Chapter 32

The threat from the Federation reconnaissance team was temporarily resolved, but the Iron Throne base had also paid a price—the propulsion system was severely overloaded and needed time to repair, and part of the outer camouflage layer was damaged by the assault boats' fire. After a brief period of excitement, the entire base fell into a more arduous and urgent repair work.

Wen Ling's proposed extreme maneuver plan, while extremely risky, ultimately succeeded, earning him substantial respect from everyone in the base. When Lao Lin was repairing a burned-out thruster, he'd proactively asked him to hand over key tools and briefly explain the emergency procedures for several core components. When Luo Yan drafted new patrol routes, he'd implicitly factor his opinions into consideration.

However, Wen Ling noticed that after the "accident" at the command center that day, Miao Weizhen seemed to be avoiding being alone with him. He still appeared wherever he was needed, issuing orders and checking on progress, but he always brought Luo Yan or someone else with him, and his interactions with Wen Ling were strictly limited to official business. However, the dark smudge in his eyes and his increasingly pale complexion suggested that the crisis and subsequent decision-making had taken a toll on him far more than he appeared to have.

On the morning of the third day, Wen Ling ran into Dr. Case in the corridor on her way to the main control room. The doctor, who always had a smile on his face, now had a frown on his face, holding a physical report in his hand.

"Your Highness," Case stopped him, his tone unusually serious, "If you have the chance, please persuade the Minister to rest for at least six standard hours. His neuralgia index is almost reaching the dangerous threshold. If he continues to hold on like this, the next time he collapses, it might not just be a temporary loss of consciousness."

Wen Ling's heart sank, remembering the icy coldness and uncontrollable trembling when Miao Weizhen grabbed his wrist that day. "He... won't listen to me."

"Maybe not before," Case gave him a meaningful look, "but not now."

Before Wen Ling could fully grasp the implications of these words, a suppressed cough echoed from the main control room. He hurried over to find Miao Weizhen standing before a massive star map, one hand resting on the edge of the console, the other fist clenched to his lips. His shoulders trembled slightly from coughing. He was wearing simple, dark casual clothes, not his usual crisp uniform. This made him look less fierce and more fragile.

Luo Yan stood beside him, reporting, "...the handover team with Councillor Lei Huan is ready and will depart for the 'old place' in one standard hour."

"Is the goods counted correctly?" Miao Weizhen's voice was very hoarse. He suppressed a cough, stood up straight, and glanced at the list.

"Everything has been prepared according to the requirements. They are all batches that have undergone 'special treatment' and are sufficient to cope with routine inspections. The core functions require our keys to activate them." Luo Yan answered in a serious tone.

Wen Ling immediately understood that this was the weapon that Miao Weizhen had promised to give to Lei Huan of the "Star Flame" faction three days ago.

He stepped forward, his eyes fixed on Miao Weizhen's pale face: "Do you need me to participate in this handover?"

Miao Weizhen seemed caught off guard by his sudden appearance. He paused for a moment, barely perceptible, before slowly turning his head. His eyes were weary, yet a complex emotion flickered deep within them. It was as if he hadn't expected Wen Ling to offer to participate in such a murky transaction.

"No need." He looked away, his tone still as cold as usual, but less distant than before. "We need your knowledge to repair the base's propulsion system. Old Lin needs you even more."

This was an explanation, albeit a blunt one. He didn't completely reject Wen Ling's approach, but simply arranged a more "suitable" position for him.

Wen Ling didn't insist. He turned to look at Luo Yan and asked, "Is the handover route confirmed to be safe? Do we need to use the gravitational void principle I discovered last time to create a backup hidden route?"

Luo Yan's mechanical prosthetic eye flickered, as if he was quickly evaluating the proposal, and then he looked at Miao Weizheng.

Miao Weizhen was silent for a moment, and finally turned his gaze to Wen Ling again. This time, he looked at him a little longer, as if evaluating the motives and abilities behind his words.

Finally, he nodded almost imperceptibly: "Okay. Give the plan to Luo Yan."

This is a small concession, but an important signal—

He once again accepted Wen Ling's participation in core affairs.

Luo Yan took the order and left. For the time being, only the two of them were left in the main control room, and the air seemed to become a little sticky.

Miao Weizhen raised his hand and rubbed his stinging temples, a gesture that betrayed the pain he was trying so hard to conceal. He turned and tried to walk towards his lounge, but his steps faltered.

Wen Ling almost subconsciously reached out to hold his arm. Through the thin layer of cloth, he could clearly feel the tension and abnormal temperature of the arm under his hand.

"Let go." Miao Weizhen's voice was low and hoarse, with a barely perceptible hint of embarrassment.

Wen Ling did not let go, but instead held it tighter. He could feel the muscles under his palm stiffen instantly.

"Dr. Case says you need to rest," he said, his voice low but with an undeniable firmness. "At least six standard hours."

Miao Weizhen turned his head sharply to look at him, a hint of anger flashing across his dark brown eyes, but more of a sense of powerlessness after having his weakness seen through: "I'm fine."

"You have something to worry about." Wen Ling looked him straight in the eye, refusing to back down. "If you fall, what will happen to the 'Iron Throne'? What will happen to those who are waiting for your 'delivery'?"

He paused, lowering his voice to a level almost whispering, "...What should I do?"

The last three words tickled Miao Weizhen's frayed nerves like a feather. His pupils shrank as he fixed his gaze on Wen Ling, a gaze that seemed to penetrate his soul. The tension in the air gradually dissipated, replaced by a silent, slowly flowing tension.

