Why are you bullying others?

The room was thick with the heavy scent of blood.
Foul and rank.
Yet strangely invigorating to the body and soul.

The elf had captured a fierce magical beast in the forest. The prey struggled in his grasp, letting out snarls of unwillingness and pain. Its sharp teeth bit into the elf’s hand, clamping down so hard that it nearly pierced the bone.

The elf’s body gave off only a faint fragrance of grass and wood—a breath of the forest, close to nature. Beneath the prey’s dark blue-black fur, layers of blood oozed, nearly slipping from his grasp. He heard a mocking hiss, a whisper that grew louder and clearer:

“What can you possibly do to me?”

That deep, magnetic voice spoke, the magical energy pulsating within the beast’s body, painting a dazzling masterpiece in the elf’s eyes. He was nearly entranced by the vivid scene before him. Magical energy intertwined with the elements, which were laid bare to the elf’s vision. With a grip on the prey’s neck, the elf’s fingers pierced deeply into the bleeding wound. The beast cried out in pain but refused to beg. A warm gush of blood soaked the elf’s sleeve, yet the hand felt oddly warm to him.

Suddenly, the prey bit into the elf’s body and swiftly turned to flee. The elf caught only a fleeting glimpse of golden eyes filled with haughty disdain, as if mocking that he would never be caught.

In the next instant, the elf’s pupils widened dramatically, as if his eyes revealed a bottomless abyss. His aura turned cold, his expression calm, with only a subtle shift in his demeanor. Then, he pinned the wild wolf down. The elegant and handsome elf opened his mouth, revealing rows of fine teeth, and bit deeply into the prey’s vulnerable spot.

Like a vampire, his thin lips touched the bleeding wound, tracing the prey’s injuries as he voraciously swallowed blood and flesh whole, even chewing and swallowing bones. The prey seemed to suffer greatly, finally curling its tail and whimpering. In the elf’s arms, it transformed into a striking young man with blue hair and clear golden eyes. At last, he lowered his gaze and began to plead.

“I’m going to lock you in a cage! Throw you back as a captive.” Even his words of surrender were tinged with defiance, trembling as he burrowed into the elf’s embrace, gritting his teeth: “How dare you bully me—I’ll kill you...”

The man in his arms trembled, filled with fear and anger, terrified that escape was impossible.

Sated from drinking fresh blood, the elf sighed softly.

This seemed to frighten the man, who staggered back only to be held firmly by one hand. He glared at the elf with eyes full of shock and anger. The elf licked the blood from his lips; his pale lips, as if finally soaked with enough blood, deepened in color and curled into a faint smile.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I won’t eat you.”

Gently patting the man’s face, he pulled him closer. The man struggled to break free, but the elf narrowed his eyes, growing impatient. Just as he bit down on the man’s neck again, dawn broke.

The elf and Zong Ming opened their eyes simultaneously.

Zong Ming lay in bed, still shaken.

He had just… seemed to have a nightmare?

His teeth felt weak, and his head throbbed painfully. Everything that had happened in the dream left him feeling unsettled.

Who dreams of being held in the arms of his own son—who appeared terrifying, vampire-like, biting him fiercely?

It was as if he were being devoured alive, consumed by insatiable greed.

This was nothing like the cold, aloof elf he knew.

Zong Ming felt as if he had been harshly bullied in his sleep. His body was fine, but his spirit was drained. Looking at himself in the mirror, his eyes were slightly red, and he felt sluggish all over.

He glanced sideways at the elf, his gaze full of assessment and speculation, but said nothing—just watched.

The elf was selecting alchemical ingredients for him.

Now he took Zong Ming’s potions, slept in his bed, used his belongings. The dirt on his body had long been washed away. His silver hair fell like silk, his eyes a beautiful pale green—so delicate it was startling. The tall elf lowered his head patiently handling the materials, showing no trace of the fierce demon from the dream, but rather the demeanor of a refined scholar.

Every gesture exuded the subtle fragrance of ancient books. Except for the memory of that sinister expression, he was an exceptionally composed alchemist.

