Chapter 382 Where Did Dear Go?

Chapter 382: Where Has My Darling Gone?

The last sentence, casual, yet like an ice pick dipped in poison, slowly drove into everyone's ears.

"Send word to him, tell him to haul his ass over here. If I don't see him by sunset... the summer pastures, the Uliangha Tribe's herds, will never set foot there again."

The threat, like damp moss, crept out of the yurt through the servant's cold fingers and seeped toward the far end of the camp.

Inside Wuliji's tent, dim light filled the space.

The scent of medicine and blood intertwined silently, hanging heavy in the air.

Wuliji's right hand was wrapped in thick gauze, with dark brown, dried bloodstains visible at the edges.

Fresh blood was slowly spreading from the center of his palm, yet he seemed unaware, sitting silently by the small brazier.

On the stove, a clay pot of black medicinal brew occasionally sent up a bubble that silently burst.

The old shaman's withered fingers had just lifted off Cheng Ge's wrist. He turned and gave Wuliji a slight shake of his head, his deeply lined face dark with worry, his lips moving silently.

Having heard this, Wuliji's jaw tightened like a drawn bowstring, and he finally gave a faint wave of his hand.

The shaman, hunching his back, slipped out like a shadow.

Cheng Ge had somehow made his way to the low table, wearing an old robe loosely draped over him, one elbow propped on the table's edge, barely managing to sit up.

The watery porridge before him had gone cold. His face was almost translucent, deathly pale, keeping his eyes down, eating slowly.

Wuliji poured the brewed medicine—thick and bitter—into a bowl. He set it down gently beside Cheng Ge's hand.

Cheng Ge's nostrils twitched at the smell, turning his face away, his brows furrowing.

Wuliji stood by the table, his heavy gaze fixed on Cheng Ge's downcast face. The tent was so quiet you could hear the faint hiss of steam rising from the surface of the medicine.

After a long while, he spoke, his voice like sandpaper on wood: "Drink the medicine... and you can go wherever you want."

Cheng Ge turned his face back very slowly, his eyes unfocused on Wuliji's face. He pressed his pale lips together but said nothing.

Silence stretched on.

After a long pause, Cheng Ge suddenly spoke, his voice very soft, barely a whisper: "Could you... bring me some paper and brush?"

Wuliji looked at him, something in his eyes warring fiercely, then sinking into a deeper darkness.

He turned silently, muttered a low order, and paper and brush were brought in quickly.

Cheng Ge braced himself against the table, slowly straightening up. He picked up the brush, his fingertips icy cold.

He dipped it in ink, the brush tip hovering over the paper for a long moment before slowly descending.

"Cheng Xiao: I hope this letter finds you well. Reading this is like seeing me in person..."

The ink spread across the paper, and a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

But before the ink of "Cheng Xiao" had dried, a thick drop of blood fell without warning, landing squarely on the final stroke of "Xiao," quickly spreading outward.

Cheng Ge's movements faltered. He raised a hand to wipe his mouth and nose—his palm came away wet and sticky with fresh blood.

He wiped at it haphazardly, grabbed a new sheet, and started writing again.

But the brush tip trembled, the strokes coming out faint and shaky. Before he'd written two lines, another drop of blood fell, staining the paper.

Cheng Ge's breathing grew rapid, a rare flicker of agitation flashing in his eyes.

He reached for more paper, his motions growing clumsy, and his elbow slammed into the medicine bowl beside him—

"Clatter!" The clay bowl toppled over, thick black medicine splashing out, instantly soaking the scattered papers on the table.

At the same time, more blood seeped from between his fingers and the corners of his mouth, dripping into the mixture of medicine and ink, spreading and blending rapidly.

Wuliji lunged forward a step, staring at the mess, at Cheng Ge's blood-stained jaw and collar, his throat tightening: "I'll... get you new ones."

"No need." Cheng Ge paused, then slowly set the brush down, his voice very soft.

He didn't look at the mess anymore, nor at Wuliji. He just wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

Then he staggered to his feet, grabbed the robe beside him, wrapped it around himself, and walked straight out of the tent.

Wuliji watched Cheng Ge's figure disappear through the tent flap, about to follow.

"General Wuliji!" A figure burst into the tent, dropping to one knee—it was the Great Khan's personal guard.

The man's breath was uneven, his voice carrying obvious urgency: "The Great Khan orders you to report to the main yurt immediately! Do not delay!"

Wuliji stood rooted in place, staring in the direction Cheng Ge had gone, and only after a long moment turned and left.

...

