The Last Autumn
In a world divided into three genders—Alpha, Beta, and Omega—bonds were eternal. Once an Alpha marked an Omega, they were bound for life. Separation was impossible. The mark carved not just on skin, but on soul.
It was a cold autumn day when the funeral took place. Grey clouds hung low, threatening rain that never quite fell, as if even the sky mourned in silence. The ceremony ended, and Mo was laid to rest. Among the mourners stood Damo Jin—Mo's closest friend for many years. He had rushed back to the country the moment he heard the news. Grief and unanswered questions burned in his chest.
Jin made his way straight to the grand Xu family estate, the home of one of the country's most powerful business families. Mo had been their Omega son-in-law. He and Xiao Xu were married and shared a child.
Jin rang the bell. A stern butler opened the door, his expression tightening at the sight of the visitor.
"Why is Mr. Damo Jin here at this hour?" the butler asked coldly.
"I need to see Xiao. Right now," Jin demanded.
"Master is busy. He cannot receive guests. Please come another time."
Jin pushed past the butler, ignoring his protests. "Busy with what? Xiao didn't even bother showing up at Mo's funeral! I want answers!"
Footsteps echoed from the staircase. A calm, icy voice cut through the tension.
"Why is there so much noise?"
Both men looked up. Xiao Xu descended the stairs, his posture rigid, his eyes cold.
The butler bowed quickly. "This is Damo Jin, the next head of the Damo Group."
Xiao waved the butler away with a sharp gesture.
"Why are you here?" Xiao asked, his tone flat and unfriendly.
Jin's voice trembled with anger and barely contained pain. "I want the truth. How did Mo die?"
Xiao's expression didn't change. "He was too weak. He was ill."
Jin stepped closer, eyes blazing with disbelief. "Tell me the real reason. I deserve to know."
"If you have nothing else to say," Xiao replied coldly, "then get out."
Before Jin could respond, six bodyguards appeared and forcibly escorted him out of the mansion. Once the door slammed shut, Xiao turned and climbed the stairs back to his room.
Inside, the space reeked of stale alcohol. Empty bottles littered the floor. On the bed lay scattered photographs of Mo—some of them together, many of Mo alone, and a few from their wedding day. Xiao sank onto the edge of the bed, his fingers brushing over the images as memories flooded back.
Their marriage had been arranged in the early days of autumn, not born of love but of family obligation and business alliance. Xiao had first laid eyes on Mo on their wedding day. Mo had looked breathtaking in his wedding attire, delicate and beautiful.
The ceremony had gone smoothly, but that night, in the lavish bridal chamber, tension filled the air.
"You are Wing Mo?" Xiao had asked.
"Yes, I am," Mo replied softly.
Xiao's voice had been distant. "You should know I didn't want this marriage. I hope you won't expect anything from it."
Mo had lowered his gaze. "Understood."
"I'll sleep in the guest room," Xiao said, and left without another word.
The following mornings, Xiao would leave for the company before sunrise, skipping breakfast. Mo would come downstairs, quietly ask about him, and accept the answer without complaint. He spent his days in the sunlit painting room, losing himself in colors and brushstrokes.
Xiao's mother visited often. One morning she looked at Mo with a firm but not unkind expression.
"Good. I have many things to attend to. I'll leave now."
That night, they shared the same bed for the first time, though both lay awake. Mo looked peaceful in sleep, almost angelic. Xiao found himself staring, an unfamiliar warmth stirring in his chest. He reached out hesitantly, wanting to touch Mo's face, but pulled back at the last moment.
As time passed, they maintained distance. During Mo's heats, he used suppressants. During Xiao's ruts, he took medication. They spoke little, yet slept in the same room—except during their cycles.
Then came the night that changed everything.
Xiao returned home heavily drunk, his Alpha pheromones raging out of control. When he entered the bedroom, Mo was sitting up in bed, reading. The moment their eyes met, Xiao's pheromones flooded the room. Mo tried to leave, but Xiao pinned him down, driven by instincts he could no longer suppress. He sank his teeth into Mo's neck, marking him forcefully as his Omega.
Mo struggled at first, but soon surrendered, his own pheromones rising to meet Xiao's. They spent the night lost in each other—passionate, raw, and consuming.
The next morning, Xiao woke with Mo still in his arms, the Omega's body covered in kiss marks and love bites. The fresh mating mark on Mo's neck pulsed with their new bond. Horror and realization hit Xiao all at once.
He had marked Mo.
When Mo stirred and sat up, rubbing his neck, Xiao looked away, guilt heavy in his voice.
"Mo… I'm sorry. I was drunk. I truly am sorry for what I did last night."
Mo said nothing. He simply rose, gathered his clothes, and walked to the shower, leaving Xiao alone with his regret. They never spoke of that night again.
Because of the mark, suppressants and medicines no longer worked. Their heats and ruts forced them to seek relief in each other, repeating the same passionate nights again and again.
Months later, Mo began showing signs of pregnancy. The doctor confirmed it. Xiao was overjoyed—he had fallen deeply in love with Mo—but fear kept him silent. He pretended to remain cold, terrified of losing the Omega who now carried his child. Still, he cared for Mo quietly, always watching over him without making his feelings obvious.
When the delivery day arrived, Xiao and his mother waited anxiously at the hospital. After what felt like forever, the doctor emerged.
"The child is safe and healthy," the doctor said. "But Mr. Mo lost more blood than expected. This may cause complications for his health in the future. He is unconscious now, but he should wake soon."
Xiao entered the room, heart aching at the sight of Mo lying pale in the bed, a tiny baby boy nestled beside him. He stayed by Mo's side, watching over him until Mo finally opened his eyes.
"How are you feeling?" Xiao asked gently. "Should I call the doctor?"
Mo's voice was weak. "No… I'm fine. Where is my child?"
"Ximo is fine. Don't worry. He's with the nurses."
"Ximo?"
Xiao smiled faintly. "Mother named him. 'Xi' from my name, 'Mo' from yours. If you don't like it, we can change it."
Mo shook his head softly. "No. Ximo is a good name. Mother wanted to call him that for a long time."
They spoke quietly for a while until the doctor asked Xiao to step out.
After Ximo's birth, Mo's health began to decline rapidly. Despite the best doctors and Xiao's constant care, nothing seemed to help. Xiao felt helpless, spending more and more time with Mo and their son, watching the person he loved slip away.
At the end of another autumn, Mo passed away.
His funeral was held with many attendees, but Xiao could not bring himself to face it. He stayed home with little Ximo, drowning his sorrow in alcohol that brought no comfort.
Three days later, Xiao wandered into the painting room where Mo used to spend his days. Canvases filled the space—landscapes, still lifes, and many portraits. In a corner, he found a box. When he opened it, his breath caught.
Inside were dozens of paintings of him—some old, some new. There were also paintings of Ximo, and many of the two of them together. On the back of one, Mo had written a small note in delicate handwriting.
Xiao read it, and a single tear slid down his cheek.
Mo had never hated him. Mo had always hoped they could live happily together.
The realization crushed him. It was too late.
Xiao clutched the painting to his chest, the weight of regret heavier than death itself.
— End —