Su Yan felt a sharp pain in his left shoulder just before being dragged under the water. As he submerged, he only had time to hold his breath.
Underwater, someone was gripping him tightly and swimming swiftly. Su Yan guessed it was one of the Seven Kill Camp assassins. He struggled hard, but the opponent’s grip was like welded iron, unshakable.
Early spring river water was icy cold. He held his breath to the limit, his lungs aching, thrashing desperately for air but tightly restrained. Only when he was nearly drowned did the captor mercifully lift his face above water to breathe, then dragged him back under again.
This cycle repeated many times. Su Yan was suffocated and miserable, chest tight as if it would burst. He longed to pass out to escape the agony.
Just as he thought he could hold on no longer, they finally left the river surface. Exhausted, coughing violently, he felt limp as a sack, carried face down. Where they were going, he couldn’t tell, and it was too dark to see anything.
The assassin seemed to possess supreme qinggong skills; even carrying a person, his steps were swift. Soon they entered some building and threw him down onto cracked stone slabs.
A bonfire burned nearby. Su Yan was thrown next to it. His soaked heavy cloak weighed him down. He loosened the ties and ripped it off, gasping for air. Turning over, he quickly scanned his surroundings, barely making out the dilapidated main hall of a ruined Taoist temple.
The gable walls were slanted, incense burners overturned, cobwebs and dust everywhere. On the altar was a broken, tattered statue of the Three Pure Ones, its dim firelight seeming to glare at him with a tilted head.
Su Yan forced himself to calm down and looked toward the assassin who had captured him—the majority of his face hidden behind a black metal mesh mask, his wet black clothes clinging tight.
From the assassin’s lean build wrapped in black and the pair of eyes visible above the mask, Su Yan immediately recognized him and shouted, “Ah Zhui!”
The assassin did not respond. His eyes were blood-red, cold as ice, radiating the bestial, instinctive bloodthirsty killing intent.
Su Yan’s hands and feet were icy cold, not just because he was soaked through on this chilly spring night.
He knew this was the blood-eye state caused by the Seven Kill Camp’s technique gone awry.
Previously, Ah Zhui had also fallen into this demonic state at Qingshui Camp in Shaanxi, but the situation now seemed different—back then, though his mind was confused and personality altered, he still recognized him; the blood eyes burned with twisted yet fervent emotion.
But this time, the blood-red eyes looked at him as if he were a stone or a dead branch—an absolute coldness that rejected all warmth.
Suppressing the ominous feeling in his heart, Su Yan softened his voice: “Ah Zhui, you still remember me, right? I’m Su Yan, Su Qinghe. Say something to me…” As he spoke, he rose and approached him.
He slowly placed his hand on Ah Zhui’s mask. Seeing no resistance, his heart brightened, and he tried to remove the strange mask.
At that moment, the blood-eyed assassin suddenly struck, grabbing his neck and nearly lifting him off the ground by his feet.
Su Yan’s cheeks flushed red; he clawed desperately at the iron-like grip, his feet kicking wildly but in vain, nearly suffocating under the crushing hold.
Just as he was about to lose consciousness, the grip loosened, and he fell back to the ground, curling up and coughing violently, worse than when choking on water.
At this near-death moment, fear’s shadow enveloped Su Yan, and for the first time, he realized that after stripping Ah Zhui of all human will and emotion, what remained was more ruthless than any beast—a sharp, efficient killing machine.
The masked assassin before him was no longer the blushing Ah Zhui who once said, “I’m moved by you, my lord.”
Nor was he the one who clumsily pressed his lips against him in breathless kisses, always finding excuses to practice more with him.
Nor the one who, full of hope to keep him warm at night, held him tightly, afraid to move lest he woke, and secretly kissed the nape of his neck…
Coughing, Su Yan felt an indescribable rage welling up inside—this anger burned like fire through his lungs, swallowing all doubt and fear.
—This was the person he had slowly brought from darkness into the light, and now they wanted to turn him back into a ghost!
