Chapter 125 Rescue
Daniga thought he would die ridiculously in prison without even knowing who killed him.
He didn't expect that he could still open his eyes. Someone pulled open his eyelids, and the sudden light stimulated him to squint subconsciously, and then he heard a cold voice.
"Conscious."
Another familiar face squeezed in. Even through the brown skin, one could see that the other person's face was extremely dark. Even Daniga, who was still in a daze, couldn't help but instinctively shrink his neck.
The man grabbed his collar and said in a very gloomy tone: "Danija Asaqi, you are really great."
His boss looked like he wanted to stab him.
A soft and gentle voice saved his life: "Don't waste my healing spell."
Daniga was almost grateful to the man. Only then did he realize that he was lying on the floor, surrounded by tall bookshelves that reached the ceiling. Countless books looked down at him in an oppressive manner, and he always had the illusion that they would collapse at any time.
He sat up suddenly, and only then realized that the hole in his chest had been repaired by someone. Only the clothes stuck with blood were left, proving that what happened in the Inquisition was not a nightmare.
The professor was originally squatting beside the assassin, watching the savior repairing the human body with great interest. As a result, the person he was observing suddenly sat up with a whoosh, which scared him. Fortunately, the people around him had foreseen it and gently supported his shoulders to help him stabilize his center of gravity.
"I'm not dead?" Daniga didn't notice these small details. He looked around in confusion: "Where's Adrian? And that couple..."
"I saved it."
The assassin leader's face was terribly gloomy. He looked irritable and ferocious, like a nocturnal predator ready to attack at any moment.
"Um, boss, how was that evening...?" Daniga smiled awkwardly. Ole gave the boy a look that said I'll deal with him later, then stopped looking at the upset brother and turned to look in the direction of Nova.
The other person had already stood up, his brows furrowed, his expression looking particularly gloomy, as if he was about to spray venom in the next second - Ole was still confused when he saw his friend had skillfully supported the person and tested the temperature of the other person's forehead with the back of his hand.
"Do you have a headache? Or are you feeling unwell somewhere?"
…No matter how many times, Ole wanted to complain about his friend's attitude towards the tyrant; it was so gentle and considerate that it was creepy. Although this guy was very good at pretending, as long as they were together for a long time, that cold and distant feeling could not be concealed - honestly, he had never seen this man so patient with anyone.
"...It's nothing." The professor said with his eyelids drooping gloomily. "It's orthostatic hypotension caused by standing up suddenly after squatting for a long time."
My feet are still a little numb.
Ole: “…”
It was this fragile creature that he could kill with just one punch. After being told by his students that Adrian had disappeared for no reason, he suddenly asked him to go to the prison of the Inquisition to rescue him. If he had been even a step late, the brother he had sworn to protect would have died silently in this cold snowy night.
The second male lead took a deep breath, bowed his head to his former greatest enemy, and promised in a deep voice: "I owe you again."
"I advise you not to count." The other party glanced at him coldly. "Otherwise, with your unorganized and undisciplined operation, you will soon find that from now on, all the crows raised by the Shadow Chasers will belong to me."
...It’s still the familiar recipe, the familiar taste.
Ole was somewhat surprised to find that he didn't feel much anger in his heart. It might be that he had become numb, or it might be that what the other party said was absolutely right.
"You killed an outsider." The professor's smoky gray eyes looked at him calmly.
"I had to," Ole replied coldly, "He saw my face and knew Daniga's identity."
Nova calmly analyzed, "I've deduced the movements of this group of outsiders. They aren't members of the Inquisition, but they likely have some kind of cooperative relationship—perhaps with the Inquisition providing them with experimental subjects. Previously, the work was handled by lower-level personnel, but recently, higher-level personnel arrived for special reasons. Daniga Asachi likely just happened to run into them."
Daniga stared in awe at the pale, thin, black-haired man before him—how on earth had this gentleman been able to deduce so much information from such a mess?!
"The purpose of saving the Masons is quite obvious. They won't think of the Shadow Chaser for now, but they will suspect White Tower University." Nova sneered. "This will deeply irritate the Vatican, and the conflict will intensify again. But this is the situation I need, so it's not a big problem."
Ole watched him in silence.
——Has this person in front of me actually taken into account Indaniga's impulsive risk and the series of consequences it caused?
Given his understanding of tyrants, this wasn't impossible. Once someone stepped onto a tyrant's chessboard, they were his puppets, forced to dance to his will or be dismembered and turned into fuel.
