The Fake Son Wants to Live [BL]-Chapter 139 - Pitiful rabbit

Dican narrowed his golden eyes, studying the boy before him.

He hadn’t meant to hear it. It was a stray murmur, barely above a breath, but with his Farian senses, it rang out loud and clear.

"He’s mine..."

That simple, strange sentence had set something off inside him. it made him quite vigilant.

Why would a human boy, barely known to him, trail him all the way into this ruined city—walking beside him, panting and tired, eyes flicking up toward him every now and then as if trying to catch his gaze?

They had only met once. At a construction site. Dican hadn’t even remembered the boy’s name until now.

But the trust the boy gave him... It was too generous. Too convenient.

Or maybe, he thought grimly, he has a purpose in following me.

He took a slow, heavy step toward the human.

The boy—Bian—flinched. His shoulders jerked up slightly as he stepped back, his back bumping gently against the rusted shell of a collapsed wall.

"I was... I was talking about something else..." Bian stammered, eyes darting nervously to the ground and then back up. "I—"

His voice shrank a little.

"You were... handsome. I thought... I wished your face was mine..."

Dican raised a single brow. He said nothing for a moment, and then he leaned in, his expression unreadable.

"Is that so?" he murmured, golden gaze narrowing. "Hmm..."

He dipped his head lower, letting his long, golden-blond hair slide forward like silk. The strands fell around his face, catching the dying sunlight and gleaming faintly.

"Well..." he said softly, almost amused, "I smell a big fat lie."

Bian flinched visibly.

His heart jumped into his throat. Shit. What else did he hear? Damn it—I must have mumbled aloud!

Panic rose in his chest like a flood. His brain raced to come up with a plausible excuse, anything believable enough to smooth over the cracks.

But Dican’s head tilted just slightly, the flowing strands of gold brushing near Bian’s cheek. The proximity, the beauty—it momentarily stunned him.

His breath caught.

The prince let out a soft chuckle then, stepping back a few paces, eyes glinting with a quiet, unsettling confidence.

Snapped out of his daze, Bian swallowed and rushed to cover the slip.

"I’m not lying... I really do admire you..." he said quickly, his tone trembling just enough to seem sincere. "You’re handsome. And I just... I wish I looked like you..."

He dropped his gaze and whispered with just the right mix of shame and vulnerability, "It’s because I look like this that my family bullies me..."

He raised his head again, putting on the mask he wore best—the wide, soft eyes of a wounded rabbit, lashes fluttering, lips trembling just slightly.

He’d used this look before. So many times.

It always worked.

People melted. They pitied him. Believed him. Every single time.

Because his one strength—his only strength—was that he looked like someone harmless. Someone who couldn’t hurt a fly.

Inside, he laughed. Hook, line, and sinker.

"I... I’m sorry you heard that," he added, voice dropping, "It was really embarrassing for me. I didn’t mean—"

But then he stopped. The air chilled.

Because Dican was staring at him with a cold, piercing glare.

"Lie again," the Farian prince said quietly.

And the mask nearly slipped from Bian’s face.

What?!

The words slammed into his chest like ice.

Do Farians... have the ability to detect lies?! How did I not know this?! That wasn’t in the book!

His panic was sharp and silent, pulsing through his body like venom. But outwardly, he kept the act up. Head bowed. Shoulders curled. Eyes wide with practiced fear.

He couldn’t let it fall apart now.

But then Dican leaned down once more. This time, closer. His voice dropped into a low whisper, harsh and cold.

"Because I can smell a fucking Grayling on you, human."

Bian froze, completely.

His breath hitched and heart thundering in his ears. The way Dican said it—"I can smell a fucking Grayling on you"—froze the blood in his veins.

Flustered, desperate, he scrambled to regain control of the conversation.

"Grayling...? H-how could I smell like a Grayling?" he laughed nervously, his voice cracking at the edges. "It—it must be because I tripped earlier. Yeah! On one of those dead things. Its blood got all over me—nasty stuff—"

He forced a chuckle, light and strained, hoping his face still looked convincingly bashful.

But Dican wasn’t buying it.

The prince’s eyes, golden and sharp, fixed on him like a hawk. Cold. Piercing.

