Chapter 22#
The Little Wastrel Tames the Sinister Demon King (22)
“……”
Ling Yan was suddenly stunned.
He had almost forgotten—back when he had cut out Xiao Wu’s heart, Mo Yan, that bastard, had transformed into a black cat and was silently right by his side.
Seeing that Ling Yan remained silent for a long time, Mo Yan furrowed his brows slightly, a flicker of barely perceptible panic passing through his eyes. Thinking that the other still didn’t believe his words, he unhesitatingly grabbed Ling Yan’s hand and abruptly stabbed it toward his own chest—
A soft “pfft” sound.
The moment the palm tore through flesh and blood, it was like plunging into a waterlogged sponge, immediately flooded by gushing, surging blood.
The blood was warm and sticky, quickly dyeing both their fingers red. Even the faint pulsations within the chest cavity turned into fine tremors, drowned in this wet, muddy mess.
Then, the tips of his fingers touched a hard obstruction.
It was a rib.
Mo Yan’s brows furrowed even tighter, as if finding it troublesome. But he didn’t stop. Instead, he increased the force, continuing to drive Ling Yan’s hand deeper, grinding against it with near-cruel persistence.
More warm and torrential liquid gushed out, completely enveloping their overlapping hands—sticky, scalding, like a declaration of life itself.
The next second, his fingertips suddenly touched a pulsating mass.
Mo Yan slowly guided Ling Yan’s hand, gently lifting out the still-beating heart, and solemnly presented it before Ling Yan. He spoke word by word, his voice low and hoarse yet clear.
“Yan Yan, look—this is my true heart.”
Ling Xiaoqi in the space witnessed this horrifying scene and, forgetting whether Mo Yan might detect him, blurted out in shock: [Holy shit!]
A madman.
This guy was truly a madman—an out-and-out, thoroughgoing lunatic.
Silence fell over everything.
It was as if all the sounds of the world had suddenly receded.
In the center of Ling Yan’s vision, there was only that one thing—
In his blood-soaked palm, a warm mass of flesh pulsed weakly yet stubbornly. It emitted scorching steam, creating a white mist of mingled sweetness and iron in the cold air.
With every contraction and expansion, it squeezed out more warm liquid, which trickled along his fingers and wrist, dripping down and hitting the ground, as if also hitting his own heart.
It was the most deafening silence Ling Yan had ever heard.
Watching this scene, he suddenly smiled.
The corners of his lips curved upward. He raised his tea-colored eyes to look at Mo Yan and asked softly, “Is this… the true heart you’re giving me?”
“Yes.”
Snow continued to fall in fluttering flakes, clusters of white brushed aside by the red umbrella above, landing on the ground, forming an extreme and cruel contrast with the blazing, crimson blood in his hand.
A flicker of excitement passed through Ling Yan’s tea-colored eyes. His Adam’s apple moved slightly as he spoke in a low, hoarse voice.
“You love me?”
“?”
Mo Yan had lived for a hundred thousand years, and his cold serpent brain didn’t understand such matters.
But he remembered that when Ling Yan had cut out Xiao Wu’s heart, he had also asked this. He shook his head honestly. “This king does not know, nor does he understand.”
Ling Yan let out a low chuckle, a lazy and playful curve spreading at the corner of his lips.
“Coincidentally, I don’t really understand either.”
Mo Yan’s golden eyes trembled suddenly. Unable to help himself, he leaned forward. With his movement, blood gushed out even more violently, but he paid it no mind, only asking in a low voice, “Do you want my true heart?”
Ling Yan raised his beautiful face, his gaze shifting. He gently pressed a kiss to the corner of Mo Yan’s mouth.
“Yes.”
He paused, then spoke more clearly: “Mo Yan, your true heart—I, Ling Yan, will take it.”
Joy immediately rippled through Mo Yan’s eyes. Utterly disregarding his gruesome wound, he kissed Ling Yan directly. Their tongues intertwined, their breath scorching, so intimate that it seemed to melt the falling snowflakes.
Looking down at the still-beating heart in his palm, Ling Yan felt he should reciprocate. So he laughed lightly and suggested, “How about you take a look at my true heart too?”
Ling Xiaoqi: […]
Bro.
Please don’t go crazy along with him, okay?
He was just about to speak up to dissuade him when Mo Yan’s expression suddenly darkened, a sinister aura spreading around him. He said firmly,
“No. You will die.”
