Chapter 93: Little Zhen Wakes Up

“Please. Please cry. Please.”

Bai Yue’s voice cracked on the last word, dissolving into a desperate whisper as she stared down at the tiny bundle in her arms.

Zhēn didn’t move.

Her little chest remained still. Her eyes stayed closed. Her perfect, tiny face was peaceful, too peaceful. It made Bai Yue’s chest constrict.

“No,” she breathed. “No, no, no, no, no.”

She pressed her ear against her chest, listening for anything, a heartbeat, a breath, a tiny gurgle of life.

Nothing.

“WAKE UP!” she screamed, her voice shattering the heavy silence of the hut. “WAKE UP, ZHĒN! PLEASE!”

Tears were streaming down her face now, hot and uncontrollable, dripping onto the baby’s still face. She held her tighter, rocking her desperately, as if sheer force of will could jump-start her tiny heart.

“Please, baby. Please. Mama’s here. Mama’s right here. You have to wake up. You have to. Your brothers are waiting for you. Your fathers are waiting. Please. PLEASE.”

Wēn Jìng’s face had gone pale, her usual warmth drained away. She reached out, her hand hovering over the baby, trembling.

“Sometimes,” she whispered, her voice cracking, “sometimes they just need a moment. Sometimes they—”

“It has been too long,” Hán Bīng said quietly. Her voice was flat, but her hands were shaking. The ice queen was trembling. “It has been too long.”

Gū Gū slammed her stick against the floor. “Don’t you DARE say that! Don’t you dare!” But her eyes were wet, and her voice broke on the last word.

Outside the hut, the silence was deafening. The entire Thousand Fang Tribe had gone still. They could feel it, the absence of the cry that should have come.

Zhāo Yàn’s voice cut through the quiet. “What’s happening?! Why isn’t the kit crying?! BAI YUE!”

Hóng Yè, still guarding the door, turned toward the sound of his step-father’s voice. His face was ashen, his usual fierce scowl completely gone, replaced by the terrified expression of a child who didn’t understand what was happening.

“I don’t—” he started, his voice cracking. “I don’t know.”

“LET ME IN!” Han Shān roared. “THAT’S MY KIT! LET ME IN!”

“NO ONE COMES IN!” Gū Gū bellowed back, but her voice wavered. “NOT YET!”

Bai Yue barely heard any of it.

She was in a bubble of silence, alone with her baby, alone with the terrifying stillness of her tiny body.

“Zhēn,” she whispered, her voice breaking into a thousand pieces. “Zhēn, please. Please don’t leave me. I just found you. I just found all of them. Please don’t—” She couldn’t finish. The words choked in her throat.

“You can’t,” she sobbed, pressing her forehead against hers. “You can’t go. I haven’t even seen your eyes yet. I haven’t heard your voice. I haven’t—I haven’t told you how much I love you. How much we all love you. Your father built you a cradle. Your brothers painted it with their paw prints. They’re waiting for you. WE’RE ALL WAITING FOR YOU.”

Hán Bīng moved suddenly. The ice queen crossed the room in two swift steps and knelt beside Bai Yue. Her cool hand covered Bai Yue’s, still holding the baby.

“Let me try,” she said quietly.

Bai Yue looked up at her mother-in-law, barely able to see through her tears.

Hán Bīng’s face was a mask of control, but her eyes were glistening.

“My mother used to say,” Hán Bīng whispered, “that the snow leopard cubs born in the deepest cold sometimes need to be reminded of the warmth.” She reached out, her icy fingers gently stroking the baby’s cheek. “Come back, little one. There is warmth here. So much warmth. Your family is waiting.”

Nothing.

Wēn Jìng moved to Bai Yue’s other side. The warm, chaotic human woman who never stopped talking was silent now, tears streaming down her face as she gently took one of the baby’s tiny hands in hers.

“Yàn Shū was like this,” she whispered. “When he was born. He was so quiet. So still. They…” Her voice broke. “They said he might not make it.”

Bai Yue’s head snapped toward her. “What?”

Wēn Jìng nodded, tears falling freely. “I held him. For hours. I talked to him. I sang to him. I told him about all the wonderful things he would see, all the poems he would write, all the love he would feel. And eventually…” She squeezed the baby’s tiny hand. “Eventually, he cried. He cried and cried and cried, and it was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard.”

“Then sing to him,” Bai Yue begged. “Please. Sing to my baby.”

Wēn Jìng nodded, wiping her tears. She opened her mouth, and a soft, trembling melody emerged. It wasn’t in any language Bai Yue recognized, some ancient lullaby passed down through generations.

The hut was silent except for Wēn Jìng’s song and Bai Yue’s quiet sobs.

Still, the baby didn’t move.

Gū Gū stepped forward. The fierce old woman who had threatened to beat Bai Yue with a stick, who had chased her around trees, who had protected her family with iron will and sharper tongue, she was crying, tears cutting tracks through the wrinkles on her weathered face.

“You listen to me, little one,” Gū Gū said, her voice rough but fierce. “You listen to your grandmothers. You have a family out there that’s been waiting for you. A family that fought through chaos and dragons and monkeys and bears to be together. You have brothers who are going to love you so much it will drive you crazy. You have fathers who are currently losing their minds outside that door because they can’t get to you.” She paused, her voice cracking. “And you have a mother who loves you more than anything in this world or any other. So you WAKE UP. You wake up RIGHT NOW.”

The baby didn’t move.

Bai Yue felt her heart break even more.

She clutched Zhēn to her chest, rocking back and forth, her sobs the only sound in the room.

“Please,” she whispered, over and over. “Please, please, please.”

Outside, she could hear Han Shān’s voice. “Let me in. I need to see my son. I NEED TO SEE THEM.”

Zhāo Yàn was screaming now, words lost in incoherent rage and grief. Yàn Shū was sobbing, his scholar’s composure completely gone.

The snake twins were crying. The panther triplets were wailing. Even Tiě Xióng, the bear king, had gone silent.

The entire tribe held its breath.

And then—

Mew.

It was tiny. Barely audible. The kind of sound a newborn kitten might make.

Bai Yue froze.

Mew.

There it was again. Louder this time. Followed by a tiny wiggle.

Bai Yue looked down.

Zhēn’s eyes were open.

They were the most beautiful shade of amethyst purple, her eyes, staring up at her with that unfocused newborn gaze. Her little mouth opened, and—

“WAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!”

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