After a long moment, Miao Weizhen's tense body relaxed slightly, his forced energy fading like the tide, leaving only bone-deep fatigue. With an extremely subtle, almost imperceptible movement, he inched closer to Wen Ling, transferring some of his weight to the arm that supported him.

"So nagging." He turned his head and whispered these two words, but there was no real annoyance in his tone, instead it sounded like a helpless compromise.

Wen Ling didn't care about his duplicity, but just supported him steadily and walked towards the lounge. This time, Miao Weizhen didn't refuse.

The light in the passage was dim, and their shadows stretched and overlapped on the metal walls. No more words were spoken, but an unprecedented, slow and steady approach was quietly taking place in this silent support.

Wen Ling supported Miao Weizhen and walked through the silent corridor into Miao Weizhen's private lounge. The furnishings here were just like him, simple and cold, with almost no personal belongings. Only the simple alloy photo frame was turned upside down on the bedside table, revealing a hint of unknown warmth.

Wen Ling helped him sit down on the bed, her movements as careful as if they were a fragile treasure. Miao Weizhen didn't resist, but simply closed his eyes. His thick eyelashes cast a faint shadow on his pale face, and the cold sweat on his forehead reflected slightly in the light.

"Where is the medicine Keith gave me?" Wen Ling asked in a low voice, her voice unconsciously becoming very soft.

Miao Weizhen did not open his eyes, but raised his hand weakly and pointed at the drawer of the bedside table, even his fingertips showed fatigue.

Wen Ling opened the drawer, revealing several medications neatly stacked inside. He followed the labels to find the neuroleptic and soothing agent, then went to get a glass of water. When he returned to the bedside, he found Miao Weizhen hunched over slightly, one hand pressing hard against his solar plexus, his knuckles white from the pressure, his breathing slightly rapid, clearly in intense pain.

Wen Ling's heart tightened. He put down the cup of water and medicine, sat down beside the bed, hesitated for a moment, and then reached out and gently placed his hand on Miao Weizhen's solar plexus.

The hand was cold and as hard as stone.

"Let go," Wen Ling's voice was very soft, with a kind of coaxing that he himself was not aware of, "I'll do it."

Miao Weizhen's body stiffened, his tightly closed eyelashes trembling slightly. He didn't immediately comply. That momentary pause seemed to be a silent resistance from his remaining sense of control, a remnant of superiority, to this act of being cared for. However, the pain ultimately overwhelmed everything. His tense fingers slowly and with a hint of reluctance relaxed, finally allowing Wen Ling to gently pull his hand away. The very act carried a sense of helplessness, a surrender of weakness.

Wen Ling's fingertips took his place, pressing Miao Weizhen's temples with moderate pressure. At first, the muscles under his hands were still stiff, but as he patiently and continuously massaged, the tension gradually melted away, and Miao Weizhen's breathing gradually became steady and long, and he even let out a barely audible, comfortable sigh from the depths of his throat.

In the silent room, only the shallow breathing sounds of the two people could be heard.

"Good technique," Miao Weizhen's hoarse voice broke the silence after a long time, with a strong sense of fatigue, but his tone vaguely restored a trace of his usual scrutinizing calmness, as if even in his fragile state, he was still the minister who evaluated everything.

"When I was little, I often helped my mother when she had a headache," Wen Ling explained softly, feeling the pulsation of the blood vessels beneath her skin with her fingertips. "She always said it was more effective than medicine."

Miao Weizhen hummed a light "hmm" and didn't ask any further questions. In this vulnerable moment of letting down one's guard, mentioning family seemed like an unspoken taboo, a silent trust.

Wen Ling's fingertips moved slowly, gently combing his sweat-soaked temples. This gesture was more intimate than pressing the temples, carrying a clear sense of soothing. Miao Weizhen didn't flinch; instead, he seemed soothed by the gentle touch, his brows, which had been slightly furrowed, gradually relaxed.

"That road," Miao Weizhen suddenly whispered, his voice unclear, like a dream, "the road you mentioned...a road that doesn't come at the cost of sacrifice and destruction..."

Wen Ling paused slightly and held his breath.

"...It's difficult," Miao Weizhen continued, his eyes still closed, as if only in the gaps between attempts to fight the pain could he reveal this moment of honesty. He paused, as if gathering his strength, and then slowly, with a tone that bordered on indulgence, yet also hinted at a hint of anticipation he himself hadn't noticed, he added, "...but you can try."

Give it a try and show me what possibilities you can create.

This unfinished statement carries more weight than any direct affirmation. It represents the utmost openness and acquiescence that an elder, experienced in life and accustomed to walking in darkness, can offer to a young man radiating the light of ideals.

"Okay." Wen Ling replied with a single word, his voice firm. He knew this was the best response.

He did not say any more big words, but conveyed his determination with the warmth and strength of his fingertips.

Miao Weizhen seemed to relax completely, his heavy eyelids slowly closing, his breathing becoming even and long. Under the soothing influence of the medication and Wen Ling, he finally drifted off to sleep. Even in his sleep, his posture wasn't entirely relaxed; a lingering heaviness still lingered between his brows, as if even his dreams were burdened by the shackles of reality.

Wen Ling didn't leave immediately. He sat beside the bed, watching Miao Weizhen's sleeping profile. His usual coldness and sharpness had faded, and now he looked unusually calm. His thin lips, often tightly pursed, relaxed slightly, a softer line than when awake. Wen Ling's gaze lingered there, his heartbeat quietly quickening as he recalled the moment they'd almost touched that day.

He carefully stretched out his hand and lightly brushed away the last strand of sweat-soaked black hair on Miao Weizhen's forehead with his fingertips. His movements were so gentle as if he was touching a fragile dream, with cherishment and a hint of cautious temptation unique to budding love.