The Farmhouse

Zhuo had one very notable advantage: an absolutely overwhelming, unshakeable sense of self-confidence.

He only ever acted cautiously, fearfully, or submissively when he was around Yuan Anqing. At all other times, Zhuo was the undisputed apex predator of his own mind.

Even though Zhuo knew perfectly well that the official police cars “chasing” them were part of a staged performance they had coordinated with Bai Tian, and even though he could sense the driver’s panicked emotions, Zhuo still confidently blamed the actor, Peng Jingchang, for everything. Unless faced with direct romantic rejection from Yuan Anqing, Zhuo simply did not possess the capacity for self-doubt.

“We need to make this car chase look convincing to any watchers,” Zhuo sighed, leaning over the front seat. He patted the actor’s shoulder. “Do you have the necessary confidence?”

Confidence was definitely lacking. Peng Jingchang’s only real role in this operation was to show the rebel organization’s high regard for the Savior. After all, aside from being an award-winning international superstar, Peng Jingchang was also the biological son of the organization’s top leader.

The sirens behind them grew deafeningly loud.

Peng Jingchang’s entire body went stiff as he gripped the wheel. Zhuo didn’t threaten him further; instead, he looked back at Yuan Anqing.

Now was the time for Yuan Anqing to lean out the window and make the police car “explode” with a wave of his hand. There were no other civilian vehicles on this stretch of the highway; the authorities had already evacuated and blocked off the exits.

There was zero risk for Yuan Anqing to lean out the window. All he had to do was stretch his palm toward the cruiser behind them with an extremely cool, cinematic air, make a dramatic fist—and the police officers behind would detonate their pre-planted smoke charges and flip their car into the ditch.

At the instant of the “explosion,” Zhuo would use his invisibility to swallow the officers, transport them to safety, and spit them out. It was a simple, steady plan. Zhuo wouldn’t let anything go wrong during the performance.

But Yuan Anqing remained completely motionless in the backseat.

Zhuo’s tail tip lightly tapped Yuan Anqing’s knee.

Yuan Anqing’s hands, resting on his trousers, unconsciously tightened.

So far, all of Yuan Anqing’s performances in this world had relied on his natural ability to maintain an eternally flat, expressionless corporate face. All he had to do was hold it in. But reaching out the window and making a dramatic anime-fist… that was a bit too much for his remaining dignity.

He hadn’t even swung a tree branch like a sword when he was an orphan child on Earth, and now, as a thirty-five-year-old adult, being asked to do such a chuunibyou move was just too humiliating.

The police car was about to catch up to their bumper.

Peng Jingchang was visibly sweating. He floored the accelerator, and the heavy minivan swerved wildly on the highway.

“Hey! You’re a famous movie star, at least work on your stress tolerance!” Zhuo barked, reaching out with one hand to grab Yuan Anqing, preventing him from smashing his face into the passenger window from the swerve.

Yuan Anqing took a deep breath, steeling his nerves. He rolled down the window and leaned half his upper body out. The wild, high-speed wind blew through his black hair, plastering it across his face.

His movement was too hasty, and his glasses were knocked crooked. After awkwardly straightening them, Yuan Anqing aimed his flat palm at the police car behind them.

“Here it comes! Here it comes!” the officers in the police car shouted over their radio. “Get ready!”

“We’re not actually going to die, right?”

“The Savior looks really badass like this! How does he do it without laughing?”

Meanwhile, in the minivan, Zhuo let out a startled, protective yelp, lunging forward to wrap his massive arms tightly around Yuan Anqing’s waist. It looked to the outside like he was struggling with the Savior, but in reality, he was physically anchoring Yuan Anqing to the chassis to prevent him from falling out the window at eighty miles an hour.

“What are you doing?! Are you really going to kill them?!” Zhuo demanded loudly for the benefit of the microphones. “You can’t kill the authorities’ people! If you do, there’s no turning back, Savior!”

