The Vanishing Savior

“The Savior is missing?!” Bai Tian felt his mind reeling. “He was perfectly fine in the hospital ward—how could he just disappear under our noses?!”

“Did the surveillance cameras not catch anything? Was the main feed turned off?” He blinked his massive single eye, wincing at the throbbing in his skull. He shot to his feet, barking orders into the phone. “Secure the scene immediately! Close the hospital exits… Right.”

As he talked, Bai Tian’s gaze drifted across his office. The box of potato chips and snacks he’d prepared to appease Zhuo’s massive appetite earlier had vanished from his desk.

And the mini-fridge in the corner of his office stood wide open.

He walked over silently. To his utter bewilderment, a cold can of soda floated out of the fridge on its own, hovered in the air for a second, and then vanished.

“Zhuo?” Bai Tian stared blankly at the empty space.

“What?” the team leader on the phone asked, confused.

“Nothing. Just follow my security instructions for now. Lock down the perimeter,” Bai Tian hung up, but his tension didn’t ease.

A muffled, relaxed voice suddenly came from the empty air in front of his face: “You were on the phone with your boss, so I didn’t want to bother you.”

It was indeed Zhuo. He was currently completely invisible, standing in the middle of the office.

Bai Tian let out a long, exhausted breath. “Where did you all go?”

“To check out an organization called ‘Dawn Light,'” Zhuo’s voice echoed. “They’re currently in a daze in the suburbs. Yuan Anqing told me to come let you know so your cleanup crew can pick them up.”

He paused, then added, “He said you guys should search the place if you must, but don’t stress yourself out too much.” Zhuo helped himself to another cold drink from Bai Tian’s open fridge while speaking.

“It was Yuan Anqing’s idea to actively scout those organizations?” Bai Tian was genuinely surprised. The Savior had actually taken the initiative to investigate?

“No. It was mine,” Zhuo confessed honestly, popping the tab. “Yuan Anqing just wanted to sleep, but staying in that boring hospital room with those spies is sheer agony. I needed some action to keep my mind off things.”

“Hey, don’t look at me like that. I’m not doing anything bad,” Zhuo’s voice sounded highly offended. “You can’t completely restrict my behavior and hobbies, Bai Tian. My soul is free!”

“…How long will this ‘kidnapping’ of yours take?” Bai Tian wasn’t interested in Zhuo’s concept of constitutional freedom. Zhuo’s free will was far too dangerous; if not for Yuan Anqing’s emotional restraints, the city would probably be currently a pile of ash.

“No idea,” Zhuo grumbled. “Those organizations are surprisingly cunning. Yuan Anqing didn’t even manage to dig up anything useful from that minor supervisor’s memories in the salon.”

These rebel organizations communicated through extremely abstract, compartmentalized means. Low-level members didn’t even know what their superiors looked like or where the main base was. Their loyalty was solely to the utopian hope the organization promised them—the dream of the ‘New Humans.’

Zhuo found the human mind fascinating. People’s wishes were so contradictory: some wanted absolute, peaceful extinction, while others sought supreme power. Some yearned for a perfect family, others for absolute freedom. They wanted to stay young forever, yet hoped to age gracefully. They all pinned their hopes on the research into the Saviors’ flesh.

“I think if Yuan Anqing could physically execute a few of your government officers, those rebels would definitely trust him,” Zhuo suggested.

Instead of tensing up at the treasonous words, Bai Tian asked calmly, “How should we stage the deaths?”

“Wow! You are so cold-blooded!” Zhuo squawked. “You’d sacrifice your own colleagues just to extract information from the enemy!”

“Yuan Anqing won’t kill anyone anyway,” Bai Tian said, rubbing his temples. “Just tell us what you need, and the legal and tactical teams will figure out how to cooperate with your performance.”

“Boring,” Zhuo pouted, though Bai Tian couldn’t see his face. “We’ll head to their next designated base soon. There are plenty of surveillance cameras and traffic cops on that highway—just find some excuse to ‘discover’ us, and remember to prepare explosives.”

“Explosives?”

“I’ll use the fire and smoke from an explosion to hide us. Yuan Anqing can’t just vanish into thin air in front of witnesses; it would look too supernatural. We need to blow up our getaway car.”

