16 To Be or Not to Be Close

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In the dimly lit room, only a faint glow from the window cast a delicate, sheer veil over the man lying on the bed.

Zong Ming had a dream.

In the dream, he traveled back to the moment when he was just writing his story, staring solemnly at the outline in his document, and angrily revising every plot point.

He deleted all the torment inflicted on the protagonist and transformed him into a keyboard maestro, crafting Lu into an alchemist beloved by everyone from birth—gentle, courteous, refined, and scholarly. The once monstrous villain was completely rewritten as a savior. Lu’s companions and friends adored and revered him; he became the light of the continent and even single-handedly resurrected the elf race.

Under everyone’s gaze, Lu naturally ascended to become the Supreme God, practically a living saint who, through charisma and ability, commanded the willing obedience of all.

Zong Ming wrote with great joy, his mood lifting considerably. Just as he was eagerly preparing to admire his masterpiece, he suddenly realized he had been transported into the story he was writing and encountered the Supreme God himself.

And then… Lu destroyed the entire world right before his eyes.

Zong Ming nearly broke out in a cold sweat.

The man, his features blurred in the dream, approached and took Zong Ming’s hand. In a soft voice, tinged with sorrow, he asked:

“Do you want to kill me?”

“No,” Zong Ming replied. “I want to treat you well. I want to make it up to you.”

Something seemed to stir around him—soft yet cold, like chains. Zong Ming bent down and saw Lu truly wrapping him in chains, binding him again and again. The author was stunned; looking up in horror, he caught a faint smile on the man’s face.

That faint smile, though vaguely beautiful, resembled a demon’s grin, radiating a dense aura of malice. Lu reached out to caress Zong Ming’s face and softly said:

“Got you.”

Those four simple words sent a shudder of terror through Zong Ming. He smelled a scent of decay emanating from the man before him—the protagonist loved and worshipped by all.

Something was wrong!

Zong Ming shouted in his heart. He had clearly rewritten all the plots, had done so much, had given Lu the very best the world could offer: unparalleled beauty, unmatched talent, immense power, and everyone’s love and admiration. Yet why had the man before him ended up like this?

Zong Ming could not comprehend. In panic, he tried to stop the man’s movements, desperate to make him cease.

“Why are you doing this?” Zong Ming asked, feeling as if a black mamba had coiled around him, rendering him immobile.

Lu paused, then said, “Because you want to kill me.”

“I… want to kill you?” Zong Ming stopped, disbelief flooding his voice. “How could I want to kill you? I gave you the best of everything.”

So much so that… he had nothing left to give to the protagonist. Lu had obtained the finest things in the world.

“No,” Lu’s voice was low. “You want to kill me. You stripped away my bones, peeled off my skin, replaced all my flesh and blood, erasing me bit by bit.”

“You despised the old protagonist, rejected and violent as he was, so you wanted to remove him,” Lu continued. “You rewrote every plot, created another beloved protagonist, and slowly allowed him to steal everything from me, ultimately replacing me completely, erasing me.”

Lu lowered his head and looked at him. Though his face was indistinct, Zong Ming sensed profound sorrow—the sadness of finally meeting one’s creator after so much, only to have that creator despise him and seek to erase him.

“I didn’t, I didn’t!” Zong Ming said. “I only wanted to treat you well, to change everything…”

Lu quietly gazed at him. After a moment, the man’s demeanor shifted. The gentle aura faded, replaced by malice as Lu grasped his chin and said sharply:

“So, can you answer me one question?”

“Is the person adored by all, bright and gentle, the same as the current me, the ‘Lu’?”

“Are you unwilling to accept the current Lu, or are you… afraid of him?”

Held by Lu’s grip, Zong Ming could only emit trembling, mournful cries, like prey trapped beneath a terrifying beast’s claws. Lu watched him for a moment, then bent down as if to kiss his lips. As he leaned in, the background—previously obscured—was revealed. Zong Ming’s eyes widened as he saw the ruined world behind Lu, devastated and ravaged by his own hand.

“I don’t need those things,” Lu seemed to say, like a stubborn child discarding an adult’s carefully prepared gift, only wanting the toy he desired. “I only need…”

The cold touch hovered near Zong Ming’s lips.

Before it could touch, like a block of ice melting swiftly, the chill seeped into his skin, reaching deep into his bones.

At that moment, Zong Ming’s blood ran cold. His eyelashes trembled, then slowly he opened his golden eyes. A silver streak flashed past him and quickly flew away, hiding hurriedly on the bedside table.

Zong Ming’s eyes widened, momentarily doubting his sight.

Because he saw a young elf standing rigidly behind the alarm clock, every muscle taut.

Almost as if posing as a statue.

Blending seamlessly with the sculpture behind him.

Zong Ming: “…”

Had he been having a nightmare?