A furtive figure hunched over, darting through the narrow strips of shadow between tents.

Zhou Ming had just nervously slipped past a corner, before he could catch his breath, when a solid kick landed square on his backside!

"Damn—!" He hit the ground in a full face-plant, his face nearly buried in the half-frozen mud.

Pain shot through him, his teeth clenched, a surge of anger rushing to his head. He turned, ready to curse out the bastard's entire family tree.

"Who the hell—!" The profanity caught in his throat.

The fading twilight outlined a figure leaning against the tent wall, traces of unwiped dark red still clinging to his jaw and the corners of his mouth. Only a pair of eyes, startlingly bright in the gloom, stared coldly at him.

Zhou Ming swallowed the rest of his words, nearly choking on them.

He forced out a dry smile that looked more like a grimace: "A, A Ge... it's really you? How... how'd you end up here?"

His gaze swept quickly over Cheng Ge's blood-stained robe, his heart pounding.

Cheng Ge said nothing, plopping down onto an overturned broken wooden barrel nearby.

Zhou Ming scrambled to his feet, shuffled two steps closer, then quickly backed off a few more steps.

Cheng Ge raised his eyes to look at him, and that look made Zhou Ming instinctively duck his head.

"I go wherever the hell I want." Cheng Ge finally spoke, in his usual defiant tone. "What's it to you?"

Zhou Ming: "..." Yep, same old song and dance.

Cheng Ge reached out, grabbed Zhou Ming by the back of the collar, and yanked him closer.

"Cut the crap," Cheng Ge stared at him, speaking slowly and deliberately. "You goddamn bastard, what the hell are you doing here too?"

Zhou Ming's guilt was practically oozing out of him. His eyes darted everywhere as he slapped the mud off his pants.

Zhou Ming's face showed clear guilt, his eyes dodging Cheng Ge's face—even pale, it still had that mean look.

He raised a hand and swatted at the mud on his pants. "You... let me explain."

Zhou Ming's voice was stuck in his throat, all shaky. "Back then... in the dorm, didn't you crack your head on the bed frame? The back of your skull—bang, that sound!"

"Blood... blood just gushed out. I called you, shook you, but you didn't react..."

Cheng Ge chewed on the dry grass stem, watching him blank-faced, though his chest was rising and falling a little faster.

"I... I was scared out of my mind, so I figured... I'd haul you to the hospital quick..."

"And then?" Cheng Ge sat up straight, hope blazing in his eyes.

Zhou Ming's eyes drifted even more, practically glued to the pile of horse shit nearby:

"Then... then I just hoisted you on my back, ready to bolt out the dorm door..."

His voice got quieter and quieter, like a mosquito whining: "But... I was in too big a rush, didn't look, and stepped right on that blue flip-flop you'd kicked off by the door..."

Cheng Ge stopped chewing. Zhou Ming's neck shrunk, and he blurted the rest out at lightning speed.

"Then I tripped! I think I whacked my head on the doorframe too—everything went black... when I came to, I was lying in a pile of hay, almost frozen solid! Then I got grabbed, and they said I was some kind of spy..."

He finished and quickly snuck a glance at Cheng Ge's face.

Cheng Ge went silent for three seconds.

Then he took the grass stem out of his mouth.

Raised his hand.

"Thump! Thump!"

Two solid whacks right on Zhou Ming's head—the sound alone said he hadn't held back.

"Easy! Ow, ow, ow!" Zhou Ming clutched his head, wincing as he hopped aside. "Why are you hitting me again! I told you it was an accident!"

"An accident?" Cheng Ge was so pissed his wound throbbed, and he coughed a couple times. "Zhou Ming, are you sent by the gods to screw me over?

You carry me to the hospital, and end up dropping me again?! On the back of my skull, no less?!"

He panted hard, jabbing a finger at Zhou Ming's nose: "My head feels like eighteen monks are banging drums and gongs in there, and it's all your damn fault!"

Zhou Ming rubbed his head, about to cry from sheer grievance: "I... I didn't mean to! Who knew your stupid flip-flop..."

"That's a limited edition, what the hell would you know!" Cheng Ge growled, grabbing him to land another hit.

Zhou Ming's neck shrunk in fear, and he instinctively turned to run.

Cheng Ge was quick—he grabbed the back of Zhou Ming's collar and hauled him back.

Zhou Ming was like a cat grabbed by the scruff, limbs flailing uselessly as he yelped, "Hey, hey, hey!"

"Let... let go! A Ge! Let's talk!" Zhou Ming struggled, and Cheng Ge, low on strength, actually nearly got thrown off.