"I swear!" Bian insisted quickly, his hands flying up in surrender. "It’s just blood. It’ll go away once I wash it off. It’s not—"

His voice broke off as he let a few perfectly-timed tears slip down his cheeks. They caught the light beautifully, shining like tiny beads of sorrow.

"You... you can’t hate me just because I smell, right?" he sniffled. "That’s so unfair... I have no control over it. It’s already hard enough to survive and now—now you’re looking at me like I’m disgusting..."

He dropped his head and cried harder, forcing his small shoulders to tremble pitifully.

The truth was, he had mastered this act. It had always worked. Sad, trembling little Bian—the human rabbit. He could almost see the sympathy forming in people’s eyes before he finished the first sob.

But not Dican.

The Farian prince simply watched him, eyes dulled like he’d seen this performance a hundred times too many.

"Is that so..." Dican said flatly.

"Then what is it you’re hiding in your pant pocket?"

The words struck like a bullet.

Bian’s sobbing stopped instantly.

The transition was too quick—like someone had flipped a switch. No more shaking. No more tears. Just a stunned silence, and wide eyes.

"N-nothing..." he mumbled, instinctively backing away.

Dican let out a long, cold sigh, his expression unreadable.

"I can smell the difference between a Grayling’s blood and a spell-binding smear, human."

Bian’s back hit the rubble wall with a soft thump. His breath grew erratic. In a moment of pure desperation, he fell to his knees.

Tears—this time more frantic than planned—spilled down his cheeks as he clasped his hands together.

"I didn’t choose this!" he wailed, voice shaking with true panic now. "They forced me! I—I was taken in my sleep, and the Graylings—"

He hiccupped between cries, falling into a frenzy of words.

"They wanted me to control you! They wanted to hurt you but I refused! They threatened to kill me! I was scared—I didn’t mean to—please, I’m so sorry—!"

He curled forward, sobbing into his palms.

But Dican only stared.

Expressionless.

Unmoved.

Truly, he thought, the more I get to know humans, the more disappointing they become.

The rotten ones always knew how to wear a soft face. They knew how to smile, how to cry, how to manipulate. This one—this boy—was just another illusion dressed in sheep’s wool.

Not worth his time.

Without another word, he turned to leave, his hand reaching for the hilt of his sword.

He should’ve cut this lie at the root. He should’ve walked away the moment the human cried.

But before he could take a step, something whipped through the air.

A cloth—filthy and soaked—slammed into his face.

Blinded for a split second, Dican’s instincts screamed.

Too late.

Bian lunged at him from behind.

He tackled Dican, throwing his full body weight against the prince’s back, both of them toppling into the dust. Rubble cracked under their weight.

But strength-wise, it was no contest.

With a low, guttural growl, Dican grabbed the human by the collar and flung him off like dead weight.

Bian crashed into the pile of concrete and metal shards nearby. frёeweɓηovel.coɱ

Dican stood, brushing the filth from his face with a glare, teeth bared. His voice was low and angry.

"I shouldn’t have spared your life."

But Bian only laughed.

Loud.

Wild.

Madness sparkled in his eyes like glass shards under sunlight.

"Hahaha—You’re mine! You’re mine now!"

"What...?" Dican’s voice faltered.

That’s when he felt it.

The burning in his leg.

He looked down.

His wounded thigh—previously just a shallow cut from the skirmish—was now smeared with something black and oily. It pulsed faintly, almost alive, seeping into the torn skin.

Bian’s hand... at some point during the scuffle...

He smeared it on me.

Dican’s balance gave out.

His body twitched involuntarily. His muscles spasmed. His golden eyes widened as his legs gave out beneath him.

He collapsed to the ground with a heavy thud.

His arms refused to obey him. His vision began to double.

"What... did you..."

From above, Bian stepped closer, smiling down at him like a victorious predator.

"You’re mine," the boy whispered.

He crouched low, tenderly brushing aside a strand of Dican’s hair and cupping his face as if he were some fragile jewel.

"My puppet now, Prince."

The last thing Dican saw before darkness claimed him was the boy’s gleaming eyes—full of triumph, obsession, and something far more dangerous:

Possession.