Muzan: My daughter can't be that weak!

Xue Nai was so frightened that she trembled all over, her small body taking a step back and her back hitting the door frame.

It hurt, but she didn't dare to make a sound.

Tears welled up instantly, swirling in her eyes, but she forcefully held them back.

She told herself not to cry.

My father must be acting this way because he doesn't know who he is. Besides, he's sick, and sick people are always uncomfortable, just like she gets irritable when she has a fever.

She silently defended her father, her little hands unconsciously clenching the hem of her clothes.

Just then, Muzan, who was lying on the tatami mat, suddenly started coughing violently.

The cough was heart-wrenching, as if it were trying to cough up his internal organs. He covered his mouth, his thin shoulders trembling, and a sickly flush rose on his pale face.

After his cough subsided, he lowered his hand, revealing a striking bright red stain on his palm.

blood.

Yukina's eyes widened even more. She had seen blood before, when she accidentally cut her finger or scraped her knee.

But I've never seen so many, so vibrant, coughed up from one person's mouth.

Muzan stared at the blood on his palm, feeling not only disgust but also a deeper fear.

Each cough of blood felt like death whispering a countdown in his ear, and each bout of pain was a reminder that his body was breaking down.

He was twenty years old, and the doctor said he wouldn't live past twenty.

Today is his twentieth birthday.

He hated this body, hated the disease that made him cough up blood, caused him pain, and made it difficult for him to even sit up.

"Damn it..."

He cursed under his breath, his voice hoarse, his fingers clenched tightly in his blood-stained palms, his knuckles turning white.

The commotion outside finally attracted the servants.

A middle-aged maid rushed into the courtyard in a panic. When she saw Yukina standing outside the door, her face turned deathly pale.

"Miss Yukina! What are you doing here?!"

The maid rushed over and reached out to take Yukina away.

The young master hates being disturbed, and he especially hates children. If you anger the young master, the consequences will be unimaginable.

Before she even met her, Xue Nai recalled the servants' private gossip:

"Young Master may not survive this winter..."

"The doctor said I have at most two months left..."

"Poor thing, only twenty years old..."

My father is dying.

She now knows what death means.

If she's taken away this time, she might never see her father again. She might never see those eyes that are exactly like hers again.

No.

Just as the maid's hand was about to touch her, Yukina suddenly turned around and rushed into the room with all her might.

"Miss! No!"

A maid's gasp rang out behind her, but Yukina had already rushed inside. Barefoot, she took a few steps and reached Muzan.

Muzan was looking down at the blood on his palm, still reeling from his cough, when a soft, small body bumped into him.

No, it wasn't a collision.

She gently embraced him.

Yukina stood on tiptoe, her slender arms encircling Muzan, her small face buried in his thin chest.

She could smell a faint medicinal scent, along with a barely perceptible whiff of blood. Her father's body was cold, colder than she had imagined.

"Father..." her voice was muffled, trembling with sobs, "I am Xue Nai... your daughter."

Muzan froze completely.

The warmth of his body seeped through the thin fabric.

It wasn't a comfortable temperature, but a reminder that the warmth of his life was slipping away.

What he found even more unbearable was the vibrant energy emanating from the child.

The rise and fall of breath, the beating of the heart, the warmth of the skin—all these are evidence of being alive.

And he himself is losing all of these little by little.

Jealousy mingled with sharp anger.

He raised his hand, intending to strangle that slender neck.

Why? Why can this child still have body temperature, still run, and still enter his room in such a vibrant state?

"I'm sorry..." Yukina's voice suddenly rang out, very soft, yet like a needle piercing through the anger about to erupt, "I'm sorry, Father... Being sick must be very painful, right?"

Her arms tightened a little more, with a comforting gesture.

"When Yukina is sick, it hurts a lot too. But it feels a little better when Mom holds me." She buried her face deeper. "So... so I want to hug Father too. Maybe... maybe it will feel better?"

Her voice trembled as she said these words.

She was afraid; Muzan could feel her small body trembling slightly, but she didn't let go.

The maid had already rushed to the door. Upon seeing this scene, she was so frightened that she immediately knelt down on the ground: "Young...Young Master, please forgive me! It was my fault for not watching over Miss properly. I will take Miss away right away."

Muzan's raised hand stopped in mid-air, his gaze falling on the top of Yukina's head, then slowly moving down to meet her plum-red eyes.

"Get out of here." His voice was lower and colder than before, less aggressive and more weary.

Yukina's body stiffened, but she didn't let go. She raised her face, her eyes brimming with tears, but stubbornly refused to let them fall.

"I...I just wanted to see Father..." Her voice was soft and tinged with grievance, "Today...today is Father's birthday..."

As she spoke, as if remembering something, she released one hand and took out something wrapped in a handkerchief from her bosom.

"This... is for my father."

She opened the handkerchief, revealing a hydrangea that had wilted slightly, its petals turning a pale yellow at the edges, though its color remained vibrant.

"I picked it in the yard this morning..." Yukina's voice trailed off, tinged with apology, "It was so pretty... but I hid it all day, and now it's not looking so good..."

She held up the flower, looking timidly at Muzan.

Muzan's gaze shifted from her face to the withered flower.

A flower.

Just like his life, it was withering and fading away, and this association made the dull pain in his chest even more acute.

He suddenly waved his hand, knocking the flower away.

The wilted flower traced an arc in the air and landed in the corner of the tatami mat, with a few petals scattered.

Yukina's eyes widened suddenly, and tears finally streamed down her face uncontrollably. But she didn't cry out loud; she just bit her lip, her shoulders trembling slightly.

As Muzan looked at her tears and saw her trying so hard to hold back her sobs, his irritation intensified.

"Get out." He turned his face away, no longer looking at her, his voice icy. "Don't make me say it a second time."

Xue Nai loosened her grip on him and took a step back. She glanced at the fallen flower in the corner, then at her father with his back to her, her eyes filled with hurt and confusion.

The maid quickly crawled over, picked up Yukina, and started to carry her out.

"etc."

Muzan's voice rang out again.

The maid froze in place in fright.

He didn't turn around, but coldly said, "Take the flowers away. They're in the way."

Yukina struggled down from the maid's arms, walked to the corner, carefully picked up the scattered flower, gathered up the fallen petals one by one, and wrapped them back in the handkerchief.

She walked to the door and looked back one last time.

Her father still had his back to her; his thin figure looked particularly lonely and fragile in the dim light.

"Father..." she whispered, "Happy birthday."

After saying that, she followed the maid out of the room, and the paper door was gently closed.

Silence returned to the room.

Muzan remained motionless for a long time, his back to the door. He could hear his own rapid heartbeat, feel the familiar dull pain in his chest, and smell the scent of that child in the air.

There's also the subtle fragrance of hydrangeas.

He sat up abruptly, grabbed the medicine bowl beside him, and smashed it against the wall.

The sound of the porcelain bowl shattering echoed in the room, and brown medicine splattered stains on the paper door.

"Damn it..."

He clutched his aching chest, his crimson eyes churning with anger, and a anger he himself was unwilling to admit—anger at the withered flower and the child with the same eyes.

A brief resonance.