The Fake Son Wants to Live [BL]

Chapter 133: Chapter 133 - Small black pot

Bian silently sobbed, his body still trembling in the unrelenting grip of the grayling. His chest rose and fell in uneven gasps, but the sound of his crying was subdued—barely audible now. He was too afraid to make noise. Too terrified of what the thing might do next.

The grayling’s many eyes glimmered in the dark, its glistening maw twitching as it clicked once... twice... and then spoke again in its broken attempt at human language.

”Human... noisy.”

The tentacle around his midsection squeezed, pressing his ribs so tightly he couldn’t breathe for a moment.

Bian froze, instantly biting into his lip to stifle the next sob that tried to escape. His mouth filled with the faint taste of blood. The pain didn’t matter. Nothing did—not when that monster hovered inches away from his face, eyeing him like he was an insect caught under glass.

He nodded, trembling. His lips quivered, but he forced himself into silence.

The grayling tilted its massive head. Its high maw twitched again. It tried to speak—but this time, all that came out were distorted, clicking sounds that had no meaning. Sharp. Jagged. Alien.

Bian blinked, confused. ”W-What?” he whispered, voice hoarse. ”I... I don’t understand.”

More clicks followed. Then a pause. The tentacle jerked him slightly forward, and Bian’s feet scraped against the rubble. His pulse hammered in his ears.

”Please,” he whimpered, ”I don’t know what you want—what are you saying?!”

More rapid clicking. Garbled sounds like a corrupted recording. The thing was trying to communicate—but it couldn’t. Its attempt at mimicry was deteriorating, the language crumbling into nonsense.

”I—I told you already,” Bian whispered, fresh tears trailing down his cheeks. ”I gave you information. I told you about the prince. What more do you want?”

He sniffled, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. ”Please. I did what you asked. I helped you. Let me go. Please...”

The grayling stared in silence. The pulsing glow beneath its translucent skin flickered slowly, casting faint shadows across Bian’s terrified face.

Still, it said nothing. Only more clicks.

Bian bit back another sob. It was useless. Every word he spoke fell flat. Every plea was swallowed by the night and buried under the monster’s incomprehensible noise.

He felt alone. Utterly helpless.

”I’m scared...” he whispered to no one.

He lowered his head, his body hanging limp in the grip of the alien, tears sliding off his jaw and falling silently into the dust below.

And still—all he could hear were the clicks. The endless, eerie, unfeeling clicks.

Bian winced as a cold, slimy tentacle slid up his face and pressed gently against his forehead. It felt like chilled rubber, wet and pulsating faintly with some inner current. He tried to jerk away, but the grip on his body tightened, immobilizing him.

Suddenly, something shifted.

A low hum vibrated in his skull, a tickling pressure behind his eyes. Then everything became clear now.

The clicks that had sounded like nonsense seconds ago began to form meaning. Words. Sentences. As if a strange translator had activated inside his mind.

”Are you close with that man?” the grayling’s voice now rang clear, its deep, otherworldly tone echoing in his head.

Bian’s breath caught. His wide eyes met the creature’s glistening, black gaze.

That man? The farian?

Panic surged through him. Was this some kind of trap? Were they testing him? Would they kill him if they thought he had gotten too friendly with their enemy?

”N-No!” he rasped, shaking his head quickly. ”No, I’m not close to him at all!”

He denied it immediately.

The grayling narrowed its eyes—if such a creature could even do that. Its long body undulated slowly as it leaned in closer.

Stench of black tar invaded his nostrils. Trembling Bian closed his eyes tight and held his breath.

”You traveled together,” it said, its tone unreadable. ”I watched you both. You were not just strangers. He let you follow him”

Bian’s lips trembled. ”I was just using him for protection, that’s all! I don’t even like him!” he protested. ”I swear, I don’t—he means nothing to me!”

The grayling let out a wet, gurgling sound that might have been disapproval.

”The prince trusts you,” it clicked with emphasis. ”You are close. The blond one—he is Farian royalty. The prince.”

Bian froze.

He blinked once. Twice.

”What?” he whispered, stunned.

The blond man? That guy was a prince?

The pieces slammed into place like a thunderclap. His head spun.

All this time, he thought he’d found just another Farian soldier—a pretty one, yes, but only good for baiting the general. He’d planned to use Dican to climb to the top, to seduce General Xing and secure safety.

But this changed everything.

The general was powerful—but a prince? Royalty? Influence. Wealth. Control. Prestige.

Bian’s heart thudded in his chest like a war drum.

This was better. So much better.

He swallowed, trying to steady his breathing.

The grayling’s tentacle retreated from his forehead. Another one emerged, holding something between its slimy coils.

A small pot. Black. Sealed with a strange organic lid. The creature held it out to him.

”Take this,” it said. ”Black powder. Spread it on the prince’s wounds.”

Bian hesitated, his hand shaking as he reached for the container. ”What... What does it do?”

The grayling’s body coiled closer, voice slithering into his mind like silk.

”It will not kill him,” it said. ”It will make him... malleable. Trusting. Loyal. His thoughts—his feelings—will turn toward you. You will be able to control him.”

Bian’s mouth parted slightly.

Control a prince?

He looked down at the small pot in his palm. It felt heavier than it should’ve. Dangerous. But potent. A seed of power.

A slow, breathless smile curved his lips.

”I’ll do it,” he whispered.

He clutched the pot tightly and nodded, his heart racing. ”I’ll make sure he’s mine.”

The grayling said nothing more. Its tentacles loosened. The air shifted around him.

And Bian, trembling but thrilled, felt the tides of his fate change right in the palm of his hand.