“You are truly a soul free,” he once told him. “You always choose the hardest path, untouched by money, power, fame, or any external force, always moving forward, always questioning your own heart with your sword.” —Those words still echoed, yet they had stripped Ah Zhui of the qualities Su Yan valued and admired most.
Like a sword finally purified of death’s chill, ready to be sheathed—only to have its scabbard shattered and its sharp blade forcibly turned into their tool for control and manipulation!
Su Yan’s body trembled slightly with anger and hatred.
He was willing to pay any price his body could bear to reclaim Ah Zhui’s soul. He swore that even if he had to face heaven and earth, he would utterly eradicate and bury the Seven Kill Camp, the Void Sect, the Wei family, and the “Players” lurking in the deepest shadows.
The campfire’s light reflected on Su Yan’s face, his eyes burning with a fiercer, more terrifying fire than the flames themselves.
Su Yan sat up and saw Ah Zhui bending over the fire, placing a bundle of branches to roast. The firelight could not penetrate the assassin’s blood-red eyes hidden behind the mask and night clothes; he was silent and cold like a ghost.
“Ah Zhui, what are you doing?” Su Yan asked, forcing a normal tone.
The other ignored him, lifting the object to look at it, seemingly feeling it was burning too much, fanning it lightly in the air.
Only then did Su Yan see clearly: a bundle of over three feet of curved iron wire, twisted from many thin strands. Protruding sharp ends jutted out in irregular shapes, like a cluster of thorny dead branches or frost patterns on a winter window.
But because it was sharp metal, it had a fiercer and eerier appearance than natural objects.
Su Yan looked at it grimly. Whatever this thing was, in this situation it looked like a torture tool. But if it were a thorn whip, there was no need to burn it; if a branding iron, no need to shape it like this. He felt it was meant for something worse…
The blood-eyed, Wuming assassin silently stepped over the fire, gripping the heated iron wire bundle in one hand and reaching to tear Su Yan’s clothes with the other.
Su Yan pressed his hand tightly over his chest, calling out: “Ah Zhui, wake up! Did the Seven Kill Camp feed you drugs too? Don’t let them control you—think about who you are, what your true will is!”
His desperate resistance seemed more powerless than fish on a chopping block to the other. The blood-eyed assassin with one hand effortlessly tore his clothes apart, stripping him bare like a peeled boiled egg.
Su Yan saw the blood-red gaze scan down his neck, chest, waist, and thighs without a hint of emotion—like a machine scanning a slaughter target, calculating where to strike next.
Cold and furious, he suddenly understood the mastermind’s intention—
This bundle of thorny, glowing-hot iron wire, branded onto flesh, would form scars resembling lightning patterns left on the body by a thunder strike.
The Void Sect indeed sought his death—not with sword or poison, but with “heaven’s punishment.”
He could almost picture the next day, the day after, at most two or three days later, when the Embroidered Uniform Guard found his body—and the inevitable rumors spreading across the land: Chief Judge Su Yan of the Baizhifang Explosion Case, who blasphemed the Void Sect as a heresy, desecrated the Sacred Lotus, and hunted the sect leader, was struck down by heavenly thunder and fire in the wilderness.
If they added lurid details like “a dragon emerged from the river, clawed his shoulder and flew off” or “his official robes peeled off automatically after the lightning hit, folded neatly beside him,” the rumors would spread even wider.
Su Yan instinctively touched the wound on his left shoulder, flinching in pain—when the clawed hand grabbed him, it left five bloody scratches. Luckily, his thick clothes and cloak softened the injury, and Ah Zhui’s skilled lift spared him from bone damage, leaving only flesh wounds.
Despite that, the pain was severe. After soaking in the icy river water for so long, the edges of the wounds had turned pale, gaping like a child’s mouth, oozing faintly red blood.
Now the struggling grew more intense, tugging at the blood vessels deep inside the wounds. The blood flowing out gradually increased, growing thicker as it wound down.
The blood-eyed Wuming assassin gripped Su Yan’s wrists with one hand, about to press the burning iron-wire bundle onto his chest and abdomen as a branding iron, but suddenly froze when seeing the snow-white skin stained bright red with blood.
