In the faintly antiseptic-scented room, he was devouring fries in large mouthfuls, sitting next to Young Master Heaton, who was propped up in bed.

  He had been chattering about something on his own, laughing heartily, when the fries spilled onto the young master's pristine white bedsheet.

  He remembered the pampered, cleanliness-obsessed young master complaining angrily a few times, but he still hadn't kicked him off the bed.

  The young master's leg was in a heavy cast, his hip bone fixed with surgical pins, unable to move on the bed. Yet, his hand was lightly pinching the hem of Elian's shirt—whether to keep him from falling off the edge or... for some other reason, he didn't know.

  "I still have a question I want to ask you..." Elian began, his voice tinged with a faint choke.

  "About why I signed with you, again?"

  Elian shook his head, lifting his eyes. "I wanted to ask... do you remember me? I mean, from the hospital."

  Vance was silent for a long time before speaking.

  "I never forgot."

  "Then why did you leave without a word back then?"

  Vance's brow furrowed slightly, an indescribable emotion surfacing in his expression. "It was Reggie Heaton. He forcibly transferred me to another hospital and forbade me from contacting anyone."

  He said his father's name, full first and last, even sounding somewhat gnashing his teeth.

  "What? Why would your father restrict you from contacting others?"

  "Because of his damn need for control," Vance said flatly.

  Remembering the scene he'd accidentally witnessed at the stables back then, Elian couldn't help but shiver.

  If it was the old Heaton, everything made sense.

  Thinking about how Vance had now taken over the reins of Heaton Enterprises while the old Heaton had virtually disappeared, he felt there might have been a bloody storm behind it all.

  Or perhaps he was overthinking it, and the old Heaton was just unwell and wanted to retire?

  "But... you didn't look for me either, did you? I checked my messages, my inbox..." Vance's tone actually carried a hint of petulance.

  "I thought you had grown to dislike me... that you'd finally had enough of me constantly bothering you," Elian murmured.

  "I never thought that," Vance averted his gaze.

  "So... so you didn't hate me being with you at the hospital during that time?"

  "When did I ever say I hated it?"

  The young master instinctively retorted with his haughty tone, but the moment he met Elian's gaze—filled with faint hope yet tinged with apprehension—his heart softened as if steeped in warmth.

  A softness mixed with a touch of awkwardness...

  But he knew he had to answer this question seriously.

  "I was... glad it was you by my side back then," Vance's voice softened considerably. "If it weren't for you, perhaps I still wouldn't be walking properly even now."

  "Really?"

  For some reason, the moist look in Elian's eyes reminded him of a small animal, making him want to reach out and ruffle his hair.

  Elian's gaze, turned towards him, was dewy, reminiscent of a little creature peeking out after the rain. Vance's fingers twitched; he almost gave in to the urge to tousle that head of flaxen hair.

  But he restrained himself in the end.

  "Mhm, really."

  After receiving the answer, Elian lowered his head, as if trying hard to suppress something.

  After the accident, the proud young master in his memory would sit by the hospital bed all day, silently staring out the window. When he thought no one was looking, his eyes held an undeniable gloom. Elian had gone to see him time and again, simply hoping to see a light return to those eyes.

  Later, as the young master gradually improved, his attitude towards Elian softened considerably. Elian secretly rejoiced, thinking he was finally getting closer to that distant person.

  So when he returned to the hospital later, only to find an empty bed, he couldn't help but feel disheartened by his own wishful thinking.

  And now, Vance had told him, with his own words: That wasn't the case.

  This made his heart beat with startling clarity.

  "But you were still a jerk," Elian's lips curved upwards as he lightly punched the other's shoulder. "You have no idea how upset I was for so long."

  "If it hadn't been for Reggie Heaton interfering..." Vance paused, as if weighing his words, "...I intended to thank you properly. Perhaps... take you somewhere, give you a proper gift? Hmm... I know you don't care much for those things. What I mean is, I absolutely never disliked you being there."

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  He spoke somewhat haltingly, yet Elian seemed to see again that proud, awkward young master from years past.

  Remembering how someone had initially, with a cold face, chased him out of the hospital room time after time, Elian couldn't help but want to laugh.

  "Vance."

  The other man's fingers trembled slightly, but he didn't stop him from using his given name.

  "Hmm."

  Vance responded in a low voice, his tone somewhat uncomfortable.

  Not the distant "Mr. Heaton," nor "Boss." It was the first time in many years that Elian had addressed him like this.

  "Young Master Vance."

  The guy actually had the nerve to push his luck.

  "Try calling me that one more time, I dare you."

  Elian narrowed his eyes, lowering his head as he laughed softly.

  Moonlight filtered through the glass window, casting a thin layer of silver mist over his flaxen hair.

  Vance watched his profile, suddenly somewhat lost in thought. The lighting wasn't bright, even somewhat harsh. But in this moment, the other's gentle smile made all the surrounding clutter fade into a blurry backdrop.

  Back at the familiar stables, life gradually settled into a steady rhythm.

  Elian finally managed to get some proper sleep and spent considerable time with his horse. Zephyr's condition after the race was better than he'd expected, which was a relief.

  Training during the day, resting at night—a rare sense of tranquility enveloped him.

  A few days later, before dawn had fully broken, a long-distance call pierced the morning quiet.

  The following afternoon, his coach, Jasper Jarel, had rushed over from the Netherlands.

  Elian was already waiting by the arena, obediently dressed in his training gear, like a soldier ready for battle.

  This was their first official training session.