Hearing this, Ling Yan slightly lowered his tea-colored eyes. His long, thick eyelashes cast a small shadow beneath his eyelids, giving him a beauty that seemed almost abused.
Tsk.
A pity, though.
But it didn’t matter. After the mission was complete, he could still give this heart to Mo Yan. After all, true hearts, in the end, had to be exchanged with true hearts to show sincerity.
Ling Yan looked at the heart still beating in his palm, then raised his eyes to the other and said lazily, “Hurry up. Put it back. I’ve been holding it for a while, and I’m tired.”
“Alright.”
Mo Yan obediently reinserted his own heart into his chest.
The moment the heart returned to its place, the terrifying bloody hole in his chest instantly healed, restoring his skin to a smooth, fair state, as if it had never been torn open.
If not for the warm, sticky bloodstains still on Ling Yan’s hands, everything that had just happened would almost seem like an illusion.
Mo Yan lowered his golden eyes, gazing at the bloodstains on Ling Yan’s palm. His brows furrowed slightly, a trace of regret showing on his face. He said in a low voice, “It’s all this king’s fault, dirtying Yan Yan’s hands.”
Ling Yan instinctively curved the corners of his lips.
Before he could move, Mo Yan gently lifted his hand, leaned in close, and then extended his icy snake tongue, licking the blood off Ling Yan’s hand, one slow, gentle stroke after another.
Just as he had done back when he had transformed into the black cat—meticulous and focused.
Once the bloodstains were licked clean, Mo Yan cast a cleansing spell, purging all the gore from both of them, as if nothing had ever happened.
The snow still fell in flurries, like goose feathers, rustling down. In just a few moments, a thin layer of silver white covered the mountain stream.
The two sat quietly in place, sharing the vast snowy scene.
Ling Yan nestled back into Mo Yan’s arms, recalling the terrifying bloody hole from just now, and asked softly,
“Is your wound really fine?”
Mo Yan held the umbrella in one hand, while the other continued to toy with Ling Yan’s slender fingers. He said calmly, “A minor wound. No harm.”
After that, neither the demon nor the man spoke another word.
Only the silent falling snow remained.
The snow grew heavier, gradually burying the blood that Mo Yan had dripped onto the ground, as if all the heart-stopping events had been purified away.
Perhaps it was because the night had been too stirring, but for some reason, Ling Yan suddenly recalled a memory—also on a snowy night like this. He had been abandoned in the snow, wrapped layer by layer by several children, and made into a snowman.
Cold. Biting cold. The chill pierced straight to his internal organs.
But now, against his back was a ball of warmth. Warmth seeped unceasingly into his spine, and even his palm still seemed to retain the scorching sensation from just now.
Looking at the thickening curtain of snow before him, Ling Yan suddenly smiled and suggested, “Mo Yan, when the snow gets heavier, let’s build a snowman.”
“Alright. Whatever Yan Yan says.”
Mo Yan agreed without a second thought. Even though he didn’t know how to build a snowman, he still asked in a low voice,
“How do you build one?”
Resting in his arms, Ling Yan explained patiently, “You roll the snow into balls, shape them into a human form, and then decorate the facial features. That’s a snowman.”
“Can’t we build one now?”
“Not yet. The snow isn’t thick enough.”
“Alright, then let’s wait. After a few more snowfalls, we’ll build a snowman.”
“Mm, okay.”
The demon and the man leaned quietly together, sharing the sight of the falling snow under the moonlight.
Perhaps because the embrace behind him was too warm, before he knew it, Ling Yan had dozed off.
Sensing that the person in his arms had evened out his breathing, Mo Yan gently pulled Ling Yan closer. The next second, their figures vanished from the mountaintop and instantly reappeared in the bedroom of the palace.
Mo Yan put away the paper umbrella. Carefully, he laid Ling Yan down on the soft bed, removing his shoes and outer robe with extreme gentleness, leaving only a plain white undergarment. Then, he slowly lay down beside him, tenderly drawing the man into his arms.
He lifted Ling Yan’s hand and pressed a kiss to the tips of his slender fingers, gazing at the other’s peaceful sleeping face. Murmuring softly, he said,
“Yan Yan, now you should belong to this king alone.”
As for Xiao Wu, Wang Wu, or any other person…
None of them should see their hearts.
Only his, Mo Yan’s heart—only his true heart—was worthy of his Yan Yan.