The Fake Son Wants to Live [BL]

Chapter 138: Chapter 138 - Tricking a prince

Bian clutched the small pot tightly in his trembling hands, his breath hitching with a twisted mix of fear and excitement. The alien substance inside was thick, sticky, and black—like tar, except it shimmered faintly with violet hues in the light. It pulsed with a strange warmth, as if alive, a heartbeat thrumming through his palms.

The Grayling had given it to him with strict orders: ”Smear it on his wounds. It will bond him to you. He will obey.”

Bian hadn’t questioned it.

How could he?

The Grayling’s voice was sharp, its breath like cold wind across his cheek. It had found him cowering in the ruins, days ago, after the last outpost fell. Everyone he’d known—gone. The rebellion was crushed. The Farian soldiers had retreated, leaving only destruction behind. And in that silence, in that void, the Grayling came. It didn’t kill him. No—it offered him something else. Power. Purpose. A new life.

And all he had to do was betray someone who had already begun to trust him.

He’d thought the blond man was just another Farian foot soldier. Strong, mysterious, and handsome—but nothing more. He hadn’t spoken much. Moved with quiet precision. Fought with controlled violence. A wanderer with sharp eyes and an unreadable face. But now? Prince. A Farian prince. Dican, son of the Third Bloodline. The thought alone made Bian dizzy with anticipation.

He could still hear the Grayling’s words echoing in his mind. ”The prince trusts you. He let you travel with him. He let you close. He will not resist you.”

”Not anymore,” Bian whispered now, eyes glowing with that dangerous glint of greed.

He rushed across the rubble-strewn ground, half-tripping on cracked concrete and twisted metal. The ruined building loomed around him, broken walls casting long shadows. The late afternoon sun filtered in through holes in the ceiling, painting everything in golden, apocalyptic hues. Somewhere far off, a Grayling screeched—a high, keening cry that rattled through the bones. But Bian wasn’t afraid. Not of them. Not now. His mind was laser-focused.

He found the prince lying in a shallow dip between fallen beams and shattered bricks. The man was unconscious, his long limbs splayed like a broken sculpture. His skin, pale under the grime, looked cold. Blood crusted around his temple, his side, and along one thigh where a particularly deep gash glistened.

Bian dropped to his knees, heart thundering.

He hesitated.

Up close, the Farian’s features were even more striking. That golden hair, tousled and messy, framed a sharp jaw and high cheekbones. His lashes were absurdly long. His lips—soft, parted slightly with shallow breaths. A prince. This man could command armies. He could raise cities or burn them down. He had sat at the council table of the Outer Reach. His name—Dican Val Oriun—was whispered like a warning across enemy lines.

And he was just lying here. Vulnerable. Alone.

Bian felt his pulse race. If he smeared the black powder now... the prince would be his. Someone like him, a nobody—rejected by family, abused, overlooked—could finally have power. Respect. Luxury.

He peered at Dican’s exquisite face. Lone blond strands cascaded over his forehead, sticking to his lips.

Bian reached out...

When suddenly—

A hand shot up and grabbed his wrist.

Bian yelped, startled so hard he almost dropped the pot.

The prince’s eyes snapped open—sharp and alert despite the injuries. Dican stared at him, golden eyes narrowed, filled with suspicion and tension.

”What are you doing?” Dican asked, voice hoarse but firm.

Bian’s heart stopped.

His lips flapped uselessly. ”I—I was just trying to... Your hair. It was in your mouth.”

Golden eyes blinked open, dazed and slightly unfocused, locking onto the wide-eyed boy kneeling beside him.

Dican stared up at the flushed human whose face was just inches from his own. The boy’s cheeks were tinged a soft pink, and his lips parted like he’d been caught in the middle of something. His lashes fluttered, and he looked away quickly, but not before Dican saw the guilty glimmer in his eyes.

Dican slowly released his grip. His brows furrowed as he sat up, wincing slightly when a sharp sting bloomed at his side. The injuries hadn’t closed completely.

”How long...” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. ”I slept too long.”

He glanced up at the sky. The sun had shifted its place. He didn’t like how quiet it had become.

Without another word, he rose to his feet with a grunt, scanning the empty surroundings.

”Where’s Xing Yu?” he asked aloud, mostly to himself.

Bian scrambled up after him, clutching something small and hard in his pocket—the pot.

His fingers curled protectively around it, knuckles white, heart thumping like a drumbeat in his chest.

This was bad. Really bad.

The prince was awake now. Sharp, alert, guarded.

He’d missed his chance.

But not all hope is lost, Bian told himself, glancing at Dican’s back with a mix of longing and desperation. He’s still wounded... still vulnerable...

His thoughts twisted like a coil of vines. Dican... wasn’t just a Farian soldier anymore. He was royalty. A prince.

A prince that had shared a blanket with him. A prince that had smiled faintly when Bian fussed over his wounds. A prince that, in one moment of sleep-deprived vulnerability, had let his hand linger on Bian’s shoulder.

Bian’s chest tightened. He should feel guilty. He did feel guilty—just a little.

But not enough to stop.

I could belong to him... he thought. If I make him mine first. If I bind him before he finds Xing Yu...

His heart pounded harder.

If Dican found Xing Yu now, everything would fall apart. Xing Yu was strong. Loyal. Farian. He’d never let Dican fall for someone like Bian.

He’d take him away...

Bian’s eyes darkened with urgency.

No. I won’t let that happen. This is my chance. My only chance.

He followed closely behind, the pot of black powder burning like a secret fire in his pocket.

Dican was moving stiffly, favoring his left leg. His balance wavered as he scaled over a low wall, and for a moment, he stumbled.

Bian darted forward, catching him.

”Careful,” he said quickly. ”You’re still bleeding.”

Dican grunted, but didn’t shake him off. ”I’ll be fine. We need to find cover. And food.”

”I found some sealed rations earlier,” Bian offered, voice a little too eager. ”In a locker under the stairs. We can rest there, just for a little while.”

Dican paused, considering. Then nodded once. ”Fine. Lead the way.”

As they made their way back, Bian’s thoughts swirled faster and darker. The powder. The chance. Alone, in that room beneath the stairs—he could do it. No one would stop him.

He just needed to time it right.

Inside the locker room, the air was still and stale. A few scraps of bedding lay scattered. Rust clung to the corners, and dust coated the shelves. But it was safe. Secluded. Dican sat down with a quiet exhale, leaning his head back against the wall.

Bian crouched beside him, wetting a cloth and dabbing at the blood on his brow. ”You should lie down.”

”I’m not that fragile,” Dican muttered, but he allowed the touch.

”Still.” Bian’s hand trembled slightly as he pressed it to the cut on Dican’s temple. ”You lost a lot of blood.”

He drew in a shaky breath. This is it.

The cloth slipped from his grasp, and he reached for the pot.

His fingers brushed the lid—

”I heard you talking,” Dican said suddenly.

Bian froze. ”Wh-what?”

”Back there,” Dican said, eyes closed. ”When I was unconscious. You were whispering. Saying something.”

”I—uh—” Bian’s voice caught.

Dican’s golden eyes opened, sharp again. ”What did you mean, ’He’ll be mine’?”

Bian’s stomach dropped.

His fingers curled tighter around the pot.