The Price of Possessiveness

“Your current state isn’t right,” Chen Jiao observed, her expression far from pleasant. “Have you become a little too complacent lately, Mr. Savior?”

“Complacent?” Yuan Anqing found the notion baffling.

Chen Jiao was perhaps the only one who perceived Yuan Anqing as having become more lively. “You’ve been incredibly active lately—practically glowing, as if some great fortune has suddenly befallen you.”

She paused, then turned to look at the silent Zhuo. “Though, it’s true you’ve encountered no small stroke of luck.” For people like them, finding friends was already difficult; finding a partner was almost impossible.

Zhuo’s hostile expression finally softened slightly at her words. He no longer loudly retorted, but instead sat quietly on the hospital sofa, his massive arms crossed.

“Finding a relationship where you feel comfortable is, of course, a good thing,” Chen Jiao stated. “But I don’t believe you should long-term indulge in a tender, comfortable embrace and lower your guard. Since you’ve finally started to care about living, you should do everything in your power to survive. There are many dangerous people out there watching us, you know.”

“I haven’t let down my guard,” Yuan Anqing replied smoothly. He agreed with Chen Jiao’s sentiment, yet he felt perfectly safe simply by having Zhuo by his side.

“He is safest when he is with me,” Zhuo chimed in, directing his words defensively at Chen Jiao.

Chen Jiao took another sip of her hot tea. “These past few days, I’ve been helping the field agents with the aura cleansing of those low-grade mutants. I’m quite certain I cleansed them thoroughly, but I didn’t encounter any residual spirits of the former Saviors like you did.”

“My mental stats are maxed out,” Yuan Anqing reminded her. “I benefited from my specialized power. Those two ghosts thought I was over a hundred years old because of my mental depth.”

“Being hyperspecialized can indeed be useful,” Chen Jiao mused.

“Indeed. I’ve never experienced this feeling of total mental clarity before.”

Surprisingly, they clinked their cups together, despite both of them holding insulated corporate travel mugs.

Zhuo grew instantly wary once more. Just when Chen Jiao seemed somewhat agreeable, he now felt she was a significant threat to his monopoly on Yuan’s attention.

“You can’t forbid your husband from making friends, Zhuo,” Chen Jiao said, raising her water cup toward him in a mocking toast. “If your possessiveness is too strong, your relationship will easily run into trouble.”

Zhuo’s mouth snapped shut. He glared at Chen Jiao, then looked down at his own lap. “We love each other. But we are also the best of friends.”

“Friends with too much possessiveness can also lead to domestic problems,” Chen Jiao remarked. She had seen all sorts of children in her teaching career, and she didn’t think Zhuo’s emotional maturity was much higher than a middle schooler’s. Some children were extremely possessive of their friends, often having only one person they allowed close. They would become violently jealous if their friend spoke to anyone else for too long.

“I hope you won’t grow to hate me in the future, Zhuo,” Yuan Anqing said.

Zhuo was visibly bewildered by Yuan Anqing’s sudden words. “Why would I ever hate you?”

“Because my possessiveness is actually far stronger than yours,” Yuan Anqing curved his lips into a slight, dangerous smile.

“Your possessiveness isn’t strong at all! You even found a teenager for me to play with!” Zhuo huffed, believing Yuan Anqing was simply coaxing him. Yuan Anqing was skilled at coaxing him, and Zhuo, for his part, fell for it every single time.

“Because I knew you wouldn’t fall for a child,” Yuan Anqing said casually. “If you were to ever fall for someone else, I would probably trap your consciousness in my mental world, and you would never be allowed to escape.”

His tone was utterly flat—so calm and matter-of-fact that it sent a genuine shiver down Zhuo’s spine.

“Isn’t… isn’t that a bit too much?” Zhuo’s voice went thin, tinged with a hint of genuine, thrilled fear.

Chen Jiao raised her eyebrows slightly. She noticed Zhuo’s face was beginning to flush bright red again.

Where exactly is this monster’s shy spot? she wondered.

She didn’t understand, nor did she intend to ask. She had a premonition that she wouldn’t receive a normal, PG-13 answer. So, she simply changed the subject. “Would you mind searching my mental world, Mr. Yuan?”

“That’s a very dangerous act,” Yuan Anqing said, surprised. “You know how absolute my control over the mental domain is.”

“Those two deceased Saviors are gone, and your partner here rejects any newcomers,” Chen Jiao tilted her chin toward Zhuo. “Now, the only ones left who can uncover the truth about our pasts are you and me. You’re too specialized; I can’t probe your world, so it’s up to you to investigate mine.”

Moreover, Chen Jiao trusted Yuan Anqing. She didn’t believe he would harm her.