Zong Ming sat beside him, taking this opportunity to boss the elf around—ordering him to demonstrate, prepare materials, and tidy up.

He schemed to make the future ruler of the world his servant, fetching tea and water.

Quite wicked.

The cold, distant elf looked up and glanced at him—not displeased or annoyed.

“What do you intend to make?” the elf asked softly, his voice clear and melodious, like a bamboo flute.

The blue-haired man lifted his chin and took the items from the elf’s hands. Zong Ming stretched out his legs, propping his chin on one hand. The golden gleam in his eyes shone brighter than any jewel. The elf’s gaze swept over him casually but lingered on his eyes. The atmosphere between them subtly shifted, though it might have been an illusion.

For some reason, the elf’s attitude toward Zong Ming had improved greatly. A few days ago, the elf would have only given him a cold glare, never such gentleness.

Or perhaps this was how the elf was before his dark transformation?

Mild and warm, speaking neither too fast nor too slow, his gaze clear and sharp. The elf’s body temperature was cold; yet up close, there was only a slight chill, as if softened—but not only in warmth.

Zong Ming looked at him and took the alchemical ingredients, their relationship complicated—master and servant, foe and guard, prisoner and warden, or perhaps mentor and student with a subtle closeness. He felt an unprecedented change in the elf’s attitude but could not find the reason.

Could it be that the protagonist was finally moved by him, that his attitude had truly softened?

Zong Ming felt a surge of excitement but also unease. Still, he pressed on:

“I want to find a way to remove the scars on your face and restore your original appearance. You’ve always been like this.” His gaze swept over the elf’s face, trying to read his expression, but the elf remained composed, looking at him with green eyes:

“Will that be uncomfortable?”

“Why do you want to do that?” the elf countered.

Zong Ming was momentarily caught off guard.

As a fastidious elf race known for their unparalleled beauty, of course he cared about his appearance. The male lead was the continent’s most beautiful person, and in the original story had struggled long to restore his face. Yet now, the elf seemed not in a hurry?

“My appearance,” the elf touched his face and recalled the prime minister’s sudden intrusion during potion-making in the Misty Forest, an accident that left him so deeply scarred. “Even if restored, it seems it would bring you no benefit.”

Of course, because doing this would please you.

Zong Ming thought to himself, though no one knew his true intentions. The man smiled broadly:

“Don’t you want to heal your injuries?”

“Honestly, I’m curious. The legendary elf race—just how beautiful are they?”

The elf narrowed his eyes slightly, but Zong Ming’s were only filled with curiosity, no other emotion.

“They must be the legendary… unmatched beauties,” Zong Ming said. “Moreover, you’ve been hurt and unwell, right?”

The elf opened his mouth, seeming to want to speak, but Zong Ming turned away and sat down. The elf’s eyes flickered, then said:

“If you truly want me to heal, then remove the bindings on me.”

The handsome man lifted his face and raised an eyebrow, then uncorked a bottle with a snort of amusement.

“Hmph.”

The elf closed his mouth, not knowing why he had uttered such foolishness. He licked his teeth and glanced at the man’s neck. Zong Ming felt a sudden chill there, never realizing the look in the elf’s eyes.

Zong Ming bent over the magical tome, carefully studying the text. His knuckles protruded, and his fingers bore calluses—whether from neglect or confidence, he left his neck completely exposed to the elf’s gaze.

“Give me the mithril,” the elf said, stepping forward. When he handed over the item, his fingertips brushed lightly over Zong Ming’s neck. The man jumped up from his chair as if startled, eyes wide with shock.

The elf put down the item and glanced down:

“Mithril needs to dissolve, not stir. You used too much.”

“Hey, don’t get so close.” Zong Ming sat awkwardly, muttering as his hair stood on end when the elf drew near. “Stay away!”

He swatted the elf’s hand away, signaling him to stand back. Honestly, while the elf’s change in attitude pleased him, Zong Ming still felt uneasy with such proximity—it was somewhat frightening.

The elf only blinked, then moved to the other side, softly asking:

“You’ve spent so many days preparing just to heal my wounds?”

Zong Ming answered, “Yes.”

