The Fake Son Wants to Live [BL]-Chapter 102 - Hitching a ride

Jian gripped the phone so tightly his knuckles turned pale. "Bian," he said, voice low and firm, "what have you done to my grandpa?"

There was a pause—and then a laugh, loud and mocking. "What do you think I’ve done?" Bian replied, as if this were all a game.

Jian’s jaw tightened. "What’s wrong with you?" he asked, his words sharp but not shouting. "I never did anything to you. And yet, you keep trying to push me, cross me. If you hurt him, I swear—" Jian stopped, his breath catching in his throat. "I’ll come for you. And I’ll make sure you regret it."

A strange heat began to pool behind his eyes, a pressure that made his forehead throb. He instinctively reached up and rubbed between his brows, trying to ease the pain.

On the other end of the line, Bian’s voice dropped into something more bitter. "What didn’t you do? You stole everything from me, Jian. My life. My parents. My place in this family. Even Grandpa... You always got the good things. Always."

The way Bian’s voice shook with resentment made his chest feel heavy.

All his life he had been in servitude to the family. Being beat up by his grandma for nothing, cooking cleaning since he could even remember. Doing Bain’s homework. Being a emotional trashing to the family. He had suffered so much... but Bian feels like he has everything.

Just the thought alone made him laugh.

He did not have anything.

He never had proper food. Only leftovers were left for him.

He never had new clothes.

Never had proper books.

While Bian enjoyed everything yet his brother feels like somehow his life was bad.

Jian stayed quiet, rubbing harder between his brows as the pain deepened.

"I’m the real Wang’s son," Bian said, voice trembling between rage and jealousy. "You’re just a freak. A thing that shouldn’t even exist."

Jian didn’t respond. There was no point arguing with someone so twisted by bitterness. Instead, he focused on the important part.

"So what now?" he asked softly. "What do I have to do to get him back?"

Bian gave a small, mocking sigh. "Come to the back of the plaza. Half an hour. Don’t be late. I’m not sure how long I can control my temper... Grandpa’s not exactly built for rough handling."

The call ended with a click, followed by the hollow ring of the disconnected line. Jian stood still for a moment, listening to the silence.

He returned the phone to the receptionist with a quiet "thank you," then walked back up to his room. His head still throbbed dully, but his thoughts were sharper now, more focused.

He moved to the corner of the room, behind the decorative folding screen, where he’d hidden his school bag. Unzipping it slowly, he reached in and pulled out the black sword—cold and light in his hands. As he gazed into its polished surface, his reflection stared back at him, tired but resolute.

A faint glow circled his irises—gold, flickering, just at the edge of vision.

Jian exhaled through his nose, quietly.

"So this is how you want to play it, Bian..." he whispered, sliding the sword back into its scabbard. "Fine. Let’s see how far you’re willing to go."

He slung the bag over his shoulder and left the room.

He walked out of the small hotel, the door creaking shut behind him.

The evening breeze brushed his cheek, carrying with it the scent of soil and something faintly sweet from the nearby orchards. The road stretched ahead in silence, no cabs in sight.

He stepped further out, glancing both ways, but the outer edge of the city was deserted.

No vehicles were coming this way.

Suddenly, a loud beep cut through the quiet, sharp and jarring.

He spun around, instinctively on guard.

A tractor stood there at the edge of the road, headlights flickering faintly. Atop it sat a face he hadn’t seen in years—but one he could never forget.

"Jian?" the voice called, uncertain, eyes squinting in disbelief. "Is that why... why... why are you dressed like that?"

The young man jumped off the tractor, boots crunching against gravel as he approached. Jian’s eyes narrowed.

Nansich. freёwebnoѵel.com

His gut clenched. Rage began to simmer beneath his skin. This was the boy who, alongside Bian, had tormented him through school—mocking his voice, his clothes, everything. The smirk, the jeers, the endless humiliation.

"What? did Bian send you?" Jian growled, fists already curling at his sides. He could feel the hot throb in his temples, ready to throw this man over his shoulder and drag him down the road if he dared to touch him.

But Nansich stopped a few steps short, his body going still.

"Um... no. I haven’t seen him or heard from him in about ten days," he said, raising his palms slightly, voice cautious. "What’s wrong with you... there’s a gash on your head... it’s..." He stepped closer, frowning as his eyes landed on the dried streak. "Why is it golden?"

He reached out instinctively, like he wanted to wipe it.

Jian stepped back without thinking, his body reacting before his mind did. He didn’t want Nansich’s hands anywhere near him.

Nansich froze mid-motion. His brows furrowed, and slowly, his hand dropped.

"Yeah, okay," he said stiffly, bitterness creeping into his tone. "Go on out there with that dirty makeup on you. Watch how people are going to laugh at you."

He tugged off his mud-stained gloves, shaking them out before tossing them onto the tractor seat.

Jian didn’t say a word. He simply turned away and kept walking.

"Where are you going?" Nansich called after him. "Hey! I’m talking to you!"

Jian didn’t answer.

He heard the soft patter of boots following him. "Do you need a ride?" Nansich offered, a bit breathless now.

Jian halted in his tracks.

He turned his head slightly, eyes sharp. "This better not be a fucking trap."

Nansich raised both hands in surrender. "Hey, I’m just offering a ride, for god’s sake. Not trying to kidnap you. Reject it if you don’t want."

Jian narrowed his eyes, gaze locked on the boy’s face. He studied him—watched for the twitch of a smirk, the glint of a lie.

But all he saw was a tired boy, maybe surprised, maybe just confused, but not malicious.

Without a word, he walked toward the tractor. Nansich trailed after him, a strange grin creeping across his face, almost like a puppy who had finally caught up.

"So where are you going?" he asked casually.

"To kill someone," Jian replied, his voice flat, void of any hesitation.

For a second, Nansich paused mid-step. His eyes widened, and then he let out a loud, boisterous laugh, throwing his head back.

"God, your sense of humour went up a notch."

Jian didn’t laugh.

Because he wasn’t joking.