggled to reconcile his gentle scholar's nature with Chenyu's fierce, possessive demeanor. Chenyu was often gruff, his words direct and without embellishment. He rarely offered praise, but his silent presence, his unwavering vigilance, spoke volumes. He would sometimes simply sit beside Anzhen as Anzhen read, his intense gaze fixed on the scroll, absorbing the knowledge through sheer proximity, his presence a silent comfort.
Yet, in these quiet moments, Anzhen began to glimpse another side of Chenyu. One evening, Anzhen was meticulously copying ancient texts in the study, his calligraphy precise and flowing. Chenyu, who usually preferred to watch martial drills, sat quietly beside him, intently observing Anzhen's movements. Anzhen looked up, surprised. "Do you understand this?" he asked, pointing to the complex characters. Chenyu nodded, his brow furrowed in concentration. "It's about strategy. About deception. You are good at it." It wasn't a compliment, but an observation, revealing Chenyu's surprising intellect and his appreciation for Anzhen's scholarly skills.
Another time, during a rare moment of shared leisure, Anzhen found Chenyu meticulously polishing his father's ceremonial armor. Chenyu's movements were careful, almost tender, revealing a deep respect for his lineage and the discipline of his martial family. He looked up at Anzhen, a fleeting, almost shy smile touching his lips, a rare glimpse of vulnerability. "It's about duty," he murmured, his gaze distant. "Protecting the weak. Protecting what is ours." He didn't elaborate, but Anzhen understood. Chenyu's fierceness wasn't just about aggression; it was rooted in a profound sense of responsibility, a desire to safeguard those he deemed under his care.
Anzhen, observing Chenyu's unwavering dedication, his relentless training, and his absolute commitment to his role as a protector, found himself slowly, hesitantly, accepting this new reality. Chenyu might be wild, unpredictable, and possessive, but he was also undeniably loyal. He was the complete antithesis of Anzhen's own father, the calculating and distant Prime Minister, and his cruel half-siblings. Chenyu saw him not as a weakness to be exploited, but as something precious to be guarded. He didn't mock Anzhen's scholarly pursuits; he observed them with a quiet curiosity.
Anzhen, witnessing Chenyu's dedication to training and protecting him, began to wonder if this fierce protector might truly be the one to finally make him feel safe. He had longed for peace, for a quiet haven. Now, he found himself protected by a young dragon, untamed and unpredictable, but whose every action screamed an unwavering declaration: you are mine, and I will keep you safe.
As Anzhen watched Chenyu spar with a wooden dummy, a powerful, determined look on his young face, he felt a strange, unsettling pull, a growing realization that his safety was inextricably bound to this fierce boy, and that this bond might demand more from him than he could ev
Noer imagine.