Chapter 28: Dionysus (8)
8:00 PM, a bustling district in the Western Capital. Without any passerby reporting it, the omnipresent surveillance “smart eyes” had already summoned the security police.
What had just exploded wasn’t a bomb. Given the capital’s stringent security checks, no kind of bomb could possibly get through.
It was a highly explosive gas temporarily sealed inside a soda can, ignited in a special way to create a bluff explosion before quickly dying out, causing no casualties.
When the police arrived to investigate the scene, Wen Mingwei had already left with Tan Zhao.
His subordinates handled the aftermath: dealing with the authorities, determining the release point of the can, and tracking suspicious individuals. All arranged by Gu Jing, so Wen Mingwei didn’t need to utter a word.
Gu Jing communicated with his team while driving, escorting Wen Mingwei and Tan Zhao home.
No one had anticipated that tonight’s meeting would end like this.
Just now, Tan Zhao had seen clearly the unusual expression on Wen Mingwei’s face—a brief moment of confusion and shock mingled with anger, a rare crack in the smile he always wore, revealing a side of him seldom seen.
It was only natural; anyone attacked would be upset.
But Tan Zhao had never witnessed this side of Wen Mingwei before. Even though it lasted only seconds before he regained composure, it was impossible not to take notice.
More than that, Wen Mingwei’s odd behavior seemed less due to the attack and more because of the note.
“What does ‘mwm’ mean?”
Tan Zhao keenly grasped the core issue: “Does it have anything to do with the ‘z’ in that photo?”
Upon hearing this, Wen Mingwei relaxed his posture, leaning sideways against Tan Zhao’s shoulder like a weary cat craving affection.
This rare vulnerability naturally prompted Tan Zhao to pull him close, his affection rising as he kissed the crown of Wen Mingwei’s head.
“Explain, Wen Mingwei.”
“...”
“I’m not just your boyfriend now; I’m your ally.”
Wen Mingwei was silent for a moment, then suddenly opened his palm and traced a few letters on it: “wmw, z, one for me, one for you.”
“That simple? What’s so mysterious about such an abbreviation?”
“...Who knows.”
Wen Mingwei whispered, “They targeted us. Their purpose is unclear. There will be a third time.”
“Are you sure it’s not Zheng He?”
“Most likely not.”
“Any other enemies?”
“Many.” Wen Mingwei listed them like cherished memories. “Just old enemies from Xinzhou—gangs I dismantled are too many to count on one hand; there are internal rivals from when I fought my own second brother’s followers; later, when I helped Zhou Jiwen rise, I made more political enemies than just the marshal.”
“...”
“But none of them are formidable enough; few dare approach me openly.”
Wen Mingwei refrained from elaborating—the most important being none of these people could know the secret he shared with Jian Qingzheng.
Years ago, on his birthday, he made a wish: to become a bird and soar ever higher.
Jian Qingzheng hoped for this wish even more. Later, hearing somewhere that a spoken wish loses its power, he superstitiously asked Wen Mingwei never to mention it again and promised not to bring it up himself in any circumstance.
Year after year, they silently repeated this wish in their hearts until Wen Mingwei suddenly lost the person who once wished alongside him—someone who had, in truth, flown to the highest unreachable sky.
He trusted Jian Qingzheng kept his promise, never telling anyone.
Even the reversed letter code was part of their wish.
Back then, young and unsure if he would ever succeed, Wen Mingwei sometimes felt hopeless and thought it would be better to escape—far away from all the pain, to a place unknown, living freely for the rest of his life.
At those times, Jian Qingzheng would join him in imagining what they’d do after escaping.
“I want to be a ghostlike assassin,” Jian Qingzheng said, “traveling the world under a codename, no one knowing my real name or face, and my codename striking terror into all who hear it.”
Wen Mingwei was speechless. “You think this is a movie?”
“It’s cool,” Jian Qingzheng replied. “Help me think of a codename, then?”
“How about ‘z’?” Wen Mingwei half-heartedly answered. “Simple, clear, connected to you, but no one else would recognize.”
“And you? ‘w’?”
“All one letter, so others know we’re a team.”
“Then three letters: wmw.”
“...You might as well just give my ID number.”
“Reversed, it’s mwm.”
“...”
So childish.
Wen Mingwei mocked inwardly but knew Jian Qingzheng said these things just to cheer him up.
He had wondered if maybe Jian Qingzheng was still alive, that death was a conspiracy, a truth unknown to him—that person had only temporarily left, still existing somewhere in the world, waiting for him to find out.
But this fantasy had no basis—it was pure self-comfort born of his inability to accept reality in his pain.
Then he investigated.
From doctors who tried to save Jian Qingzheng, to mortuary staff, to the marshal, to Jian Xinning, to everyone who had contact with Jian Qingzheng’s body—hoping someone had tampered with the process to save him and switch the corpse with a fake.