“I want to see too,” Zhuo interjected. He wanted to make sure Chen Jiao and Yuan Anqing didn’t have some secret, deep connection he was excluded from.

“Alright,” Chen Jiao agreed without even haggling. Zhuo was no longer restricted; if he wanted to kill someone, it would be simple.

“Are you… sure you want to see?” Yuan Anqing asked Zhuo. He didn’t know about his own past, but Chen Jiao’s life on Earth had been remarkably mundane.

“Yes! I want to see!” Zhuo nodded. He disliked the intimate, understanding aura between Chen Jiao and Yuan Anqing—a bond that felt like kindred spirits. He believed he could study her memories to learn how to be a better friend.

Yuan Anqing’s face showed worry. Zhuo, however, was utterly fearless.

Three minutes later, Zhuo paid the price for his impulsiveness.

He had no special romantic filter for Chen Jiao’s memories, unlike those of Yuan Anqing, whose very breathing he could observe for ages. After observing Chen Jiao’s aimless, passionless academic memories, Zhuo felt as if he were about to suffocate from boredom.

“Her grades were so good!” Zhuo squawked in disbelief. “Why on earth would she choose to study at a normal university?!”

“You shouldn’t be prejudiced against normal universities; they’re very difficult to get into,” Yuan Anqing explained.

“With her high school scores, she could have had way better options!” Zhuo still found her life choices outrageous.

Yuan Anqing met Zhuo’s gaze. Zhuo suddenly understood the implication, and his tone shifted to a defensive whisper. “But… your choices in life are excellent, Savior.”

Yuan Anqing helplessly covered his forehead. “…”

Ordinary people still possessed normal, messy emotions; they would make mistakes, lie, mess things up, argue, and fight. Their lives were filled with intricate relationships. But people like Yuan Anqing and Chen Jiao did not. When faced with an overwhelming amount of emotion, they chose to ignore it. They were more adept at handling problems with a gentle yet cold, external approach.

“What the hell? Her friends actually befriended her because they thought she was being bullied?!” Zhuo was utterly shocked by her college memories. “How could she possibly be bullied? She’s terrifying!”

“The empathy of those girls was indeed a little stronger,” Yuan Anqing seemed to ponder. “I was similar in school, but my classmates only thought I was aloof and pretentious.”

“She didn’t even spark any emotional flames with the friendships she cherished most!” Zhuo clenched his fists, on the verge of a breakdown from the lack of drama. “What exactly is this woman thinking?”

“There were flames,” Yuan Anqing said, pointing at the group of girls in the memory. “Look, she even let them copy her math homework. It wasn’t because she was threatened, but voluntarily. For her, that is an extreme act of love.”

Was that considered emotion? Zhuo remained highly skeptical.

However, Yuan Anqing had already begun to reflect. “She genuinely cared about her friends, which means that, under the right conditions, we can also experience normal emotions in our own ways.”

“In the simulated timeline where both you and I were high school students, I also fell in love with you, and I had physical reactions,” Yuan Anqing said. He hadn’t suddenly developed desires the moment he arrived in this world; his desires had been slowly enticed out by Zhuo’s presence.

“The authorities might not be suppressing our emotions,” Yuan Anqing said, looking at Zhuo’s face. “We might be suppressing ourselves out of habit.”

“Are you saying you’re both masochists who don’t want to have happy, normal lives?” Zhuo asked.

“Not exactly masochists, as we don’t feel much pain either,” Yuan Anqing thought for a moment, then added, “Those who tried to provoke me in my past life would eventually become exasperated by my total lack of reaction. Their emotions would swing wildly, while I remained completely unaffected.”

Zhuo did not respond.

Yuan Anqing suddenly recalled something. “Of course… I’m not talking about you.”

At the very beginning of their relationship, it was always Zhuo being unreasonable, with Yuan Anqing ignoring or complying, and Zhuo was always the one who ended up frustrated.

Zhuo still said nothing.

“Are you angry?” Yuan Anqing asked him.

“No,” Zhuo pursed his lips, his ears turning pink. “I just feel so embarrassed.”

Yuan Anqing’s words made him recall his most obnoxious, childish period, when he sought to trouble Yuan Anqing, hoping to see him break down, to make him cry and beg. Now, looking back, Yuan Anqing had probably viewed him like a misbehaving toddler in a kindergarten class.

Zhuo wanted to cover his head and wail, to crawl into a crack in the floor, or to beat up his past self.

Yuan Anqing didn’t know how to comfort him. He felt that if he dared to say, “Actually, I found you quite cute back then,” Zhuo would be so ashamed he’d curl into a ball on the spot.

So, Yuan Anqing began to change the subject. “I still know too little about myself.” His voice held a hint of quiet sadness.