Yuan Anqing turned his head to look back at Zhuo. His wildly flying black hair, combined with his utterly cold, unblinking golden gaze, made Zhuo freeze for a moment. Then, the monster’s tail curled slightly under the seat, feeling a sudden surge of genuine arousal.

“Of course I can turn back,” Yuan Anqing said, his voice carrying effortlessly over the wind. “I am the only Savior in this world. Even if the authorities’ people—heck, even if the parents of the high-ranking officials die at my hands, they would still have to suck up to me. Because I am the one and only.”

As he finished his line, he clenched his fist.

BOOM!

The police car following them exploded in a spectacular burst of red smoke and pyrotechnics, flipping gracefully into the guardrail.

Peng Jingchang couldn’t help but curse under his breath at the sheer scale of the “Savior’s” destructive power. He met Yuan Anqing’s eyes in the rearview mirror and quickly looked away, white-knuckling the steering wheel.

“We’ll need to change the license plate soon. Do you have a spare set?” Yuan Anqing asked calmly, climbing back into the cabin and rolling up the window.

“Yes. In the trunk.”

“I’ll handle the digital surveillance cameras along our route. Changing the plates is just a physical precaution,” Yuan Anqing said, adjusting his glasses and falling silent. No one knew what he was thinking.

After the vehicle had driven a safe distance down the road, several uninjured, uniformed officers suddenly appeared out of thin air beside the smoking wreckage of the police car.

“Wow. That was terrifying,” one officer said, brushing the ash off his uniform. This was their first time experiencing being swallowed by a monster’s domain. It wasn’t physically painful, but the interior of Zhuo’s stomach was a bit psychologically scarring—purely crimson walls of flesh and giant eyes everywhere, making one feel like they were about to be dissolved. It was way scarier than any haunted house.

“Are they far enough?” another officer asked, checking his GPS.

“Yeah, they’re gone. The road blockades ahead have been notified to pull back.”

There were definitely more police cars on the route. In theory, there were blockades ahead, but after the “explosion,” the other units successfully feigned panic and retreated.

“Did they… did they just die?” Peng Jingchang asked, his voice trembling as he watched the police blockades ahead clear out. He had seen explosions in movies, but this was different. He couldn’t comprehend how the Savior had done it with a mere gesture.

To him, the Savior seemed to have mastered the laws of physics. The lives of ordinary humans carried absolutely no weight in his eyes.

Yuan Anqing sat back against the leather seat. Ignoring Zhuo’s current, starry-eyed awe, he said directly, “I’m going to sleep for a bit. Wake me when we’re close to the safehouse.”

“Okay,” Zhuo pressed his lips together, his tail wagging silently under the seat.

He must have done that whole dramatic, unfeeling ‘tyrant’ act just to make me happy, Zhuo thought, his heart swelling. The Savior really loves me to pieces.

Yuan Anqing, completely exhausted by his own public cringe, rested his head on Zhuo’s shoulder and closed his eyes.

In the front, Peng Jingchang drove in silence.

In the back, Yuan Anqing had fallen into a deep sleep. During his non-working hours, he was incredibly lazy, but the stress of the past few days had drained him.

Zhuo, however, couldn’t sleep. He sat perfectly still, his massive arm cradling Yuan Anqing’s head against his shoulder. His tail tip gently traced patterns on Yuan’s leg.

He was incredibly proud. Yuan Anqing only slept when he was holding him. The grand safehouses and hotels didn’t matter; to the Savior, home was wherever Zhuo was.

The more Zhuo thought about it, the more convinced he became of this domestic reality. The look in his red eyes grew softer and softer. What am I going to do with him loving me so much? It’s such a sweet problem.

“We’re here,” Peng Jingchang’s quiet voice broke the silence.

Zhuo bared his fangs at the rearview mirror. “Speak softly! You’ll wake him!”

“But we’ve actually arrived…” Peng Jingchang pointed out the window toward a heavy iron gate.

“Where is this?” Zhuo frowned, looking out. “Is this a joke? Is this a farmhouse?”

