The Fake Son Wants to Live [BL]

Chapter 265: Chapter 265 - My brother....

The moment the distant boom echoed through the air—followed by a column of black smoke rising beyond the ridge—his heart stopped cold.

Without thinking, Jian bolted.

He tore through the half-collapsed streets, boots splashing through puddles and cracked asphalt, every breath coming out in panicked bursts. The smell of burning metal thickened the air, and shards of debris still rained down from the sky like dying embers. No... please... please let them be alive...

The fallen Farian ship came into view at last. Smoke and fire roared high into the clouds, painting the morning a grim orange-red. The impact had been devastating—half the ship was torn apart, its tail section broken clean off and lying several kilometers away, flames devouring the once-silver hull. The scent of fuel and charred circuitry filled his nose.

Jian’s chest clenched so tightly it hurt.

He stumbled forward, his boots sinking into ash. No... not again. Not another one of us...

The screams—weak, distant—snapped him back.

He sprinted toward the wreckage and dropped to his knees, yanking away twisted metal and burning wires with his bare hands. The heat seared his skin, but he didn’t care. He could hear faint gasps from beneath the debris, the fragile sound of someone alive.

”Hold on!” he shouted hoarsely, his throat thick with smoke. ”Hold on, I’m coming!”

He pulled, pushed, ripped apart the tangled wreckage with everything he had. His palms bled; sparks burned his clothes, but he kept going. One by one, he dragged survivors out—bloodied, burned, barely conscious.

”Get them clear!” he yelled toward the few others who had arrived. ”Take them away from the fire!”

And then—he froze.

From under a large section of the collapsed outer hull, a single trembling hand reached upward, pale and blood-smeared. The fingers twitched weakly before falling limp.

”Someone’s under there!” Jian’s voice broke as he rushed forward.

He crouched low, bracing his shoulder against the scorching metal. The wreckage was heavy, impossibly so—but he screamed and pushed with all his might. The sound of grinding steel echoed as he managed to lift it just enough. He reached in, grabbing the bloodied arm and hauling the person out.

The man was covered in dust and crimson, his armor shattered, his body limp and slick with blood. Jian dragged him into the light—then froze again.

Golden hair. Even under the soot and golden blood, it gleamed like sunlight. Golden eyes—half-open, hazy—met his own.

Jian’s breath caught.

Those eyes... that face...

”It’s you...” the man whispered weakly, his lips trembling into a faint, delirious smile.

And then his body went slack in Jian’s arms.

Jian just stared, frozen, his whole world spinning. The smoke roared behind him, flames hissed, people shouted—but all he could see was him.

”C–Crown Prince!” a Farian soldier ran up, wide-eyed. ”Move back, Your Highness! We’ll handle this!”

They knelt beside him, hurriedly checking the fallen man’s pulse, calling for medics, wrapping bandages hastily around his wounds. Jian barely noticed them—his own voice came out small, trembling, almost childlike.

”That’s...” He blinked rapidly, shaking his head as though refusing to believe it. ”That’s my brother...”

The soldier stopped for just a second, his eyes flicking between them—the identical golden eyes, the faint resemblance in the shape of their faces.

And as Jian’s trembling hands brushed the blood off that familiar face, his chest tightened until he could barely breathe.

After all this time—after years of separation, pain, and war—the brother he had never met was lying here, broken and bleeding in his arms.

Jian’s lips quivered as he whispered again, barely audible over the crackle of fire—

”My brother...”

The smell of smoke still hung thick in the air when Xing Yu and the others arrived, boots pounding over the cracked earth as the flames from the broken Farian ship flickered behind them.

”Jian!” Xing Yu shouted, voice raw from running. He caught sight of him kneeling in the dirt, cradling the limp, blood-soaked form of the golden-haired man in his arms. The sight made Xing Yu’s stomach twist.

Around them, Farian soldiers—those few who had survived the crash—were frantic. Their armor was scorched and dented, their voices cracked from shouting as they tried to tend to the unconscious man.

”Crown Prince! Wake up—please, wake up!” one soldier cried, clutching the prince’s shoulder and shaking him hard enough that his blood-slicked hair scattered against Jian’s arm. ”Your Highness, open your eyes!”

”Stop!” Xing Yu barked, his voice like thunder—but before he could reach them, Li Wang came rushing forward, panting hard and furious.

”For heaven’s sake—MOVE!” he shouted, shoving the large Farian soldiers aside with surprising strength for his size. ”Why are all you Farians so big and brutish?! The man’s unconscious, not deaf—you’re going to make it worse!”

The soldiers froze, uncertain, but Li Wang didn’t wait for permission. He dropped to his knees beside the injured man, tossing his satchel open with trembling hands. ”Xing, Jian, keep him steady—don’t let his head roll back.”

Jian obeyed instantly, supporting the man’s head carefully on his lap. His hands trembled as he brushed a few golden blood-clotted strands from that familiar long golden hair. The resemblance was undeniable—each feature echoed his own, though older, sharper, touched with the grace of command.

Li Wang’s brow furrowed. ”Back of the head...” He muttered it under his breath, feeling along the prince’s scalp until his fingers found the deep gash just above the base of the skull. Golden blood—so bright and metallic it shimmered—was leaking steadily, coating Li Wang’s hands in a warm, liquid sheen.

He cursed under his breath. ”That’s not good... deep impact, possible concussion.”

He reached for his kit, tore a strip of sterile cloth, and pressed it firmly against the wound. ”Hold him still!”

Xing Yu knelt on the other side, his hand steady on the prince’s shoulder while Jian kept his head lifted. Even through the chaos, Xing Yu’s gaze flicked toward Jian’s face—ashen and trembling, eyes wide with a storm of disbelief and fear.

”Li Wang,” Jian whispered, voice shaking. ”He’s... he’s my brother...”

”I gathered that much,” Li Wang muttered, still working quickly. ”And if you want your brother alive, you’ll both stop talking and hold him still!”

He pulled a vial from his pouch, bit off the cork, and poured a glowing antiseptic liquid over the wound. The golden blood hissed faintly where it met the medicine, releasing a faint, metallic scent.

The Farian soldiers stood back, watching in reverent silence, their eyes darting nervously between the humans and their unconscious prince. One of them clasped his hands together and whispered, ”Please, let him survive... our Crown Prince cannot die here...”

”Quiet,” Xing Yu ordered sharply. ”You’re not helping.”

Li Wang ignored them all. His hands moved fast, precise—threading a needle, stitching the torn flesh with care. Each pull of the thread drew a little gasp from Jian, who could feel every tug like it was through his own skull.

Finally, after what felt like hours but could only have been minutes, Li Wang tied off the last stitch and exhaled hard. His fingers, slick with gold, trembled faintly as he pressed clean gauze over the wound and secured it.

”There,” he muttered, sitting back on his heels. ”The bleeding’s under control. He needs rest, fluids, and for the love of all things divine, someone to not shake him like a rag doll again.”

Jian’s eyes filled with tears of relief as he looked down at his brother’s peaceful, pale face. The golden blood still shimmered faintly where it had splattered across his fingers, glowing in the dying firelight.

”Thank you...” he whispered hoarsely.

Li Wang gave him a short nod, wiping his hands clean on his coat. ”Don’t thank me yet. He’s alive, but fragile. You’ll have to keep him warm and still. No sudden movements, no noise.”

Jian swallowed hard and nodded, brushing his thumb over his brother’s temple. Xing Yu reached out, resting a steadying hand on his shoulder, his voice quiet but firm.

”We’ll get him home,” he said. ”I promise, Jian. Your brother’s going to live.”