The Fake Son Wants to Live [BL]

Chapter 234: Chapter 234 - Sneaking in

On the same time, lightyears away from the wrecked Farians drifting silently above the devouring planet, Jian stood before a different kind of monster.

The Wang Mansion loomed above them like a fortress, its stone walls tall and imposing, lined with discreet sensors and auto-tracking security lights. Every window reflected the warm evening sun in gleaming defiance, but beneath the polished surface, the place exuded menace—like the house itself knew it was home to terrible secrets.

Jian’s hand curled into a fist at his side.

”We shouldn’t waste time,” he muttered, eyes narrowed at the entrance. ”He’s here. I know he is.”

Beside him, Xing Yu’s arm shot out and gently pulled him back by the shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. Jian turned, tense, but before he could argue, the older man pulled him into a firm hug. Jian’s cheek pressed briefly against Xing’s shoulder, the scent of soil and pine sharp on him.

”Let’s not be reckless,” Xing murmured near his ear. ”I’ll go first.”

Jian stiffened slightly. ”Why?”

Xing pulled back, offering a soft smile. ”Wang Bushen knows me. I’ll pretend I’ve come to ask for amnesty. He’ll believe it if I look broken enough. Long as I stay out of his labs, he won’t be suspicious.”

”But you barely look like someone who needs protection,” Jian pointed out with a slight frown, eyes trailing down to Xing’s sleek, form-fitting Farian combat suit—clean, unmarred, and obviously foreign.

Realizing this, Xing Yu chuckled and shook his head. ”Fair enough.”

He stepped to the side of the van they’d taken and rifled through a duffel bag they’d swiped from a rural supply store days earlier. From within, he pulled out a plain long-sleeved t-shirt—gray and faded—and a pair of worn cargo pants. He stripped off his Farian armor top and slipped the cotton fabric over his torso, adjusting it around his neck and pulling the sleeves low enough to cover the telltale scars of sub-dermal implants.

Jian watched quietly as Xing dabbed mud from the roadside onto his hands, smearing streaks across his cheeks and the corners of his lips. He even tore a few holes into the hem of his shirt, making it look as though he’d been on the run for weeks.

Finally, Xing reached for a small shard of glass from the gravel path and carefully dragged it against his palm. Blood welled instantly, and he smeared it along his collarbone and side. ”There,” he said with a faint grimace. ”I look like I’ve been beaten and abandoned.”

Jian stepped closer, his brows still knit in concern. ”Why go through all that trouble? You could just sneak in with me.”

But Xing shook his head. ”If you go in first, they’ll lock the place down. If I go in, I can scout the layout. Maybe even lower their defenses from inside. You and the others take the rear, like we planned.”

He paused, gaze fixing on Jian with intensity.

”And don’t underestimate that human. Wang Bushen’s been experimenting on our kind for years. If he’s managed to extract Farian weapon blueprints, he might already have pulse cannons or even a condensed void unit. He won’t need soldiers. Just the right trigger.”

Jian swallowed hard, lips pressing into a tight line.

”I’ll be careful,” he said at last. ”But don’t get caught.”

Xing reached forward, brushing a bit of mud from Jian’s jaw, and gave a wry smile. ”I never do.”

Then he turned and started walking toward the front gate, his pace slow, his posture bent slightly—not from real weakness, but from the illusion of it.

Jian watched him go until the older man disappeared around the hedges, heart pounding harder than he expected.

Xing Yu approached the towering front gate with the dignified bearing of someone born above trouble, even as his clothes were smeared in dirt and blood. The illusion of desperation clung to him in every stain and carefully loosened thread, but beneath it—beneath the drooped shoulders and slow gait—was a spine of cold steel.

The moment he reached the sensor panel, a small camera above the gate turned with a faint whir, focusing on his face. Red light scanned down his figure.

Xing looked up and met the camera’s lens with bored patience, his features drawn but composed. He didn’t shift nervously or plead. He simply waited.

Seconds passed.

Then a voice crackled from the intercom. ”State your name.”

”Xing Yu,” he said, his tone clipped, his Farian accent softened into a more local cadence. ”Tell Wang Bushen I’ve come to offer information.”

A pause. Then a soft scoff from the other end. ”You’re not on the scheduled guest list.”