Su Yan immediately recalled that back in Qingshui Camp of Lingzhou, when Jinghong Zhui had gone mad, he smashed his head hard with a porcelain pillow. Although Jinghong Zhui seemed unaffected, seeing the blood flowing from his palm pierced by the broken porcelain shards triggered a reflex — the reversed flow of true energy in his meridians returned to normal, and he recovered.
—Who would have thought that an assassin once so ruthless as to lick his blade in blood and kill without blinking would be afraid of the fresh blood welling from a human heart?
One could only say that fear arose from love. Like a person among thorns, stillness spares pain, but once the heart stirs with feeling, that love is both a tender spring breeze and a cutting blade.
In that brief moment of hesitation, Su Yan seized the opportunity and pulled back his wrists.
This body was like a delicate porcelain statue come to life — fine skin that could not bear force, and his wrists quickly bloomed bruises in purple and blue. Su Yan didn’t try to rub the pain away, nor did he make any futile attempts to fight or flee. Instead, he used both arms to wrap around the other’s shoulders, drawing the trembling, shivering body close.
The early spring chill was biting, and the night in the barren wilderness was especially cold. A single campfire could not dry their wet clothes. Night wind blew in through the broken door frame. His bare, wet skin broke out in large goosebumps. Taking advantage of the closeness, he absorbed the assassin’s burning body heat beneath the dark clothes—
Similar size, similar age — how could Ah Zhui’s body be so warm? Even on the coldest winter nights, having multiple close bodyguards in bed kept him warm all night. Even his feet, which were most susceptible to cold, were carefully tucked inside the assassin’s thighs, warming up quickly.
Su Yan’s nose twitched with emotion, and his voice unconsciously carried a tone of grievance: “Ah Zhui, my shoulder hurts, and I’m cold… The river water’s so icy, my clothes are soaked through, and now I don’t even have dry clothes to wear. I’m going to freeze to death.”
The blood-eyed Wuming assassin held the now cooling, red-hot weapon in one hand. On his chest hung the willing target who’d thrown himself into his arms. After a moment’s stunned hesitation, he fell into a brief daze, as if something in the predetermined program had malfunctioned.
The scent of blood so close to his nose irritated him — a familiar but uneasy smell… He took off the metal mesh mask with his free hand, making the smell even more distinct. He instinctively licked the still-bleeding wound on Su Yan’s shoulder.
Sweet, slightly metallic, very fresh blood. He licked it intently like a hungry, bewildered beast.
Su Yan gasped in pain but did not flinch away. Instead, he hugged the black-clad assassin even tighter.
“Ah Zhui, you said ‘This life belongs to my lord,’ that you wouldn’t go anywhere else and would always stay by my side. You said you could break your bones for firewood, cut your flesh for cooking, peel off your skin for clothes, as long as there was still some worth looking at, I could take it all — just please don’t drive yourself back into darkness.” His voice trembled with soft sobs, “—I truly believed every word, every one of them. You can’t lie to me, and you can’t kill me.”
“If you lie to me, kill me… I won’t suffer. My eyes close and I won’t know anything. But if one day you wake up, how terrible and hopeless would that pain be? I’m afraid by then, you wouldn’t be able to live either.”
“Ah Zhui, I won’t call you a beast anymore. If you really want to do that thing with me, then do it — one thing leads to another anyway… But first, you have to wake up, you have to recognize me.”
Su Yan leaned his upper body back and cupped Jinghong Zhui’s face in both hands. Ignoring the danger of the bewitched blood eyes, he looked into them gently and said, “Ah Zhui, look at me — who am I? Think carefully, who am I?”
A figure reflected in the blood eyes. The Wuming one wondered, Who is this person?
This person was the target he was to kill, with the manner of death strictly specified and to be executed without deviation.
This person was no different from the others he had killed, who left him indifferent; yet also completely unlike them, making him uncertain.
This person’s few words gently struck his numb mind more powerfully than a stabbing knife.