Their car had driven up a winding, forested mountain road. The iron gate opened automatically, revealing a few rustic, self-built concrete houses. On the flat ground in front of the doors, grains and corn were laid out on mats to dry in the sun. The yard was surrounded by thick pine trees, and beyond them lay terraced vegetable fields.

The most high-tech thing about this “rebel base” was the automatic iron gate.

“The authorities watch our financial transactions too closely. If we built a high-tech facility, it would be discovered by Bai Tian’s satellites before the concrete even dried,” Peng Jingchang explained, parking the car. “We’ve leased this entire mountain under the guise of growing fruit trees. Only this residential area has a few vegetables for our own consumption.”

In Zhuo’s mind, a rebel organization was supposed to have strict, militaristic discipline—a super-cool, modern facility hidden in a desert, with everyone wearing suits and plotting to overthrow the government. Not… a farm.

“The eggplants and green beans in our garden are ripe. You two can go pick some if you want to make lunch,” Peng Jingchang offered, getting out of the car. “We also have free-range chickens, ducks, and geese in the back orchard.”

Yuan Anqing woke up, took his glasses from Zhuo’s hand, pushed open the car door, and surveyed the surroundings.

A black dog and a white dog came bounding over from the barn, tongues lolling out, looking delighted to see new guests.

“These two are Little Black and Big White. They guard the yard for us,” Peng Jingchang patted the white dog’s head. “They’ve had all their shots. You can pet them; they don’t bite.”

“Is anyone else stationed here?” Yuan Anqing asked.

“There used to be, but our organization also has undercover moles from other groups. We haven’t rooted them all out yet,” Peng Jingchang explained. “We don’t want those spies having close contact with you, Savior.”

They were terrified of getting poached by rival factions. Especially since this Savior had such a cynical, unpredictable personality. Who knew if he might switch sides for the ridiculous reason of finding another organization’s benefits better?

“So just the three of us are here?” Yuan Anqing pointed at himself and Zhuo.

“Yes. We’re currently rushing the transport of the former Saviors’ preserved flesh from the other provinces. Until the shipment arrives, please amuse yourselves here.” Peng Jingchang pointed down the slope. “Picking vegetables or gathering fresh eggs is actually quite relaxing. Our veggies are completely organic.”

“And our chickens are raised on bugs and grass, never fed commercial grain.” Peng Jingchang pointed toward the main house. “There’s a wood-burning oven in the kitchen. Why don’t you two play around here for a while?”

Yuan Anqing and Zhuo exchanged glances. Zhuo looked at the orchard and the vegetable fields, his tail already starting to wag with excitement.

“Sure,” Yuan Anqing agreed.

The big black dog rubbed against Yuan Anqing’s leg, nudging his hand with its snout, asking for a pat. Yuan Anqing silently shifted his leg away and stepped back. “Keep the dogs away from me, please. They shed.”

“They’re short-haired dogs,” Peng Jingchang explained.

“Short hair is worse. The needles get stuck in the fabric and are impossible to roll off.” Yuan Anqing had zero interest in fluffy little animals.

But Zhuo was clearly different. He immediately began waggling his tail tip in front of the black dog, teasing it. When the dog pounced, Zhuo nimbly pulled his tail back and extended it in another direction, giggling. Zhuo had never experienced a normal childhood, let alone a rural farmhouse. To his sensory-driven mind, everything here was a grand adventure.

“Can we eat these two dogs too?” Zhuo laughed, patting the white dog’s head. “They’re so big and meaty.”

The dog he was petting wagged its tail so fast its rear end was practically shaking.

Yuan Anqing was exasperated. “I thought you liked them.”

“I do like them,” Zhuo said, confused. “If I didn’t like them, why would I want to eat them?”

Right. His definition of liking something is wanting to consume it.

“It’s a good thing these dogs don’t understand human speech,” Yuan Anqing sighed. “They really think you’re their new best friend.”

“We are best friends,” Zhuo agreed, letting the black dog lick his hand.

