CHAPTER 130: LAN QÍSHĒNG’S FURY AND SĪĀN’S UNSPOKEN PAST

Lan Qíshēng noticed the shift first as a whisper, a subtle tightening in the air.

At the beginning, it was something he could almost ignore, something he could brush aside with a gentle smile or a casual remark. But as they walked deeper into the institute, the change in Sīān’s mood became undeniable. The weight of it pressed down like an invisible storm cloud, suffocating, oppressive, and terrifying in its silence.

Ever since they had agreed to visit this place, Sīān had been restless, his usual indifference sharpened into something darker. But here, within these sterile white halls and behind the heavy steel doors, the shift had grown monstrous. The very aura radiating from him seemed to choke the light out of the corridor, and Lan Qíshēng, despite his own strength, felt as though he were walking beside a void that threatened to swallow him whole.

And he had no idea why.

How could he, when Sīān never told him anything?

Not about his past.

Not about his thoughts.

Not about his feelings. Nothing.

Lan Qíshēng had long told himself it was fine. That he didn’t need to know everything. That love didn’t mean unraveling every secret. That as long as Sīān was here, alive and breathing, it was enough.

But it wasn’t fine.

It was never fine.

How could it be?

He had fallen for Sīān the very first moment their eyes met. He remembered it vividly, the strange pull, the inevitable gravity that told him: This is it. This is the one. And in that instant, he had given his heart away. Not half of it, not some of it—all of it.

Sīān was his first love and, he knew, his last.

He had been willing to do anything for him. He still was.

And yet, even after nights spent together—sharing the same bed, the same silence, the same warmth—Sīān’s heart had remained a fortress of stone. A fortress without gates, without cracks, without entry.

He never spoke of his life.

Never revealed his wounds.

Never opened up his soul.

Even his emotions, fleeting and fragile, were locked away. Lan Qíshēng had watched him suppress them again and again, shoving grief and rage and pain down into a bottomless pit. Every time Lan asked, every time he tried to reach across that invisible wall, Sīān would either fall silent or reject him outright.

It drove him mad.

And yet, he loved him still.

Lan Qíshēng bit down on his frustration, swallowed the storm rising in his chest, and finally reached out. His hand lifted slowly, tenderly, his fingers trembling with the desire to brush against Sīān’s face.

To touch him.

To reassure him.

To remind him—you’re not alone anymore.

But—

Smack!

The sound cracked like a whip in the narrow corridor.

His hand was slapped away with merciless force.

Shock widened Lan Qíshēng’s eyes. He lifted his gaze to meet Sīān’s, only to freeze at what he saw.

Those eyes—normally calm, detached, endlessly deep—were wild. Twisted. A vortex of chaos and agony spun inside them, the barely contained violence of a storm that could rip the world apart.

"Sīān..." His voice was hoarse, disbelief clawing at his throat.

But what slipped past his lips was harsher, rawer:

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

His voice carried anger—not at the foul mood, not at being rejected, but at the unbearable truth that once again, Sīān was shutting him out. Refusing to let him in. Refusing to share even the faintest sliver of the truth.

For a heartbeat, the corridor seemed to tremble between them.

Sīān’s expression twisted, a flicker of madness flashing before it was smothered. His lips pressed into a hard line, his jaw tight. And then, with a long breath, he closed his eyes.

Those eyes—gems rarer than any treasure in the world—slid shut as though sealing away every emotion that had threatened to spill. His shoulders rose and fell, his body visibly calming, as though he had wrestled the raging beast inside him back into its cage.

When he opened them again, the indifference had returned.

That familiar, infuriating mask.

"Let’s go find the child and get out of here." His voice was calm. Ordinary. As if nothing had happened.

Lan Qíshēng’s chest burned.

For just an instant, his own eyes darkened, a storm threatening to rise. But like Sīān, he smothered it, forcing himself into silence. Side by side, they continued walking, following the quiet footsteps of the trainee who guided them.

The man never spoke. Not once. His discipline was impeccable, his silence so complete that he might as well have been a shadow. It was easy to forget he existed at all.

The air between the lovers, however, was suffocating.

Silence roared louder than any words.

Lan Qíshēng’s hands clenched at his sides. He could feel the weight of unsaid truths pressing against his throat, but no matter how much he longed to shout, to demand, to beg, he bit them back.

Because he knew.

He knew Sīān was unwilling.

And Sīān... Sīān noticed.

