The Fake Son Wants to Live [BL]-Chapter 148 - Glowing stone

Dican kept moving through the night. His steps were heavy, uneven, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Each footfall sent a sharp jolt up his leg, the pain in his thigh growing worse with every minute. It burned deep—hot, almost acidic—as if something inside was actively working against him. The wound wasn’t healing. No matter how many hours passed, no matter how much Farian endurance he relied on, the gash stayed open, throbbing and angry.

He winced, gritting his teeth. His hand pressed firmly against the injury, trying to keep pressure on it, but it did little. A slick warmth coated his palm—blood. Too much of it. He shouldn’t have still been bleeding. Farian wounds usually closed quickly, sometimes within minutes. This... this wasn’t normal.

He didn’t understand. His body was rejecting the wound like it didn’t belong to him, like it was something foreign infecting him from the inside out.

But he had no time to figure it out.

He needed to reach that craft. He needed to get off this terrain and back—back to Bian.

His heart clenched, a tight squeeze behind his ribs. He needed to see Bian. He needed to kneel before him, be close, even if it meant nothing to anyone else. The bond between them pulled at him like a tether. He didn’t care how or why anymore—he just knew he had to return.

Soon. Just a little further...

He blinked hard, vision swimming. The edges of his sight began to blur into black, dark splotches creeping into the corners. His breathing was shallow now, a low rasp that barely made it past his throat. His knees gave a sudden, sharp shake, and then—

They buckled.

He hit the ground hard, chest first, the wind knocked from his lungs. His cheek pressed into the cold dirt. The pain didn’t even register anymore.

Everything was going dim.

The stars above him swirled. Then disappeared.

His eyes fluttered once. Then shut.

And his consciousness slipped away completely.

*****

Morning arrived with the low hum of insects and the chirp of restless birds. Nansich stretched as he stepped out of the barn, letting out a loud yawn that echoed across the orchard. His hair stuck up on one side and the cold air bit at his bare feet through his worn slippers. He scratched his stomach absently.

Jian had left a few days ago, right after the chaos hit the city. No warning. No goodbye. Just gone. Nansich was stranded—left behind in some stranger’s barn, surrounded by clucking chickens and suspicious barn cats that stared at him like they owned the place.

After the attack, the city had gone quiet, crumbling into ruin. Word had spread like wildfire—aliens had descended. The government issued panicked warnings, blaring over every still-working device: "Stay indoors. Lock your doors. Do not attempt to flee." So yeah... returning to his grandpa’s orchard was out of the question for now.

Thankfully, the cabbie’s family was kind enough to take him in. They didn’t talk much, but they gave him food and space to breathe. In return, Nansich had to work for every meal—feeding animals, helping the elderly couple clean, doing odd jobs wherever needed. It was exhausting, but fair.

Yawning again, he trudged across the backyard to the chicken pen. "Alright ladies," he muttered as he undid the latch, "time to stretch your legs." The hens squawked and rushed out, excited to peck and scratch around the open ground.

Then came the loud, frantic cry from the rooster.

"What now, Hawk?" he sighed, making his way over to the strutting bird. Hawk—the prideful cock of the coop—was running in mad, darting circles, feathers flaring, letting out short bursts of screeches.

Nansich crouched down to try and grab him. "Hey, relax—ow!" The rooster clamped down on his fingers with his beak, drawing blood. "Goddamn bird!"

Shaking his hand, he edged forward carefully, spotting what the hens were fussing over.

A body.

There was a man lying in the dirt, half-buried under straw, his face barely visible beneath a layer of grime and dust. The hens were nervously pecking at his boots and sleeves.

"What the hell..." Nansich whispered, heart starting to race. He brushed the hens aside and knelt down, checking the man’s pulse. It was there—weak, but steady.

He turned the man over gently. The man’s face was unfamiliar—sharp, angled features, a brow furrowed even in unconsciousness. But more startling was the liquid oozing from his thigh. It wasn’t blood. It was gold.

Thick, gleaming gold-colored liquid that shimmered in the morning light and pooled into the dirt slowly but constantly.

Nansich stared at it, horrified and fascinated at the same time. "Is this guy even human...?"

He glanced back toward the house. If anyone saw this, there would be questions. He couldn’t leave the man out here, not like this. And certainly not with the rumors going around about strange sounds and movement in the woods behind the barn.

Grumbling, he bent down and hooked his arms under the stranger’s, dragging him through the dirt and into the barn. It wasn’t graceful. He tripped three times, nearly dropped him once, and cursed at least a dozen times under his breath. But he got him there.

Laying him on a thick pile of hay near the back corner, Nansich wiped his forehead with his sleeve and stared at the man. "What the hell are you wearing..."

The man’s outfit looked uncomfortable to sat the least—tight, black, and sleek, like it had been molded onto his body. It clung to every curve of muscle like a second skin, and while it probably looked badass in combat, it seemed like a nightmare to sleep in.

"Well," Nansich muttered to himself, "I’m not gonna let you die from overheating."

He knelt down and tugged at the top of the suit. The material resisted like a vacuum seal, and he had to fight with it, gritting his teeth as he wrestled the top half down to the man’s waist.

Finally, he managed to peel it off. The man’s chest was bare beneath—broad and toned, lightly dusted with hair. Nansich blinked, unsure where to look for a second. But something else caught his attention.

A pendant.

Around the man’s neck hung a strange stone. Deep red, polished into an oval shape, it rested on his sternum like it belonged there. It shimmered faintly, even in the dim light of the barn.

Nansich leaned closer, curiosity overriding caution. He reached out and lightly touched it.

The moment his finger brushed the stone, it reacted.

The gem flared—bright, blinding. A vivid, blood-red glow flooded the entire barn, every crack and corner of the wood bathed in its light. The chickens outside let out a startled chorus of squawks.

Nansich yelped and scrambled back, shielding his eyes.

Then—just as suddenly—the glow vanished.

The red stone dimmed and dulled, its color bleeding away until it became a crystal-clear pendant, transparent and cold.

"...What the hell was that?"

Nansich stared, heart hammering, his fingers trembling slightly.

He had no idea who this guy was. But it was clear now.

He wasn’t normal.

And something very strange was going on.