He couldn’t quite recall the dream he had just had.

Zong Ming was a bit speechless.

Even Lu himself did not seem to know what he was doing. Noticing Zong Ming’s gaze, the elf’s tendrils remained motionless, and his small eyes resembled green jewels set upon him, radiating pure tranquility.

What are you looking at?

He did nothing—he was just an ornament.

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Zong Ming hesitated a moment, then said, “What are you doing?”

He watched as the elf remained perfectly still, even after being discovered, stubbornly standing there like a contender for the best acting award at the Osma Drama Festival.

Because Lu had broken character.

“You sneaked into my room—what are you up to?” Zong Ming squinted, staring intently. Lu remained silent for a while before finally emerging from behind a vase. In the dim room, the two faced each other silently. Suddenly, Zong Ming lunged forward, grabbing the elf and squeezing him hard.

“I knew you’d never give up your sneaky ways!” Lu emitted an annoyed coo from within Zong Ming’s grip, waving his tendrils against his wrist—not painful, but ticklish.

“Are you still trying to steal my magic blade?” Zong Ming growled, teeth grinding. “Stop pretending! You bastard…”

The elf wriggled free in a flash, darting away. Zong Ming watched him leave, glanced around cautiously, then pulled out his magic blade from under the bed, caressed it, and simply placed it atop the bed, clutching it to his chest like a miner clutching his gold.

Halfway through his flight, Lu suddenly froze midair, spun around, and darted back into Zong Ming’s room within seconds. Before Zong Ming could react, the elf expelled a puff of black mist. Zong Ming’s eyes were not yet open; the next instant, he drifted into a deep, unshakeable sleep.

“Fool,” a pleasant voice echoed in the room. The elf’s form lengthened into a silver-haired man who settled on the bed. He coldly uttered the word—not to Zong Ming, but to himself.

Lu could hardly understand what he had just done.

From birth, he had always prided himself on his cautious and restrained nature. He never panicked at others’ actions, nor lost composure when discovered.

He was often described as cold-blooded, unmoved by countless pleas, as if his blood were ice, without a moment’s hesitation.

Yet just now, in front of Zong Ming, he had done something foolish beyond measure.

He clearly shouldn’t have panicked, nor could he have.

The silver-haired man extended his hand; the pads of his fingers were cool as they pressed softly against Zong Ming’s slightly parted lips—soft to the touch.

His gaze flickered as memories of what had transpired before Zong Ming woke flooded his mind.

He had taken advantage of the other’s sleep to sneak into his room, intending to end the life of this son of his enemy who no longer posed a threat.

He planned to personally break the man’s throat, or gouge out his eyes, disassemble his body into glass jars as trophies, extract the purest elemental power within, and refine him into a magical potion.

Even though Zong Ming was different from the prime minister’s son, even though he had saved him, what did it matter?

No matter his motives or identity, his fate was singular:

To become a material in Lu’s hands, a source ingredient for the potion.

Zong Ming’s elemental power was even purer and more radiant than that of the prime minister’s son.

His talent and abilities far surpassed the other’s. From the moment Lu first saw Zong Ming, he realized they were not the same person; the latter had no right to be compared with him.

A young, self-reliant, extraordinarily gifted sword saint could not be connected with the once inferior weakling.

Zong Ming’s confidence and pride stemmed from his own ability, not from his father’s title.

Even from Lu’s perspective, Zong Ming’s talent and skills were flawless.

Humans had the largest population and greatest reproductive capacity, but also a lower baseline compared to other races. Of course, there were strong humans, but most faced a harsh, prolonged journey from birth to cultivation.

For dragons born as sword saints, humans were extremely frail. Yet compared to proud dragons, elves favored humans more.

As a human, learning alchemy was far from easy. Zong Ming struggled, unable to remember the structure of magic paths, but gradually learned many things despite difficulties.

Lu watched him as one would a gem gradually carved by one’s own hands. Each time Zong Ming achieved something, his slightly proud yet delighted expression made Lu’s fingers twitch with a peculiar itch.

If so, it was better to preserve him now as a treasure.

Lu stared at the sleeping man, thinking Zong Ming could not possibly realize the danger before him or what the elf might do.

A certain excited, uncontrollable emotion took root in Lu’s heart—once a trivial weed not worth attention, but as its roots grew, it absorbed some nutrient and flourished overnight. It spread unchecked, taking over a vast space and demanding more.

Lu watched coldly, aware of the threat, ready to strike.

When his fingers landed on Zong Ming, the sprout quivered slightly, revealing vague, unspeakable thoughts:

…Do you really want to do this?

Lu climbed onto the bed, silently gazing at the man. He stared long enough to confirm his prey was defenseless and careless to the point of pity. Then, cautiously, he extended his hand and pulled him into his embrace.

I will kill him now, then turn him into a potion.