He saw the longing in Lan’s eyes, the frustration barely hidden, the desperate need to know. His lover wanted to understand him. To ease his pain. To carry some of the burden that gnawed at him from within.

But—

He could not allow it.

Because everything that haunted him, everything that broke him, everything that carved scars into his soul—was tied to that world. That cursed, nightmarish world he had clawed his way out of.

And he would never speak of it.

Not because Lan Qíshēng wouldn’t believe him. That wasn’t it. Lan’s love was unwavering, loyal beyond reason. He would believe.

But Sīān himself—he refused.

He could not bring himself to voice those horrors. He could not bear to acknowledge them aloud.

He had escaped that hell. He was here, now. To speak of it would be to drag it back into existence, to relive it, to let it stain this fragile peace.

No. He would not.

The memories were enough. They clung to him like shadows, refusing to leave, whispering in his dreams, clawing at his soul.

That dark Chapter of his life...

His eyes narrowed, sharp as blades. Anyone foolish enough to meet them in that moment would feel their soul pierced through.

Because Sīān knew what he was.

He had always been insane.

And he knew it.

Looking back at his actions in that world—the blood, the cruelty, the madness—there was no denying it. He had terrified everyone. Not just his enemies. Not just strangers. Everyone. Even those who had fought beside him, even those who had called him comrade.

They had feared him more than they feared the flesh-eating monsters.

And perhaps, they had been right.

Yet... in this world, something had shifted.

Not only because of the peace he had stumbled into. Not only because of the warmth of a family he thought he’d never have again. Not only because of the man walking beside him now.

Yes, those were reasons. But they were not the root.

The root was suppression.

He had shoved every memory, every scream, every shadow into a massive black chest and buried it deep within the pit of his soul.

But sometimes... sometimes the lock rattled.

Fragments clawed their way free.

And when they did—he lost control.

Just like that day in the forest.

The terrorists had thought themselves predators. But before him, they had been prey. He had torn through them with a savagery that even now made his blood run cold.

Even afterward, whenever his control slipped, his emotions seized him like chains. Sometimes he pulled himself back. Sometimes he endured the pain.

But he knew—he knew with bone-deep certainty—that if he were ever forced to remember everything... if he were ever pushed to speak the truth of what had happened to him...

He would lose control completely.

And when that happened—he would destroy everything.

That was why they had called him the madman. Because when he broke, when the storm escaped, nothing survived.

In that other world, at least, there had been monsters—beasts he could unleash his fury upon, horrors he could slaughter to drown his grief and rage.

But here... here, in this fragile, human world... it would be a catastrophe.

And he was stronger now.

Far stronger than when he had first arrived, weak and broken, months ago.

...

The corridor twisted, turned, and coiled like a snake, leading them deeper into the belly of the institute. Finally, they reached a door unlike the others.

It was solid iron. No glass. No light. Just cold steel, looming and final.

For the first time, their silent escort spoke.

"The child is inside. The director said you may visit him after completing your tour."

And without waiting for a reply, the man disappeared into another corridor, his steps fading like a phantom.

Neither Sīān nor Lan Qíshēng gave him another thought.

Sīān pressed the door open.

The hinges groaned faintly, a sound like chains dragging.

He stepped inside.

And froze.

The room was small. Bare. A thin blanket lay crumpled on a single bed. A chair and table stood lonely against the wall. To the side, a door revealed a cramped bathroom.

But Sīān’s eyes fixed on the figure lying on the bed.

A child.

Thin. Frail. Facing the wall, uncovered by the blanket.

At the sound of the door, the boy stirred. Slowly, hesitantly, he turned his head.

The moment his gaze met Sīān’s, his eyes widened. Shock rippled across his young face—followed by something sharper.

Recognition.

And then—tears.

Big, fat tears welled in his eyes until they spilled over, streaking his pale cheeks. With a strangled cry, the boy scrambled to his feet. He stumbled once, twice, his knees hitting the floor painfully. But he didn’t stop.

He threw himself forward, flinging his small body into Sīān’s arms.

He clutched him with desperate force, burying his face against Sīān’s chest as though he had finally found the last anchor keeping him from drowning.

And Sīān...

Sīān did not move.

Not a single muscle.

He stood there, motionless, the child trembling in his embrace.

He endured.

And endured.

And pressed down on his emotions, strangling them into silence.

But his chest burned. His throat constricted. His eyes threatened to betray him.

Until finally—

The last thread snapped.