Chapter 16 The High-Risk Specimen

Chapter 16 The High-Risk Specimen

Jing Rong reached out, gently pressing against his waist, holding him, fingertips brushing through his hair.

He gazed deeply into Jue’s eyes—a blue glacial lake frozen in time.

Jing Rong deflected with an unrelated answer: “In one world, in a certain place, I once encountered a kind of wolf with red fur.”

Jue lay quietly in his arms.

Jing Rong continued, “They were very beautiful wolves, perhaps the most beautiful creatures in the world. And they were gentle by nature, unusually trusting of humans. Many people used all sorts of methods to capture them for their fur, caging them. But they remained docile, never biting anyone—only gnawing at the bars and their own pelts until their blood ran dry.”

Jue’s fingers slipped beneath his collar as he asked softly, “Did you keep one?”

Jing Rong let his fingertips press against his chest and smiled faintly. “I’ve got mine now. And I don’t plan to give it a cage.”

He hadn’t intended to go all the way—Jue’s body hadn’t recovered, and his emotions were in turmoil.

The room was silent. Jue lay in his arms, swathed in his coat.

The two of them clung to each other as closely as possible.

Jue kissed his neck, hesitant, like an injured creature burrowing desperately into someone’s embrace.

Jing Rong lifted his calm eyes. “You can bite harder.”

Jue’s voice trembled. “Gege, you’ll bleed.”

Jing Rong said, “Do it.”

A knife could cut one’s hand—he’d taken in the most beautiful and dangerous person in the world. He didn’t care about the cost.

Then Jing Rong felt a sharp pain in his neck.

Jue bit down silently but fiercely, his body trembling violently, the shaking growing worse.

The air grew scorching with the fluctuations of psychic waves.

626 suddenly appeared. “Sorry to interrupt, but his psychic energy is spiking violently! He’s like a ticking warhead about to go off! Be extremely careful!!”

Jing Rong said, “Understood.”

But he didn’t move. He let Jue sink his teeth into his neck.

Until blood welled up.

Tasting the iron bite, Jue slowly exhaled, the confusion in his eyes fading slightly. He leaned in again to lap at the blood.

Throughout it all, Jing Rong remained completely relaxed, his fingertips still lightly tracing Jue’s bare back.

He heard Jue whisper, “Brother, living is painful.”

Jing Rong gazed at him. “Yes, living is painful. Let it out.”

Jue couldn’t cry. He was used to treating everything—his emotions, his pain—with clinical remove. Because being *SSS-rank* meant bearing the world’s expectations. Including his own.

Later, those people all died. Scattered.

Jue collapsed, pressed into the pillow by Jing Rong, his breathing stuttering with Jing Rong’s movements.

Jing Rong’s expression was calm, but his actions commanded Jue’s every response. When Jue could take no more, he gently embraced him, watching as a single tear finally fell from those blue eyes.

Jue soon regained his composure.

He lay beside Jing Rong, passing a cigarette between them.

“I used to think—since I’m SSS-rank, I could kill every Orc soldier.”

Jing Rong listened quietly.

“But then I realized, that would only ignite an even crueler war. The Orc Empire developed more and more psychic-targeting weapons. More and more people died.”

“I wasn’t a good leader. I spent a long time in the Empire, but the longer I stayed, the more I knew—this wasn’t a war we could win.”

“Our country fell, our homes were destroyed. The Orcs poured everything into war. Only hatred grew.”

“I tried to convince myself to let go of the hatred, but sometimes…”

Jue broke into violent coughing.

Jing Rong took the cigarette from his fingers and finished for him, “Sometimes you can’t.”

His voice soothed every restless strand of psychic energy in the air. “You were a good leader, visionary. Because of you, no one’s suffering on this land was forgotten. The people of Ember Isles are fierce—if the war had continued, they would have been wiped out.”

He had fought in many wars. In distant memories, he had battled ceaselessly through the night, until his bones turned to dust.

But that was all he remembered. Which war, who he fought alongside—all forgotten.

Jue didn’t need any more reasoning. He had simply shouldered too much anguish for too long, and in this world, there was no one who could ease it.

As the cigarette burned out, Jue said hoarsely, “Brother.”

“Have you ever hated anyone?”

Jing Rong shook his head. “No.”

For as long as he could remember, this had been his nature—unchanged, just like his profound face-blindness.

He quietly studied the lashes before him, that serene blue like the depths of an icy plain. He felt his affection and excitement roar like an avalanche across the tundra.