It was a very familiar despair and fear, an almost inescapable fate - but was he a liar full of lies, a treacherous villain with deep scheming... or was he a cold, cruel, and crazy savior who tried to save everything by destroying it?
The tyrant suddenly yawned, and a few physiological tears made his eyelashes wet, which unexpectedly made him look much more harmless. Ole saw his friend's fingers suddenly move, as if he was suppressing some impulse.
"You must all sit in my study late at night, staring at each other like idiots, wasting my time?" the professor retorted, extremely dissatisfied. "Next time any of you plan to do something stupid, please let me know in advance. I will arrange a time based on my workload and provide coffee in accordance with my teaching assistant application."
The teaching assistant: “…”
At least I know I have to apply to him, so that's progress - but don't even think about it.
He smiled and stood up to see them off, or rather, to unceremoniously drive the assassins out. Turning around, he saw his nemesis huddled on the sofa, completely disfigured, rubbing his temples, looking listless.
He sighed softly, stood beside the man, lowered his eyes and looked at the other person's overly pale face.
"Headache?"
“…Hmm.”
The savior's voice was so low and gentle that it was hard to arouse any vigilance. "Do you need me to massage you?"
Nova glanced at him, hesitated for a moment, and slowly moved closer - but the other party did not move, and his tone was light.
"Go lie down on the bed."
...seemed a bit too intimate. But by the time he realized what was happening, he was already lying on the other person's lap, his warm, powerful fingers slowly massaging along the meridians, the swelling and pain quickly relieved, the comfort so great that he almost let out a trembling murmur from his throat.
His upper body was warm and comfortable, the breath and warmth of a human body reassuring. The rest of him was mired in a cold, rough darkness, but it didn't matter. He almost fell into a deep sleep—but the long-awaited slumber never managed to rise to greet him. Familiar, shapeless images flashed through his mind. The smell of childhood, the disinfectant from the hospital, a woman whose face he couldn't see clearly, kneeling down to touch his face. She said sorry, then, without hesitation, turned and left with another figure...
The psychiatrist's mouth opened and closed, telling him that he had to accept his childhood trauma, that being abandoned by his parents was not his fault, and that all his suffering was pathological... Of course he knew that this was a stupid, chaotic, transparent world where human thinking made the gods laugh and that self-pity was useless. He had carried malice, but he had also accepted kindness, so he was still alive.
So he tried to dive deeper... Countless chaotic points of light flickered in his mind. They were bloody faces, the living, the dead, those that had happened, those that had not happened, all shouting in unison that everything was his fault. He looked at these undead souls with arrogance and indifference, those great and small, noble and humble dead.
Admit it, you can't save the world, a voice in his mind sneered loudly, of course no one can save the world, but you are even more pathetic, you can't save anyone, you can't even save yourself, you poor thing tortured by a diseased brain.
All the broken, boring fragments from two worlds still shaped him, and damn it, he couldn't escape, he was trapped in these weak, tired and despicable memories, he was the only outsider on a planet full of countless people.
Worse still, the slight warmth he felt was fading. He subconsciously reached out to grasp it, like ancient people praying for fire from the sky. Perhaps he could only control the limbs in his dreams, after all, real flesh was so crude and heavy, it was just a damp, cold corpse—but he succeeded. A slightly cool touch spread across his forehead, and then he seemed to have entered a narrower and safer nest.
"Don't be afraid, I won't leave."
Who whispered a promise in his ear.
There is no such thing as "never leaving" in the world. He thought that humans would always betray him, and he would betray humans again and again.
...But it was too warm, warm and dark, giving him the urge to forget all rationality. He had once stumbled through the world, muddle-headed and blind, like a wild animal surviving only on instinct. Then someone tried to hold him back with kindness, discipline him with love, and constrain him with burning ideals—so be it, he said. He was probably a loyal yet dull mirror, reflecting everything the world had ever given him.
Azuka lowered his eyes. His nemesis' fingers, even in his sleep, subconsciously clutched at his clothes, and he patted his back for a moment before gradually relaxing. There was something strangely... clingy about him when he wasn't conscious, or perhaps it was simply a survival instinct, a human desire for the warmth and embrace of a companion. He could only glimpse a glimpse of the immense pressure and pain he felt.
"I won't leave," the savior promised softly once more, gently kissing his former enemy's forehead. He purred softly in his throat, leaning towards him quietly, his breathing softening, a comforting thought that almost softened his heart.
…My moon. My moon.
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