“No one can fully understand themselves, you know,” Zhuo immediately began to comfort him, patting his arm. “I don’t really understand myself either.”

“They say I’m an orphan.” Yuan Anqing took the opportunity to lean his weight against Zhuo’s chest. “Now I wonder if my parents on Earth were even real.”

“Having them or not makes little difference.” Zhuo felt that ‘parents’ was just a biological label. After all, the first meal he ever ate was his own mutated progenitors.

Zhuo hugged Yuan Anqing tightly, his heart aching for him. “Having me is enough; I can raise you very well too.”

Yuan Anqing: “…That won’t be necessary. I don’t want to live on stolen groceries.”

He quickly skimmed through Chen Jiao’s memories, finding no inconsistencies within them. It was a remarkably complete world, with a history very similar to Yuan Anqing’s own, though the countries differed. These diverse nations and cultures influenced each other’s development, reaching an almost excessive level of perfection.

Chen Jiao, like Zhuo, seemed to be an observer of her world. Yuan Anqing finished viewing her 51 years of life. Throughout those 51 years, Chen Jiao had been consistently indifferent and uninteresting. She possessed slightly more emotion than Yuan Anqing, but she had never wept for any tragedy.

Younger Chen Jiao seemed to have been more curious, but gradually, those active emotions were reabsorbed.

Yuan Anqing exited Chen Jiao’s mental world.

Yet, at the very moment of disconnection, he seemed to hear a voice.

Child… are you looking for me?

The voice was genderless and incredibly gentle, as if emanating from a very distant, ancient place.

Yuan Anqing’s expression grew serious after leaving the mental world. “Zhuo, did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Zhuo didn’t understand.

Yuan Anqing understood then; Zhuo had not perceived the sound.

“Did you find something amiss?” Chen Jiao asked.

“There was a voice calling me that didn’t belong to you,” Yuan Anqing said, his gold-flecked eyes narrowing. “It felt like it was echoing from outside the simulation.”

“Someone in my memories?” Chen Jiao asked.

“No, no one in your memories has a voice like that.” Yuan Anqing’s eyes had already turned gold. “Let me look again.”

Chen Jiao nodded. Having already expressed her trust, she naturally wouldn’t obstruct his investigation.

Yuan Anqing delved into her memories again, going back and forth five or six times, but he never found that voice again.

“Hey, you’re starting to look a bit neurotic,” Chen Jiao noticed the gold in his eyes growing brighter, sweat beading on his forehead. “What exactly was that voice?”

Zhuo was already patting Yuan Anqing’s back, helping him calm down.

“I can’t quite describe it, but it felt very familiar,” Yuan Anqing said. He felt that the entity was immense. This feeling was utterly preposterous; it was merely a voice, yet he felt that the other party was grand, magnificent. This immensity wasn’t the kind of gigantic physical transformation that beings like Zhuo underwent, but rather something vast—like the four seasons, like the ocean. “Like a god?” He even found the thought amusing as he spoke it.

But Yuan Anqing couldn’t laugh. He knew this couldn’t be a misjudgment; in one instant, he had truly felt such a presence. It was complex, dazzling, and beyond his comprehension.

“There are no gods in this world,” Zhuo said, always the staunch atheist. “If there are gods, then it’s me… or you. I don’t accept any other gods.”

“It’s not the supreme power you imagine,” Yuan Anqing clutched his forehead. “He was somewhat like a gentle old man running a small convenience store; despite his power, he didn’t make me feel threatened.”

Zhuo tried to understand. “A colorful old man, sparkling with light?”

“Hmm,” Chen Jiao hummed. “What a strange description.”

“I told you, besides you, no Savior is any good,” Zhuo grumbled, massaging Yuan Anqing’s temples. “The two who died before corrupted you. Now, this one who’s still alive is making you suffer a nervous breakdown.”

“I’m quite sure no sparkling old convenience store owner exists in my memories,” Chen Jiao said, her tone sharp. “But your partner probably perceived something deeper, given that all his skills are focused on mental abilities.”

Just as Zhuo was about to argue with Chen Jiao, the doorbell rang.

A guard outside pushed the door open. “Mr. Yuan, Ms. Chen, Mr. Zhuo, we have seized a batch of processed meat products. It is highly likely that the harvested flesh of the mutated Saviors has been mixed into them.”

The three people in the room exchanged grim glances, while Zheng Xiao’an in the corner was diligently writing on their exam paper.

“Shall we go take a look?” Yuan Anqing asked.

Zhuo stared at the guard with a serious expression. “You should say Mr. Yuan and Mr. Zhuo together. You can put Ms. Chen first or last, but you can’t squeeze her in between us.”