He heard his name called in this world—calm, natural.

“Jue, your enemies are mine.”

*

When the clamor erupted downstairs, Jue had Jing Rong pressed into the headboard, kissing him wildly.

Jing Rong lay beneath him, yielding and at ease, every fingertip relaxed.

Jue murmured against his lips, “We should go see what’s happening.”

But he didn’t move, still staring at Jing Rong. The black-haired, black-eyed youth before him seemed to possess a hypnotic pull, offering him a rapture and comfort he had never known. If gods existed in this world, they must look like this.

Jue whispered, “If I were king, I’d lock you in a palace, never letting you see daylight again.” His eyes were clear, as if this were a calculated decision.

Jing Rong smirked at this bold, borderline reckless wish. "Alright, I'll wait."

The two got dressed and headed downstairs, only to find a frail, wounded Orc soldier pinning the shop owner against a pillar.

"We fought on the front lines, you filthy subhumans! You crippled my leg, left us to die in the snow, and now you dare serve me this garbage even dogs wouldn’t eat?"

The wounded soldier leaned on his crutch, shouting furiously, his face flushed red.

The shop owner remained silent against the wall. Though much taller than the soldier, a livid slap mark bloomed on his cheek. His greasy red hair hung limp, mirroring his hollow stare.

"Forgive me, sir. Supplies are scarce this year. This is all we’ve got."

"Liar! I just saw a gold coin in your pocket—hand it over!"

The shop owner finally moved, shielding his pocket but still speaking meekly. "Sir, my daughter is in the capital’s laboratory. This is her living allowance..."

"Daughter? You have a daughter?"

The soldier’s eyes suddenly turned bloodshot as he roared, "My brothers and sisters were slaughtered by your kind, you filthy bastard! How dare you mention her?"

"I’ll kill every last one of you—you worthless vermin..."

Spitting curses, the soldier yanked out a psi-gun. Just as the barrel was about to press against the shop owner’s forehead, a vise-like grip clamped his wrist, forcing it back inch by inch.

Jing Rong, clenching the cigarette Jue had just lit between his lips, said calmly, "Apologies, but that gold coin was my payment to the shopkeeper. Please stop."

The soldier struggled violently in his rage, but soon froze in terror—his wrist wouldn’t budge.

The young man, dark-haired and dark-eyed, before him seemed unremarkable at first glance, yet carried an aura so predatory it triggered a fight-or-flight response. Veterans knew it on sight—the primal fear of a predator.

"What do you want? You’re Orc-blooded, yet you defend these rats? You—"

"Please, calm down."

Jing Rong met his gaze. Because of his face blindness, he couldn’t quite focus visually, so he softened his voice instead.

A crowd had already gathered—red-haired locals on one side, Orc patrol guards approaching on the other. Violence was about to explode.

"No one here will harm you. You’ve fought for your duty, but these people have also lost family to the war. They’ve endured enough of your rage."

His voice was calm and soothing, diffusing the tension like smoke.

Jing Rong’s dark eyes held only serenity. "You’ve left the battlefield. These wounds won’t follow you anymore."

Under that gaze, the soldier seemed to lose all composure, shaking and sobbing like a child.

Still holding his wrist, Jing Rong turned to the shop owner. "I’m sorry for what you’ve endured. May I hand this man over to the guards? No one’ll come after you, I promise."

The shop owner gaped at him, uncomprehending.

Jue, who had followed Jing Rong downstairs, pushed back his hood, revealing his red hair. Still shell-shocked, he stepped forward and clasped the shop owner’s hand. "You can trust him."

With silent approval from all, Jing Rong guided the soldier toward the patrol.

The guards froze, gaping at him like he’d grown a second head.

They had braced for another bloody conflict—commonplace over the years. The Sin Islanders had butchered their brothers-in-arms, and their own soldiers had abused and looted the townsfolk. Skirmishes broke out like clockwork.

No one wanted to guard this place. The Sin Islanders fought like rabid animals on the battlefield, making them a living nightmare.

But they had never heard words like these before.

626 murmured, "Without you, this’d be a bloodbath."

Jing Rong addressed the patrol. "PTSD. Most never shake it. Take care of him."

"S-sir, but... who..." The guard hesitated. "Just who are you?"

Jing Rong took a drag, his voice easy but ironclad. "What I am isn’t important."

The ghost of a smile touched his lips.

"I’m here to burn this war to the ground."