Yuan Anqing followed behind Zhuo as they walked down the slope to the garden. Zhuo’s tail was wrapped securely around Yuan Anqing’s waist—not because he was being clingy for once, but because the vegetable path was steep, and he was genuinely afraid Yuan Anqing might slip.

The two dogs followed them like a shadow. They didn’t dare cling to Yuan Anqing, since his disgust was too obvious.

“I think I’m really suited for this kind of life,” Zhuo said, looking around the green valley. “Planting vegetables, raising chickens.”

“If you like it, we can buy a plot of land and do this in the future,” Yuan Anqing didn’t want to discourage Zhuo’s rare enthusiasm.

Zhuo immediately started imagining their future. “We’ll work at sunrise and rest at sunset. After a busy day, we’ll get into bed together at night.”

“I’ll work in the fields every day, and I’ll see you as soon as I come home.” Zhuo sighed happily. “And if I get sick, you’ll carry me for miles on your back to see a doctor.”

“…Zhuo,” Yuan Anqing called.

“What?”

“You weigh nearly a hundred kilograms,” Yuan Anqing reminded him dryly. Carrying a giant monster on his back for miles was physically impossible, even with a Savior buff.

Zhuo thought it over and realized the physical limitation. “Oh.”

Just as Zhuo’s tail began to droop in disappointment, Yuan Anqing said, “But I could pull you on a wooden cart.”

“Great!” Zhuo got excited again. “I can lie on the cart, watch the stars, and feel the night breeze!”

“We could buy a donkey to pull us,” Zhuo planned. “You and I can sit on the back together…”

The more he thought about it, the more he yearned for it. “Let’s sell the apartment in the city!”

“The apartment isn’t ours to sell,” Yuan Anqing said, though he didn’t directly crush the fantasy. “If you really like the idea of growing things, we can buy some flowerpots and try planting vegetables on our balcony first.”

“Really?!” Zhuo’s red eyes shone.

“Why not?” Yuan Anqing patted Zhuo’s head. “If you’re truly ready, I don’t mind trying a different lifestyle with you.” It didn’t matter to him where he lived.

Zhuo tilted his head down, a smug, incredibly sweet expression on his face. “Because you really like me, don’t you? Wherever I am is home to you.”

He expected Yuan Anqing to blush, cough, and change the subject. That was how the Savior usually admitted things. But Yuan Anqing didn’t do that today. He just nodded calmly. “Yes.”

Zhuo’s eyes widened.

“If you suddenly disappeared from my life, I wouldn’t know where to go,” Yuan Anqing said, looking at him. “I guess this is what the internet calls… being hopelessly lovestruck?”

Those quiet words—“If you suddenly disappeared, I wouldn’t know where to go”—echoed in Zhuo’s mind. His entire face and neck turned bright red.

“You’re the one who asked, so why are you the one blushing?” Yuan Anqing found it amusing. Zhuo was always so passionate and forward, yet he was completely unable to handle Yuan Anqing’s honest, quiet declarations of love.

“I-I-I’m not going to disappear!” Zhuo’s tail shot straight up like a flagpole. He quickly lunged and hugged Yuan Anqing tightly, burying him against his chest. “I’ll be with you forever! I won’t let you be sad! I couldn’t bear to make you sad!”

“I really want to tether myself to you permanently.” Zhuo’s tail wrapped around Yuan Anqing’s waist, pulling him so close their chests were pressed together. “We should be tied together for life!”

Zhuo felt he loved Yuan Anqing so deeply he didn’t know how to express it. He couldn’t utter fancy, poetic vows. He just thought Yuan Anqing was wonderful—too wonderful.

They didn’t stay in the bathroom long, but when they came out in their clean, borrowed clothes, they were even more clingy than before. Zhuo seemed to have lost all interest in the garden, instead becoming entirely fixated on sticking to Yuan Anqing like an extra limb.

Had the Savior drugged this monster? Peng Jingchang wondered in disbelief as he watched them.