”I wouldn’t be,” Xing replied coolly. ”This isn’t a social visit.”

His voice held the same edge one might use to dismiss poor wine at a noble banquet. There was no arrogance—only certainty that his presence warranted attention.

The guard muttered something unintelligible, then added, ”Wait.”

Xing heard a quiet string of muffled voices, overlapping transmissions, security protocols being bypassed, someone on the other end growing increasingly agitated. Another voice interjected, calmer—familiar, likely Wang’s steward.

Then silence.

And finally, click—the magnetic lock released with a deep thunk, and the massive wrought-iron gates groaned open.

”Proceed,” the voice said, more cautious now. ”You’ll be searched at the doors.”

Xing offered the camera the faintest nod of approval—no gratitude, only acknowledgment—and stepped forward.

The gates opened fully, revealing the inner garden.

The contrast was jarring.

Beyond the austere iron was a palace of carefully cultivated beauty. The walkway ahead stretched in perfect symmetry, paved with cream-colored stone that glinted in the dying sunlight. On either side, towering trees stood in trimmed formation, their trunks painted white at the base like disciplined sentries. Roses bloomed in manicured hedges, perfumed and indulgent. Marble statues, each more grotesque than the last, lined the path—human torsos twisted into vines, children with eyeless faces, Farian-like figures kneeling in agony.

Xing’s lips twitched slightly, but he said nothing. He walked with slow, steady steps, each one calculated, his hand resting casually at his side—not close enough to his hidden blade to alert, but not far enough to miss it if needed.

He had been here before.

Wang Bushen had entertained diplomats once—back when he played the part of a benevolent industrialist. Xing had walked these very paths in polished boots and a collared coat, sipping tea served in china painted with cranes. Now he returned in disguise, coated in grime, to kneel in front of the same monster he once rejected.

He did not intend to kneel.

As he approached the mansion’s main doors—two grand panels of blackened wood engraved with curling vines and Farian glyphs—he felt the hum of concealed scanners pass over him again. A hidden turret above the threshold whirred, powered down, and folded itself back into the masonry.

The doors opened.

Two guards in tight-fitted gray suits waited beyond. One held a scanning rod. The other had cuffs.

”Standard procedure,” the one on the right muttered, gesturing for Xing to lift his arms.

He did so without resistance, letting them pass the rod across his limbs. It beeped twice over his hip—where he kept the implant—before flashing green. One of the guards raised an eyebrow.

”No weapon?”

”No,” Xing said quietly.

They exchanged a look but said nothing further. No cuffs. Just a nod toward the foyer.

Xing stepped inside.

The mansion’s interior was more obscene than he remembered. Gilded stairs split in a double helix toward the upper floors. Massive oil paintings hung on every wall—each depicting scenes of conquest. A Farian female in chains. A human man holding a blaster over a kneeling alien. Scenes painted with elegance and rot.

He took a breath, slow and careful.

The house still smelled like cedar and jasmine oil. And power.

A steward approached, tall and gaunt, hands clasped behind his back.

”Wang Bushen will see you,” he said. ”This way.”

Xing followed without a word.

But as he ascended the steps, his mind sharpened. Every hallway turn, every blinking security node, every guard placement—he noted them all with surgical precision.

******

The moment the gate clicked open and Xing Yu stepped through, Jian tilted his head, catching the faint signal they had all been waiting for—subtle, deliberate, like a thread tugged once on a quiet web.

He turned his eyes to Varon and gave a small nod.

Varon, ever the silent blade in shadows, adjusted the weight of the rifle slung beneath his jacket and leaned in close. ”That’s our cue.”

From the bushes behind the mansion’s east wall, they began moving—low, swift, and in perfect formation.

Jian took the lead, crouched low, eyes scanning the garden perimeter. The estate’s rear was less ornate than the front but just as heavily guarded. Here, the hedges grew wilder and thicker, with creeping vines that masked motion detectors embedded in the soil.

Trailing behind them, Li Wang muttered nervously to himself, one hand constantly adjusting his cracked glasses, the other fidgeting at the hem of his coat. ”This... this is a bad idea,” he whispered for the third time. ”He ... Wang bushen is dangerous!”