“Don’t be so strict about such things,” Yuan Anqing patted Zhuo’s back. “The order of names doesn’t prove anything.”

Zhuo didn’t agree, but Chen Jiao completely ignored the argument. She simply walked out, following the guard.

“She’s ignoring me!” Zhuo exclaimed, astonished.

“You talked badly about her to her face and then expect her to acknowledge you?” Yuan Anqing was helpless. He always felt that Zhuo now resembled a protective, territorial hen, ready to fight at any moment.

Chen Jiao was occupied with her own thoughts. If not for her high emotional intelligence and the fact that she genuinely couldn’t beat Zhuo in a physical fight, she probably would have started cursing.

However, Zhuo’s attention was quickly diverted because he caught a whiff of a foul odor.

Yuan Anqing and Chen Jiao simultaneously covered their noses. It was the smell of decaying protein—the unmistakable stench of a corpse.

Yet, it seemed only the three of them could smell the odor. The leading guard remained unfazed, only pausing when he noticed them covering their noses, asking if they needed masks.

All three shook their heads. Such a smell could not be blocked by a mask.

“What exactly did you find?” Yuan Anqing felt his brain was about to explode from the stench.

“Just some raw ground meat for wontons and dumplings,” the guard explained. “There should only be a very small amount of Savior flesh mixed into the ordinary pork.”

“This is literally the most disgusting meat filling in the world!” Zhuo exclaimed, deeply irritated. “I won’t help you solve this problem; I absolutely refuse to eat this stuff!”

“But this meat filling would be very nutritious for you, wouldn’t it?” Chen Jiao noted. “Whether a Savior was dead or alive, as long as Zhuo consumes them, he can assimilate their power.”

“Why do I need more power?!” Zhuo snapped. “My life is going great right now; I don’t need to get any stronger!”

“Let me see if there’s another way to dispose of the resentment first,” Yuan Anqing said, his brows tightly furrowed. The smell was truly unbearable, and he didn’t want Zhuo to put that thing in his mouth; Zhuo wasn’t a garbage disposal.

Yuan Anqing followed the guard to the plate holding the raw, pink ground meat. To an ordinary human’s nose, this stuff actually smelled good, seasoned with ginger and scallions. However, in Yuan Anqing’s gold-flecked eyes, a very thick gray aura was swirling above the meat, so dense that he could barely discern the true form of the minced pork. That gray aura was resentment; its sole desire was to destroy everything.

Yuan Anqing was about to step forward to touch it, but Zhuo violently pulled him back.

“Wait! I thought about it, and it still feels unreliable,” Zhuo panicked. He didn’t want Yuan Anqing’s bare hands touching that corrupt mass either. “I’ll just eat it.”

Although the raw meat was disgusting, it was harmless to Zhuo’s superior biology. “I’ll just pretend I’m swallowing bitter gourd.”

Yuan Anqing shook his head. “No. Let me touch them. I’ll try to see if I can use my golden flames to strip away this resentment.”

He pulled his arm free, reaching out toward the minced meat.

Just as his fingers were about to make contact, the minced meat suddenly vanished from the plate.

Yuan Anqing’s eyes widened.

Ugh. Zhuo let out a violent, dry retch beside him.

Yuan Anqing, instantly realizing where the raw meat had gone, reached out and cupped Zhuo’s cheeks. With a firm squeeze, he forced Zhuo’s jaw open. “Zhuo! Open your mouth!”

Yuan Anqing intended to induce vomiting by reaching into Zhuo’s throat, but Zhuo quickly recoiled, his face pale. “I won’t throw up like this! I’m not built like humans! It’s already in my void!”

Yuan Anqing’s hand shifted to slap the top of Zhuo’s head in anger. “How could you just eat something like that raw?!”

“Anyway, you’re not allowed to touch this stuff!” Zhuo growled, trying to save face. “I already ate it, so it’s gone!”

Yuan Anqing saw Zhuo let out a grunt, as if trying to swallow down the extreme nausea of the “bitter gourd” taste.

“If you really feel sick, just throw it up!” Yuan Anqing felt sick just watching him.

“The taste… ugh… it’s fine!” Zhuo insisted stubbornly, his eyes watering.

Yuan Anqing’s expression was a mix of anger and concern.

Zhuo, who had been about to argue, quickly fell silent. The massive figure actually began to tremble beneath Yuan Anqing’s hand, looking like a guilty child. He cautiously grabbed Yuan Anqing’s arm, ensuring that even if Yuan Anqing was very angry, he wouldn’t turn and run away.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Zhuo muttered to his feet.

Chen Jiao, standing nearby, covered her face with her hand in absolute disgust.