“Hey!” Zhuo suddenly called out to the actor.

Peng Jingchang instantly became alert.

But Zhuo was in too good of a mood to pick on him today. “Have you ever been in a real relationship, star?”

“Me? I’m not cut out for romance,” Peng Jingchang answered honestly, sitting on a wooden stool. “I overthink everything. With strangers, it’s fine. But once I get close to someone, I can’t help but analyze every single move they make. I ruin it.”

“Oh!” Zhuo nodded in understanding. “You’re neurotic!”

“Probably. But I’m used to living that way,” Peng Jingchang shook his head, looking at his hands. “I don’t particularly like myself for it either.”

Yuan Anqing and Zhuo sat down on a bench across from him. The goose Zhuo had “slaughtered” (or rather, decapitated with a wood axe, splattering the kitchen in blood) was already stewing in the pot—clearly Peng Jingchang had taken over the prep to save the kitchen.

“You don’t seem like a star in private,” Zhuo said, reaching out to tap Peng Jingchang’s head. Yuan Anqing immediately slapped his hand away.

“I’m really not. Honestly, I don’t want this job either,” Peng Jingchang confessed, knowing the Savior could perceive his inner thoughts. It felt terrifying to be so exposed, yet also strangely relieving. “I have to appear perfect in every way. I have to be the excellent star my parents want.”

“Is that what they want, or what you want?” Yuan Anqing asked.

“It’s what they want,” Peng Jingchang said. He paused, then realized. “Wait… did you read my memories?”

“The Savior can see your past, yes,” Zhuo reminded him proudly.

Peng Jingchang’s breath caught, but then his shoulders relaxed. “I see…” So he was completely transparent to this man.

“Your parents don’t trust you. I didn’t get much useful information about the organization’s high-level plans from your memories,” Yuan Anqing answered honestly. “And your siblings are a bit… numerous.”

Peng Jingchang gave an awkward laugh. “Because I’m only responsible for my specific region. My father thinks blood relatives are more reliable than like-minded rebels. He has a lot of children.”

“Have you considered seeing a therapist?” Yuan Anqing asked.

“You think I need to see one too?”

“Your emotions… easily veer toward suicide,” Yuan Anqing said flatly. “You want everyone to like you, but you also feel there is nothing about you worth liking, because everything you show the world is a lie.”

Peng Jingchang was very good at gathering all his flaws and using them as proof that he was a hollow bastard.

Yuan Anqing had once lacked a sense of purpose too. He had lived like plain water, striving for everything but gaining no joy. But Peng Jingchang was different; he could experience pleasure, but it was always followed by endless dejection, anxiety, and self-blame. His emotions were extreme, yet he had to suppress them to maintain his brand.

“What do you think of me, Mr. Savior?” Peng Jingchang asked. “Am I terrible?”

“I don’t have an opinion,” Yuan Anqing shrugged. “We are passing acquaintances. You won’t be a permanent part of my life, so I don’t care.”

Zhuo’s tail gently poked Yuan Anqing’s thigh.

If you keep talking like that, you’ll kill the conversation, the monster warned. We need him to trust us.

Yuan Anqing adjusted his glasses and pivoted. “But I think even if everyone in the world likes you, it won’t matter to your mind. Because you know the ‘you’ they love is a fake. And I cannot excise that insecure part of your personality.”

“When you’re fully aware that all that love is built on a facade… the more your fans adore you, the more you will deny your own worth,” Yuan Anqing warned. “Eventually, you’ll still end up in a dead end. You’ll still want to die.”

“But I’m just mentioning it. Whether you live or die doesn’t concern me,” Yuan Anqing said. “People die every day in this world. People get depressed every day. You’re not special. The world won’t miss you.”

Peng Jingchang smiled bitterly. “You’re used to seeing things from a macro perspective, Savior. But when it comes to an individual…”

“When it comes to an individual, it’s none of my business,” Yuan Anqing cut him off. “Only what affects my immediate comfort is my business. And what affects me is also no one else’s concern.”

