CHAPTER 123: FAREWELL TO THE CURSED ISLAND II

The people aboard the helicopter were stunned into silence. For a moment, the only sounds inside the cabin were the whirring blades overhead and the faint groans of the undead rising from below. They had already witnessed Sian’s vicious efficiency in battle—the way he tore through zombies without hesitation, how violence came to him as naturally as breathing. But still, nothing had prepared them for this.

He had leapt.

From the helicopter’s height—five, maybe six stories above the ground—he had let go and plunged into the abyss of the night. No one sane would dare attempt such a thing. That fall should have meant shattered bones, torn flesh, and death. Yet Sian had descended with all the nonchalance of a man stepping off a curb.

"Is he insane?" someone aboard whispered, though the question was pointless. They already knew the answer.

The helicopter hovered high, too high to climb easily. The ropes they had dropped took long minutes for anyone to scale, and every second felt like eternity with the howls of the horde rising from below. But Sīān? He hadn’t hesitated. He’d gone down, as though gravity itself was an ally he trusted rather than an enemy waiting to break him.

But then again—who was Sian?

Five stories? Six? Please. Back in his original world, he had leapt three times that height without blinking. Compared to that, this was child’s play.

Even now, even with half his strength sealed away, he was still far from weak. He liked to call himself lazy, claimed he longed for nothing more than the "salted-fish life"—idle days and careless nights. Yet Sian was no true sluggard. His body still remembered discipline. His hands still itched for combat. He still sparred with Lán Qíshēng from time to time, the way a predator stretches its claws even when it swears it has no interest in the hunt.

And so, as he descended, there was no panic, no strain. Only grace.

He moved along the rope as though he were not dangling between sky and death but instead performing on some grand, invisible stage. His movements were fluid, precise, breathtaking. The descent was panoramic in scope, every angle perfect, as though choreographed. His limbs extended, shifted, twisted with balance that belonged less to a soldier and more to a dancer.

When he coiled his body, spun twice in a smooth horizontal arc, and then shifted vertically in a sudden, breathtaking maneuver, those watching from above could hardly breathe. He wrapped the rope once around his arm, slowed his fall, pivoted midair, and finally—lightly, effortlessly—his boots met the earth.

And he did it with such casual perfection that it was almost insulting.

Beside him, a young soldier stood frozen. His blue eyes widened until they seemed to drink in the night, and his mouth hung open in astonishment. To Sian, the man looked like a startled pup—adorable in his wide-eyed awe, even under the shadow of danger.

Then—bang!

A single gunshot split the night. Smoke curled upward from Sīān’s weapon. Only then did the foolish pup jolt back to reality, blinking rapidly as he registered the zombie that had crept dangerously close to him.

"You’re welcome," Sian said, his voice thick with arrogance.

But if one listened carefully—if one were Lán Qíshēng—one might hear the faint, hidden curve of laughter buried beneath that arrogance. Because, of course, Sian wasn’t mocking his beloved pup’s stupidity. No, never. How could he, when it was precisely that foolishness that made him... his?

"Sian, why did you come down? Hurry and climb back up—"

"Oh, if a certain someone had just hauled his ass up faster, I wouldn’t have had to come down in the first place."

The words dripped with sarcasm, but underneath them lay something quieter, harder to ignore—concern. Worry.

Lán Qíshēng opened his mouth, then shut it again. Silence was safer.

"Anyway," Sian muttered, turning back toward the advancing horde, "don’t fret. I’m too lazy and too tired tonight to bother fighting this trash. I’m sick of the smell of blood already."

Yet his hands never stilled. Gunfire cracked in rhythm, every bullet striking true, cutting down any zombie foolish enough to stumble closer. And naturally, Lán Qíshēng fought beside him, blade flashing, eyes narrowing.

"Hold onto me."

Even as he fought, Sian had secured the rope firmly around his own body. His voice, cool and unyielding, brooked no argument. Lán Qíshēng was to cling to him, and that was that.

And under the pale light spilling from above, Sian was a vision.

His skin glowed faintly, unnaturally pale against the shadows of the night. No blood stained his face, not a speck sullied his body despite the battlefield around him. The only exception was his right hand, the hand that had gripped the rope when he leapt—now painted entirely in crimson. Under the sweeping lights of the helicopter, that scarlet gleam was impossible to miss.