Cheng Ge's eyes hardened. He yanked his arm back hard, locking Zhou Ming's neck in the crook of his elbow and slamming him to the ground.

"Urgh!" Zhou Ming's breath was cut off instantly, his face turning red, and his struggling faded.

Zhou Ming gasped like a fish out of water, chest heaving hard, staring at Cheng Ge like he was some kind of monster, swallowing hard a few times.

"Talk," Cheng Ge's voice dropped low, cold and unyielding, "this poison in me—what's the story? How do I cure it?"

Zhou Ming had just caught his breath. His face froze for a moment, genuine confusion in his eyes: "What... what poison?"

Cheng Ge reached out and smacked the back of his head, not gently: "Talk! Don't play dumb! I keep coughing up blood, my guts feel like they're on fire—if that's not poison, what is it?"

Zhou Ming pitched forward from the hit, then got yanked back by the neck. His brain finally cleared a bit from the chaos of oxygen loss and getting beaten.

"Poison? No... there's no poison!" Zhou Ming rushed to defend himself, still panting. "

Seeing Cheng Ge's murderous glare and the fist about to fall again, Zhou Ming's survival instincts went into overdrive. In a flash of lightning, a forgotten plot point slammed into his mind!

"Wait! I remember! I remember now!" Zhou Ming shouted, eyes squeezed shut.

Cheng Ge's fist, about to smash into his forehead, stopped just in time and drew back.

He was panting, cold sweat all over his forehead, staring hard at Zhou Ming: "Talk!"

"The poison... is it... is it from those bandits?" Zhou Ming ventured carefully, watching Cheng Ge's face as he spoke.

"Bandits?" Cheng Ge frowned, fighting the dizziness as he dug through the fuzzy, jumbled fragments in his memory.

When he'd first crossed over, it seemed... he'd run into a group of people. His head had been fuzzy then, but... one of them had seemed to mention "poison"?

He snapped his head up, eyes sharp as knives: "And then? How do I cure it?"

Zhou Ming's scalp prickled under that gaze. He instinctively scooted back, his voice even quieter:

"But... logically... that poison... you should've... cured it by now..."

Cheng Ge kicked at him in fury. Zhou Ming, having learned his lesson, rolled away to dodge.

"Cured?!" Cheng Ge laughed in bitter rage, which aggravated his guts and sent him into another coughing fit, fresh crimson staining his palm again.

He pointed at the blood on his lips and clothes: "You call this cured? Zhou Ming, open your damn dog eyes and look!"

Zhou Ming looked at his deathly pale face and the blood seeping from his lips, and he was confused himself.

But the setting he'd casually typed out back then to create strong conflict and a "steamy" twist—it clearly said...

A deeply complicated expression flickered across his face, mixing realization, embarrassment, guilt, and a hint of awkward reluctance.

"Then... it might be because..." His eyes wandered, voice fading, "you didn't... use the right method to cure it..."

"What right method? Spit it out!" Cheng Ge growled impatiently, his lungs starting to burn again.

Zhou Ming licked his cracked lips, his face reddening, voice barely a whisper: "It's... that thing..."

"What thing?!" Cheng Ge's patience was nearly gone.

"It's... with someone... that..." Zhou Ming practically wanted to shrink into the ground, "...with ninety-nine men... together... yin-yang harmonizing..."

The last few words were almost inaudible, but Cheng Ge caught them anyway.

He froze for a moment, his first thought being that his ears had developed a serious problem and he was hearing things.

He kicked Zhou Ming again, this one catching him square on the shin.

"Ow—!" Zhou Ming clutched his leg and yelped, real tears flying out.

The scream was loud enough to confirm it wasn't a hallucination.

A surge of fury mixed with absurd, overwhelming rage shot straight from Cheng Ge's chest to his head!

His vision went black and he nearly stumbled, but anger kept him upright as he lunged at Zhou Ming and laid into him with another wild, no-holds-barred beating!

"Ninety-nine?! Why not nine hundred and ninety-nine?! Zhou Ming! If I don't beat your brains out today, I'll take your last name, I swear!"

Cheng Ge cursed as he swung, shaking with rage, holding back nothing at all.

Zhou Ming howled in pain, both hands shielding his head, still managing to argue in his own defense:

"Stop hitting me! A Ge! That's just... just how these trashy web novels are written! Readers love it! It sells!!"

"You're the one who's a damn rag!" Cheng Ge grabbed his collar, wanting to tear him apart. "Readers love it? I'll make you a crime scene!"