  "Your performance the other day was brilliant," Jasper said. "But if you want to become a true champion, these details need more refinement."

  "I know. A few times, it was just luck getting through," Elian admitted, somewhat embarrassed.

  "Perhaps not luck, but instinct," Jasper's hawk-like gaze swept over him. "But that alone isn't enough. Details are what decide victory or defeat."

  "I understand."

  "Future competitions won't just be about showcasing your talent, but about executing every move flawlessly under the greatest pressure."

  Elian took a deep breath, his gaze gradually sharpening.

  "I'm ready, Coach."

  Training officially began.

  However, what Elian didn't know then was that his declaration, "I'm ready," was essentially signing a pact with hell. The more resolute his answer was, the more he wanted to slap himself with every minute of the training that followed.

  By the seventh day, the usually sunny, optimistic young man had begun to question his life choices, exuding a slightly wilted aura.

  Once the ground poles were set up, Jasper showed no quarter.

  "No."

  The first round had barely ended when the coach's stern voice rang out.

  "What was wrong?" The young man looked back at the poles.

  "Between the third and fourth pole, you were 0.3 seconds early."

  "0.3 seconds?" Elian raised an eyebrow.

  "If you're satisfied with that level, go back to one-star competitions."

  "I'm not—"

  The coach didn't wait for his rebuttal, waving a hand to signal him to go again.

  Elian took a deep breath, gently pulled on the reins to turn the horse back to the starting point.

  In the afternoon, they moved on to bend and turn training. The S-shaped curve was tricky in design, followed immediately by a vertical jump after the second turn. He had less than two seconds to complete the turn, balance his weight, and give the signal to go. For the first two rounds, he cut the turns close, his landing spots perfect, but Jasper was still dissatisfied.

  On the last round, he made minute adjustments to his balance, delayed the turning timing slightly, and used his heels to give subtle rhythm cues. As they went through the bend, the horse's stride landed with extreme precision.

  The sidelines fell silent for a moment.

  "Not bad. You're starting to learn to control your instincts," Jasper said.

  Elian let out a breath, but this was only the beginning of the nightmare.

  After the ground pole training, the young man's legs were no longer his own but two unresponsive pieces of wood.

  "Dismount. Ground training," the coach delivered the cruel command.

  So the young man slid—though he insisted it was a "technical dismount"—off the saddle.

  Then began what felt like the longest twenty sets of weighted lunges and squat jumps of his life.

  Watching from the side, Aria and Timmy felt a headache coming on just looking at him. By the seventeenth set, Elian was swaying unsteadily. Finally, with a muffled groan, he gave out completely, collapsing face-down onto the grass, limbs splayed, as if the world had nothing more to do with him.

  "Elian!" Aria gasped, about to rush forward.

  The young man lay sprawled on the grass, limbs limp, eyes vacant, muttering repeatedly, "I was wrong, Coach... I'll turn over a new leaf, strive for greatness &%#@￥..."

  "He's done for, hit his head and gone daft," Timmy shook his head.

  Then, a familiar soft sound reached his ear, the gentle, steady rhythm of hooves on grass. Followed by a warm breath gently blowing across his forehead.

  With effort, he lifted his head to see Zephyr standing quietly beside him, lowering his head to nuzzle Elian's forehead gently, as if asking, Are you okay? Are you alive?

  "You're laughing at me too, huh... traitor," Elian said with a weak laugh, reaching up with effort to stroke Zephyr's cheek.

  "Alright, that's enough for today," the coach mercifully declared.

  Elian almost cried tears of joy.

  He grabbed his water bottle and headed to the shade of the awning by the arena. The table was already piled with cookies, energy bars, and a plate of cut watermelon someone had brought.

  "Look at this horse, 'Black Lightning,' the hot favorite right now. Its odds are 8 to 1!"

  Timmy was excitedly waving a horse racing betting slip.

  Seeing Timmy's excited state from a distance, the young man knew the guy's gambling itch had flared up again.

  Earlier, Elian had thought Timmy disliked him, but it turned out to be a misunderstanding. Not long after, the seasoned stable hand warmly introduced him to all the staff, and Elian genuinely came to appreciate his straightforward nature.

  Well, except when the guy was gambling.

  "If it wins, drinks are on me tonight until we drop!" Timmy's eyes gleamed.

  "You said that last time, and then what happened?"

  Aria rolled her eyes beside him.

  "This is the horse of destiny, I'm telling you! When the feeling's right, you gotta go all in!" He earnestly thrust the betting slip towards Elian. "Quick, blow on it for some good luck."

  "Are you serious? Shouldn't you ask Coach Jarel then?" Elian arched a brow.

  He glanced at the list of horses and riders and saw a familiar name.

  "Sinak?" His tone held a note of disbelief.

  Sure enough, the rider Timmy wanted to bet on was Sinak, the one who had crashed into him.

  Remembering the moment he was sent blood spraying across the arena, Elian didn't dare recall it a second time.

  He glanced at Timmy's happily analyzing face and merely thought to himself:

  I bless your wager.

  May it rest in peace.

  "Give me the slip."

  Elian took the betting slip and deftly folded it a few times with both hands. Timmy thought he was really going to bless it, until the next second, the paper had been folded into a little airplane.

  Elian gave it a huff of breath and sent the airplane flying forward with a flick of his wrist.

  "Hey! What are you doing with my slip?"

  "It's going to lose money anyway."

  Unexpectedly, the paper airplane traced a graceful arc, flying straight for several meters until it struck the passing Vance Heaton—

  Lodging itself perfectly in the exact center of his tightly furrowed brow.