He should kill him without hesitation, yet did not want to — instead he wanted to “kill” him in another way.
The act of “thinking” was a luxury to him, like a solitary coin in an empty pocket. Once overdrawn, the true energy flowing through his body would surge painfully. Right now, three wills fought fiercely in his mind, vying for victory — he wished his head would just explode.
The fastest, most effective way to calm the pain was to “not think.”
Just obey orders and let his body and mind be governed by the instinct to kill.
—but through the layer of damp night clothes, this flawless body pressed against his chest, ready to be torn apart or embraced with abandon.
The metallic sweet-and-sour taste of blood on his tongue was like fiery liquor, igniting an inexplicable desire that burned through his mouth, down his chest, and into his abdomen — turning his manhood into a spear that had to be wielded.
His pupils deepened into dark red, his breathing grew heavy and rapid. Suddenly, the Wuming one flung aside the iron-wire bundle and roughly pinned Su Yan onto the ground covered with a cloak.
Su Yan let out a low cry — whether startled by the rough treatment or chilled by the damp cloak beneath him, it was unclear.
The Wuming one grasped his ankles and spread his legs wide, exposing his intimate parts between. Snow-white buttocks, a soft, flaccid member, and the closed entrance below were all clearly visible. Probably from the cold, the member and the rear passage were pale red, appearing somewhat timid.
However, in the Wuming one’s eyes, all things were covered with a veil of bloodlight — including this flesh and body, which in his reddened vision showed an alluring, seductive color. He was swollen with discomfort, barely having time to remove clothing, pulling down the waistband with two or three motions, exposing a donkey-like rock-hard shaft, and pressed it against the rear entrance, pushing inward.
He tried to push forward, but the entrance was tightly closed and dry, resisting any attempt to let him in. Even though he used only a fraction of his strength, it was already an act of restraint for him—yet for the other, it was unbearable pain.
Su Yan hurt so much that he lost his voice. His chest felt blocked, not knowing whether the suffocation came from his own suffering, or from the thought of the other’s suffering—or perhaps both.
He bit his own finger to endure, cold sweat breaking out across his forehead.
Rain drifted in through the broken window, sprinkling his face and hair. Soon the drizzle turned to a curtain, then a downpour, with thunder cracking above, as if it would split the fragile temple into dust.
Lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the hall before it was swallowed by darkness again. In the sharp alternation of light and shadow, the faded statues of the Three Pure Ones seemed to bend over him, their gaze hovering between pity and mockery. Dizzy, Su Yan could endure no more and finally cried out.
“Ah Zhui, it hurts too much…” He trembled as he wept, everything around him wet and cold, his body torn by pain. “I can’t take it, be gentle… gentler…”
His last cry was drowned out by thunder.
Suddenly, he felt himself lifted and held tight in an embrace that burned with heat. His bare body was pressed to the other’s chest, covered with garments as if to shield him.
The fire in the corner flickered weakly in the wind and rain. He heard Jinghong Zhui’s voice—hoarse, rusty from disuse—whisper in the darkness:
“Don’t… be afraid.”
The voice was rough and awkward, like a wild beast forcing itself to soften, holding back sharp claws against its own nature, bewildered by the act of restraint.
Clutching the front of the black night-cloak, Su Yan sobbed breathlessly. “I feel like I’m going to die from the pain…”
“No… you won’t die. Don’t cry.” The voice gradually steadied, holding him tightly as if trying to warm cold jade with body heat.
Wuming listened to the sobs in his arms, breathing in his scent. A fierce consciousness battered inside his mind, clashing with his training and orders, tearing at his veins like grinding them to pieces and forcing them back together, only to shatter again. The pain was extreme, yet with the person in his arms, it became a torment he could endure.
Su Yan, sensing something, touched his face—first the brows and eyes, then the nose, finally lingering on his lips. His body warmed, and the sharp pain eased. Raising his face, he kissed him softly, whispering, “Ah Zhui, do you remember who I am?”