“Understood,” Bai Tian nodded. “Make sure to protect the Savior.”

Zhuo didn’t reply.

“Zhuo?” Bai Tian called out.

Still no answer.

Bai Tian looked at the now-empty mini-fridge, sighed, and closed the door. Whenever Yuan Anqing wasn’t around to act as a parent, the monster had absolutely zero manners.

But he had to admit that Zhuo’s unconventional, chaotic ideas at least got the Savior motivated to do his job. That was a net positive.

In the beauty salon’s VIP room, Zhuo suddenly materialized back on the stretcher. The controlled crowd of nurses and spies stood frozen around him, their eyes vacant like zombies.

Yuan Anqing walked over. Zhuo placed Yuan Anqing’s cool hand directly over his own chest, then snapped his fingers.

The pupils of those around them suddenly contracted as they were released from the mental void. Astounded expressions instantly spread across their faces.

“He’s… he’s really healed?!” the elderly supervisor gasped, staring at Zhuo’s chest. “Not a single wound?! No blood?!”

Part of their memories had been neatly erased by Yuan Anqing’s power and replaced with new content. In the fabricated memory, Yuan Anqing had claimed the god-like ability to heal any disease and had used his “injured” bodyguard to demonstrate his Savior power.

Zhuo was glad his clothes wouldn’t magically rip when he healed; otherwise, they’d have to explain how his shirt repaired itself too.

“If you could save him so easily, why didn’t you do it from the start?” Yan Jin didn’t understand, rubbing his temples. “Why force us to carry him to the bathroom?”

“If I had healed him right away, the game would’ve been over,” Yuan Anqing’s tone was completely indifferent. “A Savior doesn’t need to explain his actions to the likes of you—just maintain your role.”

Yan Jin couldn’t comprehend it. It felt both absurd and terrifying. This Savior’s every action was driven purely by his own cold amusement.

Was he a Savior, or a demon?

“I’ve shown enough of my power. Now it’s your turn,” Yuan Anqing said, fixing his golden gaze on the supervisor. “Give me a reason to cooperate with your rebellion. These high school kids and low-level spies don’t count—they’re just failed, weak experiments.”

The group exchanged tense, sweating glances.

“What kind of proof do you want, Mr. Savior?” the supervisor asked.

“The harvested flesh of the previous Saviors,” Yuan Anqing extended his hand. “I’ve seen their residual spirits in my mind, but I’ve touched too little of their physical remains. Their words are always ambiguous and distorted.”

“I’m curious—what exactly did my predecessors go through before they died?” Yuan Anqing actually knew quite well why those Saviors had perished: they had succumbed to the existential Awakening and fallen into nothingness. “I don’t plan to join them in death anytime soon.”

As he spoke, he casually grabbed Zhuo’s chin. Yuan Anqing didn’t care about public restraint; his movement was almost rough, pulling Zhuo close to give him a gentle, lingering kiss on the corner of his lips before releasing him. “I’ve only just found the joy of living.”

Zhuo, manhandled by his Savior, let out a soft grunt as his head fell back, his cheeks slowly flushing a dark red.

Was the monster excited by the public intimacy, or was he shy? Either way, it looked completely abnormal to the spies—like the terrifying bodyguard had been thoroughly brainwashed and domesticated by the Savior, devoid of any self-respect.

A complete, tragic tool of a man, Yan Jin thought.

Yuan Anqing looked back at the supervisor, wiping his mouth. “See? I saved him. He is mine.”

Zhuo’s tail wagged under the sheet. “I’m so happy, Savior.” His words were genuine—so sincere that the spies’ expressions turned incredibly complicated.

“You’d better decide quickly. The authorities are hunting for us now,” Yuan Anqing pulled Zhuo off the stretcher.

Zhuo immediately wrapped his arms around Yuan Anqing’s waist, nuzzling against his neck.

Yuan Anqing’s eyes never left the supervisor. “My patience is very limited.”

Ten minutes later.

A battered gray minivan sped down the highway. The driver they had been assigned was someone rather special.

He was a massive celebrity—but unlike the minor C-list star from the park, even Yuan Anqing had seen many of his works back on Earth.