Unfortunately, no.
No one knew better than Wen Mingwei: Jian Qingzheng was dead.
Dead is dead.
The man who used to joke and comfort him had become a corpse, cold in a coffin. He couldn’t bear to cremate him, sealing the coffin by hand, then opening and closing it repeatedly as if the man could come back to life, until finally accepting reality and burying him.
Wen Mingwei rarely dared to recall the burial scene.
When a person dies, and you touch their corpse, realizing they can no longer breathe or speak, that life has become a cold mass, all the past vanished—that their existence has ended—it’s natural to question: what is the meaning of existence?
No matter how they lived, ultimately, they dissipate, they end, just a speck of dust in the universe.
From that moment, Wen Mingwei felt that the dead were just matter, and the living no different.
The body is merely a shell for the soul; the soul is but an intangible magnetic field.
The true “self” seems hidden between body and soul, in a seam invisible to light, peering out to examine his body and soul, intending to dissect the body, see through the soul, and find his true place.
But the more he searched, the more alienated he became.
Sometimes, he felt there was no difference between living and dead—only that consciousness was switched on or off.
From a god’s perspective, whether on or off, this mass of matter remained unchanged; its existence conserved.
Thinking this brought no pain, just emptiness.
Emptiness is harder to endure than pain.
So he often wished he loved Jian Qingzheng more, to make the pain of love more vivid. Unfortunately, the more he thought this way, the less pure his love became, as if it turned into a tool against the void.
“Hey.”
Suddenly, he was pushed.
“What are you daydreaming about?” Tan Zhao looked down at him. “Weren’t you just talking about enemies? Did something come to mind?”
“...”
He heard Tan Zhao’s words, but his consciousness hadn’t fully returned; the sound slipped into his ear and vanished, leaving no trace.
Wen Mingwei silently gazed at Tan Zhao in the dim car. The sharp angles of his face were softened by shadow, his blurred outline more closely resembling the dead man in his memory.
As if that cold mass of matter had come back to life, reborn with vitality.
Wen Mingwei suddenly changed position, pressing down on Tan Zhao.
Without a word, he kissed Tan Zhao’s lips.
“...What are you doing?”
Tan Zhao muttered strangely, lips parting, only for Wen Mingwei’s tongue to slide in, taking control and pressing him deep into the seat for a fierce kiss.
His posture was commanding, yet the aura he radiated was an unhidden longing, making him seem vulnerable, completely subject to Tan Zhao’s will.
After a brief pause, Tan Zhao obeyed instinct, molding Wen Mingwei into a form he liked, wrapping him in his arms and tugging his hair as they kissed.
Tan Zhao’s pull was gentle, but Wen Mingwei couldn’t break free; the roots of his hair tingled under the touch, and he couldn’t help but say, “Harder.”
“Harder?”
“...”
“So you have this kind of fetish?”
“No,” Wen Mingwei suddenly bit his lip, causing Tan Zhao to hiss in pain as blood flowed, which Wen Mingwei then sucked and swallowed.
“...”
The car still moved forward. Gu Jing, who had been intermittently communicating with his team, had fallen silent, considerate enough to lower the partition so they could be alone.
The bloody kiss quickly escalated beyond mere kissing. At some point, Tan Zhao lifted Wen Mingwei onto his lap, pressing him from beneath, their entwined faces hidden by flowing hair, heavy breaths escaping through the strands.
He felt no shame for his desire for Tan Zhao, as if drawing life from him. Kissing alone was not enough; he pressed Tan Zhao’s side neck, caressing his carotid artery, then slid fingers into his collar to undo hindering buttons, touching the warm, healthy body beneath.
Tan Zhao shuddered, clutching Wen Mingwei’s waist tightly. Before they could go further, the car suddenly stopped.
Wen Mingwei glanced out the window—they had arrived home.
But he didn’t want to stop, and Tan Zhao was in no mood to either.
They kissed in place for several seconds before Tan Zhao suddenly opened the car door. Still tangled, he lifted Wen Mingwei in a bridal carry—just like last time—carrying him upstairs and closing the bedroom door.
“—You’re utterly unreliable.”
The young master feigned calm as he set Wen Mingwei down. “We were in the middle of serious business, and you just throw a tantrum. How can our partnership win anyone? I think we’re doomed.”
Wen Mingwei ignored his words, only asking, “Do you want to?”
“...”
Though phrased as a question, it left no room for refusal. Tan Zhao’s clothes were barely undone before Wen Mingwei grabbed his collar, pressing him to the bed and regaining the dominant position from the car.
A sheen of sweat appeared on Wen Mingwei’s pale back as several strands of his long hair clung there, only to be brushed away by him.
“Wait, do you have one?” Tan Zhao asked politely.
Wen Mingwei responded after a moment: “No.”
“...Buy some?”
“No need. We don’t have to use protection.”