Then he saw the elf’s lips curve lightly into a fleeting smile:

“I trust you.”

In that moment, Zong Ming belatedly realized the elf’s attitude had truly shifted.

A gentle aura radiated from him, and Zong Ming felt somewhat flattered. But the man lowered his gaze, no longer looking at him. This only confirmed Zong Ming’s suspicion, and he couldn’t help but smile:

“Don’t worry, I will heal your wounds.”

In that instant, Zong Ming almost heard a “+1 Favorability” prompt. After observing all day, it seemed the protagonist was still the same—cold and resistant at first, but essentially gentle.

That dream must have been just an illusion.

Zong Ming pondered this deeply.

On the other side, the elf’s mind was occupied with thoughts no one could guess. Beneath the man’s sleeves, the “Messenger” stirred with faint laughter. The elf’s eyes were calm as the spirit sensed the excellent condition and strong constitution of the host within the room. It was eager to latch onto Zong Ming, to slip in through the nape of his neck and seize control of his body.

Or perhaps merge with his shadow and manipulate his soul.

Then, gradually, Zong Ming would become a puppet in its hands. The elf looked gently at the blue-haired man, offering a faint smile:

Suddenly, he was less inclined to kill him.

Turning him into a puppet, a flesh doll to command, sounded far more entertaining.

At that point, the puppet would obey every command, kneeling at his feet. The elf smiled faintly, eyes void of warmth:

Hadn’t he always wanted a cage? Then he would build one—a cage he would surely enjoy staying in… as a pet.

No longer reckless and foolish, nor would he swat the elf’s hand away like just now.

The elf crushed the herbs in his hand until they were a pulpy mess.

But he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Because the Messenger could not yet control Zong Ming—the Sword Saint.

Perhaps he should first find more obedient sacrifices.

Zong Ming looked at him from the side, suddenly displeased:

“What are you thinking about?”

“I’m brewing potions here, and you’re daydreaming!” Zong Ming said, though not truly angry—such was his nature. The elf snapped out of his thoughts just as Zong Ming’s potion bottle slipped and shattered before him. The man frowned and dodged, but his fingers were cut, stained with blood.

“Are you alright?” the elf asked, smelling the metallic tang. Zong Ming’s Adam’s apple moved slightly, his eyes flickered, and he wiped his hand with a handkerchief. The wound healed quickly, but he casually tossed the bloodied cloth onto the table.

“So annoying,” Zong Ming muttered, clearly displeased. “Why is alchemy so complicated?”

He clicked his tongue, thinking he’d rather spend time practicing magic. Clearly, high-class alchemy was beyond him. Turning his head, he saw the elf’s unwavering gaze fixed on him. Then the elf said:

“When I first brewed a mithril potion, I also accidentally broke the bottle.”

The elf paused, not waiting for Zong Ming’s sympathy, and continued:

“When I was five years old.”

Zong Ming: …

The elf’s lips curved slightly, a nearly imperceptible smile:

“Looks like I faced the same difficulties as you at five.”

“Truly moving.”

Zong Ming waved his hand and walked away without looking back. As he passed the elf, he gave him a hard nudge:

“In two days, come with me to the Misty Forest to hunt monsters. You’re the logistics—brew potions for me the whole time!”

“That’s an order!” He turned, giving the elf a sharp look with his golden eyes, then left.

The elf remained behind, leaning on the table in silence for a long while, as if unaware of his own presence. He reached out and touched the shoulder Zong Ming had bumped.

There was no warmth, no sensation.

Yet strangely, it felt as if scorched by fire, the skin itself warm.

The faint smell of blood filled the air, prompting the elf to close his eyes and inhale deeply. Turning his face, he noticed the handkerchief left by Zong Ming, still stained with the blood from his palm.

It seemed to retain its warmth.

The handkerchief hung on the edge of the table, slowly slipping downward, about to fall to the floor.

It was only a step away from the elf.

As if just reaching out would grasp it, tasting the flavor from the dream.

The elf stood silently beside it. Outside, the setting sun cast its golden light into the room.

With an almost inaudible sigh, he said, “It’s time to brew the potion.”