“Oh? I thought you were currently filming a blockbuster,” Zhuo said with interest, looking at the actor’s handsome face in the rearview mirror. “Your fans online said you were on a closed set.”

This was a seasoned actor, a legendary name in the industry—an actor, singer, and all-around idol with countless international awards. Yet his face remained remarkably young; he was just over three hundred years old, not yet considered old in this world.

“I do have a shoot scheduled,” the actor said with a warm, humble smile. He was tall and refined, his voice giving off a down-to-earth, reliable feeling. “But the Savior’s needs always come first.”

Zhuo hummed, entirely ignoring the flattery, and asked directly, “Can I see your script? Is it a romance?”

Zhuo wasn’t a fanboy. His absolute narcissism wouldn’t allow it. Before meeting Yuan Anqing, Zhuo believed no one in the world was more attractive than he was. If the authorities hadn’t kept such a tight leash on him, he was certain he would have become a legendary star himself. Still, he had a decent impression of this actor; his movies weren’t completely terrible.

“Sure, but I need to focus on driving right now. Once we arrive at the safehouse, you can read whatever you want, Mr. Zhuo.”

Yuan Anqing glanced at the back of the actor’s head. “Your public personality seems incredibly fake.”

The actor’s smile didn’t even waver. “Can the Savior see a person’s true character?” He didn’t bother to deny it.

“If you don’t want to smile, you don’t have to,” Yuan Anqing looked away, out the window. “Forcing your facial muscles to fake warmth is boring to look at.”

As instructed, the actor instantly dropped his smile, his face becoming cold and tired.

Yuan Anqing silently probed his memories in the void.

The actor’s name was Peng Jingchang, a man overflowing with repressed, neurotic emotions. Yuan Anqing could sense the chaotic, anxious tangle inside his mind. He suspected every whisper from his staff was a conspiracy against him. He was adept at observing, imitating, and pretending to be magnanimous, yet he secretly remembered every single hater account that left malicious comments, checking in on them daily. Now, Peng Jingchang could only sleep with heavy sedatives. He was utterly unsuited to the pressure of being a star.

What he desired was eerie. He hated his overthinking, insecure self. He wished to become the free-spirited, confident person he portrayed on screen. He wanted to physically “cut away” his weak side, so that everyone would love him—the new, unburdened, perfect version of himself.

“I’ve seen a lot of your movies,” Zhuo said from the backseat. “I didn’t expect a big star to be in a rebel organization. Are you high-ranking?”

“Not particularly. I don’t have the time to manage administrative affairs,” Peng Jingchang answered readily.

“Oh~” Zhuo nodded. “Hey, by the way… is it true you cheated on three different actresses and two actors back in your nineties?”

Swerve—!

The minivan suddenly lurched in a violent S-shape across the highway lanes.

Yuan Anqing’s eyes widened.

Zhuo quickly used his tail to shield Yuan Anqing from hitting the front seat, his expression darkening instantly. “How are you driving, you idiot?! Why did you jerk the wheel?!” His tone turned savage and commanding.

“You’ve lived for three hundred years and you can’t even drive a straight line properly?! Did you waste your centuries living like a dog?!” Zhuo was genuinely furious that his Savior had been jostled.

Peng Jingchang, suddenly getting screamed at by a passenger: “???”

Wasn’t this guy supposed to be his fan?

“So annoying. No professional ethics at all,” Zhuo kept grumbling. “You’re a driver right now, not an idol.”

“Seriously, why did they pick you to drive us? To show off your face?” Zhuo crossed his arms, huffing. “Putting an amateur behind the wheel—your organization really is a joke.”

Yuan Anqing: “…”

He no longer found Zhuo’s bossy attitude annoying, mostly because the monster’s anger was always directed at protecting him. But to others, Zhuo was a complete nightmare of a passenger.

Behind them, police sirens suddenly began to blare. The staged chase had begun.

Zhuo sneered. “See? Your terrible driving exposed our whereabouts. Useless star.”

Peng Jingchang’s inner anxiety spiked, his eye twitching.

Zhuo let out a loud, critical ‘tsk’ from the back, completely throwing the legendary actor off his balance.

Yuan Anqing: “…”