Wuming lowered his head and kissed him back, thinking through the haze: You are the one who must not cry, must not hurt, must not die.
Su Yan closed his eyes, kissing deeply the assassin who had come to kill him. His breath grew ragged, his body betraying him, desire sparking as his hands roamed over the firm lines of chest and abdomen. Jinghong Zhui caught his hand, guiding it downward with unspoken insistence. Su Yan shivered faintly, but he did not pull away.
After a while, he felt Jinghong Zhui’s lips on his skin—trailing from his throat down to collarbone, chest, inch by inch, like a great beast tasting its prey. The touch was maddening, making Su Yan squirm until he tumbled off the other’s lap, landing on the cloak spread across the damp ground.
The cloak was still cold and wet, but the heat between their bodies burned that chill away.
Wuming lifted Su Yan’s leg, his lips lingering with a strange devotion, as though each touch were worship. Su Yan startled, remembering how Ah Zhui once teased about dreaming of such things, never thinking it was true. Embarrassed, he tried to pull away, muttering, “Don’t—it’s dirty.”
But Wuming only reclaimed him, moving upward with a pilgrim’s fervor, each kiss deliberate, leaving Su Yan flushed and trembling.
The sensations overwhelmed him, his shaft hardened. His breathing quickened, his hands clutching desperately at Wuming, half wanting to push away, half wanting to draw him closer.
Wuming didn’t feel anything at all. He pulled his feet back and continued licking them, then licked and kissed his way up along his calves, like a devout believer on a pilgrimage.
Su Yan couldn’t bear the licking, and his p*nis became hard. Some clear liquid seeped out of his b*tt, making his legs wet and hot.
Wuming lowered his body between his legs, licked his legs clean without saying a word, and took his p*nis into his mouth.
Su Yan let out a short cry, bent over and grabbed his high ponytail tied with a black leather hair tie, as if trying to pull out, but actually went deeper.
Wuming swallowed his p*nis to the root.
Feeling himself enveloped by the moist heat of the cavity, his glans pressing against the soft flesh deep in his throat, which squeezed him from all sides, Su Yan gasped for air, his scalp tingling with pleasure. No wonder they say deep thro*ting is so pleasurable, it truly is… But the one who’s receiving it seems to feel nauseous due to the excessive stimulation to the throat?
He took a deep breath and tried to move himself back a little, but Wuming held his butt with his palm, not allowing him to retreat even a little.
Su Yan was soon overcome by the dual pressure of pleasure and fear. He couldn’t ej*culate in his mouth, as that was even worse than deep throating. He hurriedly grasped his shoulders and said hastily, “I’m going to… lose it. Let go!”
Wuming took a deep breath, neither too hard nor too soft.
Su Yan felt as if all his souls and spirits had been sucked away by him. His muscles were tensed to the extreme, and then suddenly relaxed, and he fell back limply on the cloak.
Wuming coughed while swallowing, but held it in. He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand and licked off the white liquid, not wasting a single drop.
Su Yan covered his eyes with the back of his hand, wanting to laugh and cry at the same time. In the end, he only said, “I won’t cry out in pain anymore. It’s up to you.”
Wuming turned him over, put him on his knees, and looked at his an*s in the dim light of the fire. He said, “There’s a little blood.”
Su Yan reached back and found his hands wet with intestinal fluid, no trace of blood, probably licked clean. Although it still hurt a little, he gritted his teeth and said, “It’s okay. Just go in slowly.”
Wuming knelt behind him in this most primitive and wild posture, holding the p*nis with his hand and pushing it in little by little.
This guy is still like this. He forgets to expand when the time comes. Su Yan smiled bitterly and buried his face in his bent arms.
Fortunately, his an*s was lubricated enough, so he tried his best to relax his muscles and cooperate with the entry of the other party’s huge p*nis.
This time the resistance was much smaller, and Wuming slowly pushed himself into the deepest part, wishing he could squeeze both s*cs in as well. An idea suddenly occurred to him: Don’t move too hastily, or else you’ll make a fool of yourself.