Peng Jingchang looked at him, stunned by the absolute, practical selfishness of the Savior.

“Your fans, your friends, your family—they will all cry for you if you die,” Yuan Anqing said. “Your fans will make tribute videos online. Your friends might write long articles commemorating your life.”

“But your child… they will be the one who has to carry the real weight of your absence. They won’t dare to mention your name, won’t dare to look at your movies. The world collapses for that child. But the fans and friends who also feel ‘sad’ for your death won’t be able to empathize with that child’s quiet, daily grief.”

Yuan Anqing’s voice was low. “That kind of grief is theirs alone. And those who think they understand that child’s pain are just being arrogant.”

“So, to each their own. I know what people like you go through, but it’s not my concern.” Yuan Anqing pointed at him. “Your survival is entirely up to you.”

Peng Jingchang was silent.

Yuan Anqing poured himself a cup of tea. “Before birth, we rely on our mother’s body. After birth, we rely on family. To grow up, we depend on our environment—friends, teachers, bosses. We rely on countless ‘others.’ But when it’s time to die, we suddenly realize that the ‘I’ is just ‘I.'”

“‘I’ is the ‘him’ in others’ eyes. The ‘him’ in countless others’ perspectives. But only ‘I’ in my own mind,” Yuan Anqing said, almost like a tongue twister. “So I don’t care about you, because you are not me.”

Zhuo blinked, staring at Yuan Anqing.

Yuan Anqing turned to look at the monster beside him. “But I care about you, Zhuo. You are a part of my ‘I’ now.”

“Oh! You really know how to talk!” Zhuo squealed, his bad mood instantly vanishing as he leaned into Yuan Anqing’s side.

Peng Jingchang didn’t take Yuan Anqing’s declaration seriously; he figured the Savior was just using pretty words to keep his monster compliant. But still, the words resonated. “That thing you said about ‘I’ and ‘him’ is quite interesting.”

“There are plenty of such philosophies in the world,” Yuan Anqing said. “You just didn’t pay attention because you were too busy drowning in your own guilt.”

“You only find my words interesting because I’m the Savior,” Yuan Anqing added, his hand resting on Zhuo’s horn. “You think the Savior’s words should carry profound meaning. Unconsciously, you’ve placed your hope for salvation on me.”

“Is that so…” Peng Jingchang’s voice dropped. He stared at his teacup. “What I have now is meaningless, isn’t it?”

“I don’t like nihilism,” Yuan Anqing said, his fingers tapping lightly on the crystalline horn.

“But according to what you said, the fake ‘him’ should be discarded.”

“Without the fake ‘him’ to shield you from the world, the real ‘I’ wouldn’t have survived to this day,” Yuan Anqing said. He felt his head aching; he didn’t want to discuss philosophy anymore.

Peng Jingchang fell silent, deep in thought. After a long while, he sighed. “What exactly is a Savior?”

Zhuo, who had been resting his head on Yuan Anqing’s shoulder, suddenly lifted it and roared, “The Savior is the perfect Savior! An incredibly powerful, beautiful existence!”

Peng Jingchang was startled by the sudden defense. He looked at Yuan Anqing. “Is he… under your mental control?”

“Nonsense! Yuan Anqing has never controlled my mind! You’re denying his natural charm!” Zhuo insisted that he was purely, voluntarily lovesick. “A perfect person like him, anyone would fall for him!”

Peng Jingchang: “…Oh.”

So this wasn’t a manipulated, brainwashed love s*ave; it was a completely self-funded, voluntary one.

Still, there was one thing Peng Jingchang agreed with: “The Savior indeed has a quiet charm.” Even though he knew Yuan Anqing was a cold, cynical god, he could still feel a sense of profound peace and stability emanating from him.

But the moment he praised the Savior, Zhuo turned his head and glared at him.

Zhuo’s red pupils contracted into thin, reptilian lines, looking as if he was about to leap across the table and bite his throat off.