The Fake Son Wants to Live [BL]-Chapter 140 - Binding spell

Dican’s body lay still, his limbs slack against the debris-strewn ground. His breath came in shallow bursts, the only sign he hadn’t completely lost consciousness. But his body—his strength, his will—refused to obey.

Above him, Bian crouched with eerie calm.

He gently caressed the Farian’s golden hair, brushing it behind his ear as if Dican were some cherished doll. His fingertips were gentle, trembling with awe.

"I didn’t want to do it like this..." he whispered, voice soaked in trembling excitement and guilt. "I really didn’t. I wanted you to like me. I wanted to... to be special to you."

He leaned closer, until his forehead pressed softly against the prince’s.

"You’re so beautiful... I couldn’t help it. You shine like something from a different world. Because you are, aren’t you?" he laughed faintly, fingers running along Dican’s jawline. "A real prince. A real Farian prince. You’re everything I’m not..."

A crooked smile formed on Bian’s lips.

"I’ve been small all my life. Weak. Forgettable. People used me, hurt me, threw me away like trash... but not anymore."

He slowly withdrew the small, cracked pot from his pocket. The dark smear on the prince’s leg had already begun to change—its color shifting from black to an iridescent violet, spreading thin, web-like veins under his skin.

Bian’s hand trembled as he held the pot close to his chest.

"You see... they told me this would work. That I’d get one chance. Just one. If I got it on your blood, it would bond with you. Make you need me. Not like a slave. Not a puppet, really..." He tilted his head thoughtfully. "More like... a connection. You’ll feel it. The craving. You’ll look for me even when you don’t want to. Think about me. Dream about me."

His voice faltered, emotion leaking through.

"And I—I’ll never be alone again."

Bian’s hand clutched the side of Dican’s face, pressing their cheeks together.

"You’ll never throw me away. Never forget me. You’ll have to see me. Every day. You’ll have no choice."

Dican’s eyelids fluttered. His lips parted slightly as if he were trying to speak, but no sound came out. Just a soft groan.

Bian flinched, heart racing. He wasn’t sure how long the effects would last. The Grayling hadn’t exactly provided a manual. He knew it was temporary—maybe a few hours, maybe less.

But it was enough.

Enough to escape. Enough to get to the city. Enough to make Dican come after him—chained not by rope, but by obsession.

He stood up slowly, brushing dirt off his knees.

"You’re going to hate me for this," he whispered softly. "Maybe you’ll want to kill me. But maybe... maybe you’ll also need me so much that you’ll spare me."

He leaned down and pressed a light kiss to the prince’s forehead.

"I’m betting everything on that."

From behind him, the wind began to shift—the faint scent of smoke and rot on the breeze.

Graylings.

They were close again.

Bian’s face twisted. He looked back down at Dican one last time.

"I’m sorry. But I’m not sorry," he muttered, then turned and ran.

Or tried to.

His legs, shaking with adrenaline and guilt, carried him to the edge of the room—the broken wall he’d squeezed through earlier. But something had shifted. Rubble had caved in during the scuffle. The path was blocked.

"No... no no no—" he whispered, yanking at the crumbled concrete. Dust coated his hands. His fingernails chipped.

Behind him, the sound of wet, dragging limbs echoed through the air. Then... the clicking.

Sharp, rapid. Eager.

Bian turned.

Three Graylings had already entered through the shattered roof and broken corridor. Long, spindly limbs scraped along the ground. Their eyes glowed dim green in the dark, and their mouths—dripping with mucus and blood—parted in what might’ve been joy.

One of them sniffed the air, its wrinkled nose twitching.

Another let out a strangled, raspy squeal and pointed one of its clawed limbs toward the ground.

To Dican.

The prince still lay limp, golden hair fanned beneath him, the glowing veins around his wound pulsing faintly.

The Graylings let out gleeful hisses.

They knew what this meant.

The binding had begun.

The Grayling who had given Bian the cursed pot slithered forward, tentacles twitching. "The prince is nearly ours," it rasped in a distorted voice. "We don’t need you anymore, little rabbit."

Bian’s heart dropped. "W-What?"

"You’ve done well. But we don’t need a pet that talks now." Another one sneered. "Be still. This will be quick."

A slimy tentacle unfurled toward him, its bladed edge gleaming wetly in the low light.

"No—wait! I did what you asked!" Bian stumbled backward, slamming into a cracked wall. "You said I’d be safe! You said—"

The tentacle lashed out.

Bian screamed.

"I’m sorry! Dican! Help me!"

It was instinct. Desperation. A final cry before death.

The Graylings cackled.

Then—everything stopped.

A gust of pressure burst through the air, like a vacuum sucking the heat out of the room.

A soft hum—like metal vibrating from deep within the earth—rippled through the space.

And then, a golden light flashed.

Schhhhk!

The first Grayling’s head was cleaved clean from its neck.

Its body crumpled, steaming.

The second never got a chance to react. A blade of radiant energy pierced its gut, then twisted upward—splitting it in two.

The last turned to flee.

But it was too late.

Dican stood tall in the center of the room, eyes glowing gold, a faint trail of mist rising from his skin. His chest heaved, and his expression was unreadable—cold, void of emotion, like a god awakened from slumber.

His sword—once sheathed—was gripped tightly in his hand, its edge still glowing with pulsing Farian runes.

He stepped forward slowly, and the last Grayling, terrified, tried to leap backward—

Thud.

Its head rolled across the floor a second later.

Silence fell.

He stood frozen, wide-eyed, his body trembling uncontrollably. The farian prince gazed back with his eyes glowing golden.

Bian’s heart pounded loudly. ’I’m done for...’