Fu Songcheng’s fist hovered in midair, his knuckles white from the extreme force.
Against a dead-drunk, completely unconscious man sprawled like a puddle of mud?
Besides—if he threw this punch, half the pain would be shared back onto himself.
Fu Songcheng clenched his back teeth hard, his chest heaving violently a few times, and finally let his hand drop in utter defeat.
With Yu Huaiting, he always felt a deep helplessness.
He kicked an empty bottle lying on the floor aside, resignedly bent down, slid both hands under Yu Huaiting’s armpits, and tried to haul that heavy body up.
“So damn heavy…”
It took him the strength of nine oxen and two tigers just to half-support, half-drag Yu Huaiting up.
He walked to the bar, enduring the bartender’s astonished look, and returned all the unopened hard liquor Yu Huaiting had ordered.
Supporting Yu Huaiting, he staggered out of the tavern. The cold night wind blew, and Fu Songcheng’s reason returned somewhat.
Yu Huaiting’s weight pressed dead against Fu Songcheng’s shoulder, the pungent alcohol fumes drilling straight into his nose.
“I care about you so damn much…”
Yu Huaiting’s hysterical accusation before passing out echoed in Fu Songcheng’s ears like a curse.
Fu Songcheng let out a laugh.
As if responding to Yu Huaiting—or as if talking to himself.
In the end, Fu Songcheng was inherently a man extremely stingy about letting others into his safe zone.
After graduating university, he’d clawed his way through the cruel world alone, grown used to the fickleness of human warmth and mutual deceit, and long since learned to rely only on himself—and believe only in himself.
After entering Death Party, even more so.
He would never forget that first library instance.
In there, he’d witnessed with his own eyes how civilized people, driven by the survival quota, tore off their masks and became beasts with no bottom line, slaughtering one another.
To survive—betrayal, scheming, even shoving companions into the abyss without hesitation.
In the face of life and death, human nature was flimsier than a sheet of soaked paper.
People had harmed him; he too had schemed against others’ lives. In a world like this, how could Fu Songcheng possibly harbor a shred of romantic sentiment?
Yu Huaiting’s temperament was too direct—he did whatever he thought of, consequences and costs be damned. Perhaps his interest in Fu Songcheng was just a passing fancy, like a child spotting a shiny toy.
He had no equality for him, no respect.
Fu Songcheng knew it.
Once they obtained the unbinding item and dissolved the lover identity binding, they’d part ways.
Bridges return to bridges, roads return to roads.
…
It took no small effort to drag the man back to the rest area.
Fu Songcheng stood before Yu Huaiting’s door, cold-faced, and reached out to touch the lock—but couldn’t open Yu Huaiting’s rest room door.
A thought seriously flashed through Fu Songcheng’s mind: hoist Yu Huaiting up and toss him straight through the window into his room.
But he looked down at Yu Huaiting’s solid muscles, then weighed his own stamina.
Forget it.
Fu Songcheng turned around expressionlessly and dragged Yu Huaiting into his own rest room.
Bang.
Without any courtesy—even with a hint of venting—he dumped Yu Huaiting onto the living room sofa.
Yu Huaiting’s body curled aggrievedly on the narrow single sofa, one long leg left dangling half off the ground.
Fu Songcheng didn’t even glance at him. He walked straight into the bathroom.
The warm water washed away the alcohol smell clinging to him. Fu Songcheng changed into clean clothes, walked straight into the bedroom, and collapsed into sleep.
The night was deep.
The rest room was so quiet the only sound was the ticking of the wall clock.
Yu Huaiting was forcibly woken by a burning thirst deep in his throat.
He kept his eyes closed, uncomfortably turning over, nearly rolling off the sofa.
His head pounded like it was splitting.
Dizzily, he propped himself up and, by instinct, groped his way through the dark into the bathroom.
He turned on the shower. Ice-cold water poured over his head, instantly washing away some of the drunkenness.
Hiss—
Yu Huaiting instinctively wiped his face, then suddenly sucked in a sharp breath.
A stinging pain shot through the corner of his mouth.
By the faint motion-sensor light in the bathroom, he lowered his head and only then noticed a large bruise on his forearm too. The slightest touch sent a throbbing ache through it.
“What’s going on…”
As the cold water kept pouring, fragments of memory began flashing through his mind like runaway slides.
The noisy tavern, the grating music.
The red-dress woman who’d fallen into his arms.
The utterly cold face Fu Songcheng wore when he shifted his body away.
“Your business has nothing to do with me.”
Then his own furious punch.
The two rolling on the filthy floor, himself straddling Fu Songcheng, punching again and again.
And his own accusation.
Yu Huaiting’s movements froze completely. He remembered it all.
He’d gotten drunk and hit Fu Songcheng. The pain at the corner of his mouth and on his arm was clearly transmitted through the damage-sharing mechanism!
However hard he’d hit Fu Songcheng then, that’s how much pain he was in now!
Worse still, he jerked his head up and looked around.
He was in Fu Songcheng’s rest room!
Yu Huaiting frantically shut off the water, hastily dried himself, threw on his clothes, and tiptoed out of the bathroom.
The bedroom door wasn’t fully closed, leaving a thin crack.
By the faint sensor light in the living room, Yu Huaiting clearly saw Fu Songcheng lying on the bed.
He was sleeping soundly, his breathing light.
Those eyes that always carried a hint of calculation and cold pride were tightly closed, making him look exceptionally calm and harmless right now.
Yu Huaiting stood by the bed, his face alternating between pale and livid, his expression a spectacular show.
What to do?
When Fu Songcheng wakes up tomorrow morning, he’s definitely going to settle accounts with me.
Even if Fu Songcheng doesn’t hold a grudge about the hitting, that line—”I care about you so damn much”—is enough for Fu Songcheng to mock me as a lunatic for the rest of my life.
My lifetime of glory!
The prestige I carved out with real blades and real blood in instances!
All ruined! All ruined by those few glasses of cheap booze!
Yu Huaiting paced back and forth by the bed like an ant on a hot pan, his mind a tangled mess.
He stopped and stared dead at Fu Songcheng’s sleeping face. An utterly absurd yet tempting thought suddenly popped out of his still-not-fully-sober brain.
Silence the witness.
His hand moved faster than his brain.
Buzz—
A dull, heavy metallic hum exploded in the quiet bedroom as Yu Huaiting pulled his greatsword from the system space.
“What are you doing.”
A cool, wary voice suddenly rang out in the darkness.
Fu Songcheng was a light sleeper to begin with—the instant the greatsword hummed, he snapped his eyes open.
Almost at the same time, he rolled up swiftly, his right hand grabbing at the void.
With a soft swish, an exquisite dagger gleaming with a faint blue chill was already gripped in a reverse hold in his palm.
Fu Songcheng’s muscles were taut, his gaze like an unsheathed blade, fixed dead on the dark figure by the bed.
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