Lán Qíshēng stared. He saw everything: the exhaustion etched into Sian’s face, the weariness carved into every line. The faint boredom, as though this massacre were no more interesting than swatting flies. The dried blood was clinging to his hand like ink on pale parchment. And then those eyes—oh, those eyes. They blazed like suns, furious and bright, as though he himself were the core of the cosmos.

And Lán Qíshēng’s heart thudded once, painfully loud.

"Really, Lán Qíshēng?" Sian’s brow arched, his tone sharp, his expression unreadable. "Now is the time to stare at me with eyes full of lust and obsession? Eyes that scream You want to bed me?"

Color drained from Lán Qíshēng’s face. "W-what are you saying... I wasn’t—" His gaze darted away, frantic, guilt scrawled in bold letters across his forehead.

Sian almost smirked.

Because, of course, Lán Qíshēng had never been one to hide his desires. From the start, he had spoken his thoughts shamelessly—sometimes vulgar, sometimes blunt, always direct. But this time, Sīān had stripped him bare with words, left him floundering.

For a heartbeat, the man looked chastised. Then, two seconds later, he lifted his gaze again—like a puppy too stubborn to stay cowed. His voice, when it came, was startlingly calm, startlingly bold.

"Then... can we at least do it when we get home?"

Sian: "..."

He had always known Lán Qíshēng was shameless. But this is shameless? He hadn’t imagined.

With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of lifetimes, Sian turned away, refusing to dignify that request with more than silence. "Focus."

And so Lán Qíshēng obeyed. He clung to him like a koala, wrapping around him in a way that might have been comical had death not been waiting below. Sian was shorter, leaner, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was survival.

At last, Sian braced himself and pulled hard on the rope. His voice rose, commanding, sharp enough to slice through the roaring blades above. "Pull us up!"

Jiāo, watching anxiously from the cabin, caught sight of the signal and barked an order at the pilot. The helicopter engines roared, the machine straining as it began to ascend.

Below, the zombies swarmed the empty ground. Too late. Their prey was already climbing skyward. The monsters howled, clawing at the air, gnashing teeth in frustration.

But who cared?

Relief spilled through the cabin above like cool water. Shoulders sagged. Breaths released. Hearts slowed their frantic pounding.

They had made it off the cursed island.

Not without losses, no. Too many had fallen, their screams swallowed by the endless night. But those who remained—they had survived. And survival was victory enough.

Life always went on. Humans always moved forward, no matter the scars left behind. Forgetting was both a curse and a gift.

Sian remembered an old saying: in one tongue, the word for "human" came from the root meaning "to forget." Perhaps that was why people endured. Forgetting was not a weakness. It was a necessity.

The night began to bleed into dawn.

From high above the island—its ancient name lost to time, known now only as the Cursed Island—the sky was filled with helicopters. They rose together, dark silhouettes against the orange edge of sunrise, carrying the battered remnants of humanity toward fragile hope.

Victory. Fragile, temporary, but a victory nonetheless.

Even before the survivors reached safety, a meeting was convened in the capital. Military brass, government heads, intelligence officials—every branch of power assembled through video link. And within an hour, the decision was unanimous.

The island must burn.

Resources were pooled. Plans were executed. Within a day, the cursed ground was ablaze.

Smoke billowed in columns so thick they blotted out the horizon. From the city’s ports, even miles away, people stared in silence as flames rose skyward.

The sight was worse than a volcanic eruption.

It was annihilation.

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Black Box.

Sian dangled from the rope, the ground now far below, the horizon painted in fire and ash. The rope bit into his waist, but that wasn’t what drew his attention. What drew it was the pair of hands—unwelcome, intrusive—slipping where they didn’t belong.

His eye twitched. "..."

"Lán Qíshēng," he said at last, his voice low, dangerous. "Believe it or not—I just saved you from becoming zombie food. But I can just as easily toss you down to become shark bait instead. Want to try?"

Lan Qisheng:"..."

Lán Qíshēng, who believed that after facing life and death together their relationship had surely advanced, gazed at the beautiful sunrise, the firelight painting the clouds in crimson and gold, and he felt it was the perfect moment.

The perfect memory to carve into eternity

Lan Qisheng’s only thought was—

( Why is my beloved so impossibly cold to me? ...sob.)

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