Lu thought as his fingers rested on Zong Ming’s neck. Yet the sleeping man was like a warm puppet, obediently nestled in his arms, long lashes casting neat shadows on his face.

He seemed to have a nightmare or dreamt something terrifying, brows furrowed even in sleep, looking troubled.

Lu’s fingertip pressed against his skin, feeling the pulse beneath, unmoving for a long moment.

“Lu…” the man parted his lips and suddenly struggled softly. Lu’s expression remained blank, watching Zong Ming tremble like a frightened animal, muttering apologies under his breath.

Lu’s eyes flickered.

A moment later, Zong Ming bit his lip, sadness etched on his face, as if trapped in a prison, unable to escape. Sweat began to bead on his forehead, as if confronted with a horrifying scene.

His trembling was almost endearing. Lu reached out to hold him tighter, but suddenly Zong Ming pushed him hard. Still half in a dream, he muttered angrily and growled:

“Woc, don’t kiss me, you bastard! Don’t come near!”

Lu’s face darkened.

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Zong Ming could not push him far. Lu pulled him back into his arms, holding him firmly. This time, no matter how much Zong Ming struggled, he could not escape. Calling Lu’s name, he told him to get lost, accused him of having no conscience, of being shameless.

Lu listened quietly. After a while, he gave a cold snort. Perhaps the sound reached Zong Ming’s ears even in his sleep, for his voice weakened, trembling:

“Please… don’t…”

Zong Ming struggled in his dream but was held fast, nearly despairing.

“I’m a man! Why are you kissing me?”

Lu couldn’t help but pinch his cheek.

In the dream, he cursed and pushed him away.

That was the first mistake.

Claiming to want to kiss him, wanting to hold him and kiss him, and slandering him.

An aggravating offense.

Lu held the man while leisurely watching him, thinking that such a slander was a first for him. Elves loathed humans; how could they do such a thing?

Come to think of it, Zong Ming seemed to have spoken the truth in his dream—he wanted Lu to do this.

But how could Lu possibly do such a thing?

His gaze fell on Zong Ming’s lips. Perhaps from nervousness, the man’s lips were slightly parted, moist with a faint sheen, tender and full, as if made to be kissed.

The handsome, fair-skinned man, held helplessly in his arms, unable to break free or wake from the dream—if he knew he was being so humiliated, he might rage.

But if Lu actually kissed him, the moment Zong Ming awoke he would be terrified by the scene.

Lu would not do that.

The elf’s green eyes scanned him from head to toe. Suddenly, he thought: since Zong Ming was so unwilling, then he would do it—let him wake and see that he could only be held and bullied, unable to struggle. A small lesson.

Lu prepared to lean in.

But his movement suddenly froze.

Why was he doing this? He had come to kill, not to do meaningless things!

He pulled back and placed his hand back on the man’s neck, tightening his grip.

Under pressure, Zong Ming’s breath became uneven, cheeks flushing red with discomfort, and he emitted a muffled groan.

“Stop…” Zong Ming said. “Enough.”

Lu watched this scene. His throat moved once. The next moment, the silver-haired elf pressed down fiercely, like a predator eager to tear its prey’s throat.

At that moment, Zong Ming turned his face slightly, so Lu’s lips landed on his cheek. The man recoiled a little, realizing he was being foolish again.

Had Zong Ming drugged him?

Lu wondered, else why would he lose control repeatedly, failing to kill when it mattered most?

His expression was icy, resolute to act decisively, no more hesitation or delay.

Such hesitation and loss of control were unlike himself.

Lu had had enough.

He grasped the man’s shoulders. Though tall and long-limbed, Zong Ming was still easily manipulated in Lu’s arms. His silver hair fell like silk, forming a cage that imprisoned him. Lu’s hand gripped his waist firmly.

He stared intently at that face, about to kiss him, when a voice suddenly echoed in his mind:

Why are you kissing him?

The man thought: I’ll do as I please.

You are not his partner; you may only kiss your partner. If an elf kisses another, he must take responsibility.

Lu’s mind raced: That’s nonsense. For humans, kissing is a trivial matter; he need not bear any psychological burden.

But you’re an elf; all elves only kiss their partners!

“Shut up!” the man snapped coldly, startling Zong Ming. Held tightly, Zong Ming trembled, like a snake coiled, helpless to resist.

What’s the big deal about a kiss? Kiss or no kiss, so what!

I’ll do as I please!

Under Lu’s rebuke, the noisy voice finally faded, replaced by a soft laugh. The next moment, Lu’s lips pressed down on those tender lips.

Dreaming Zong Ming frowned, as if wanting to curse but unable to speak.

Like blood rushing faster, his entire body radiated an indescribable sense of fulfillment.

Lu sighed softly.

He blinked long lashes, gazed at the man in his arms, held him tightly, and changed angle to kiss again.