He had a vague feeling that this was advice from personal experience, and after just a few strokes, he knew the reason – it was hot, slippery, tight, and entangled inside, and the layers of flesh could twist and suck, and if he lost control, he would be defeated.
He had no time to care where this familiar feeling came from. He circulated his true energy to seal his sp*rm gate, held Su Yan’s waist and hips tightly with both hands, and thr*st in and out rapidly. Every thr*st seemed to hit into the other’s heart.
Su Yan knew that this b*stard was born with a dog waist, a precise and efficient pile driver, and he could make him c*m in less than a quarter of an hour. And he was also a long-lasting man. If he was allowed to indulge himself, he would not be finished for an hour and would make him c*m.
But the pleasure came so violently that he didn’t have time to worry. Su Yan couldn’t help but moan, and soon the moan turned into an unbearable cry: “Ah Zhui…slow…slow down…stop, stop…I can’t take it anymore…”
Wuming f*cked him hard while asking, “Who is Ah Zhui?”
“It’s you… Jinghong Zhui… I’ve always called you Ah Zhui… Ah – stop hitting there, I’m going to c*m -“
Wuming reached out and grasped his p*nis, blocking the entrance with his fingertips, and asked, “What’s your relationship with ‘Ah Zhui’?”
Su Yan was stopped at the critical moment of ejaculation. He trembled all over and cried, “Ah Zhui is my… personal bodyguard, and also… also…”
“What is that?” Wuming felt his brain throbbing. The translucent blood light in his vision kept twisting and distorting, like a dying monster. He gasped and demanded, “What is it? Tell me!”
Shame surrendered to pleasure, and Su Yan cried, “He is also… the person who will accompany me for the rest of my life…”
——Not enough, not enough. Wuming’s mind was completely occupied by an indescribable desire. He increased his speed again, f*cking Su Yan until his face was covered in tears and he screamed incoherently: “It’s me…my…Ah Zhui ah ah ah, you’re going to f*ck me to death!”
Wuming suddenly let go of his hand, and white liquid splashed out.
Su Yan ej*culated while trembling, whimpering unconsciously, and almost fainted in the white light of org*sm.
Wuming paused, waiting for him to slowly fall back to the ground from his blissful void. Once again, he felt that this scene was more than just familiar; it was vivid. He lay on top of Su Yan, licking and biting the back of his sweaty neck, and heard Su Yan call softly, “Ah Zhui.”
It was as if he had called out thousands of times, naturally, with his heart and mouth responding to each other, and deep affection hidden in the plainness.
Ah Zhui.
I know how good you are.
I will never sacrifice you for anyone, including myself.
Ah Zhui, you are an amazing person.
At this moment, I am also moved by you.
It was like a revelation, he suddenly woke up from the nightmare, and the bloodshot eyes finally dissipated –
He is Jinghong Zhui, the personal bodyguard of only one person.
“My Lord.”
Su Yan turned around and looked at him suddenly, with doubt in his eyes: “Ah Zhui?”
Jing Hongzhu helped him sit up, half-knelt, bent down and kissed the back of his feet: “I am here, what are your instructions?”
Tears welled up in Su Yan’s eyes and he blocked his mouth with his fist.
“If you have no other instructions…” Jinghong Zhui leaned on the ground with his arms, approaching his beloved master, his cheeks flushed and his breathing rapid, “I will continue.”
Su Yan stuttered with tears in her eyes: “Continue, continue what… No, how long will it take?”
“It’s hard to say. I’ll try a few more positions and try to be as quick as possible.”
“Change positions more often” and “as soon as possible”…aren’t they contradictory? Su Yan suddenly felt a little frightened and wanted to use the pee-avoiding method again: “I, I’m going to pee.” As he said this, he stood up to pick up the torn wet clothes next to him.
Jinghong Zhui grabbed his ankle and put it on her shoulder: “No need to go out of your way, it’s very cold outside.”
Su Yan said, “I have to pee urgently.”
Jinghong Zhui thought for a moment and asked, “I’ll f*ck you until you pee, okay?”
