Chapter 384 Seduction

Chapter 384: Seduction

Those lingering pauses whenever he brushed past him, the loaded glances he cast his way under the dim desk lamp at night.

Personal items that always "accidentally" ended up on his bed or in even more private places.

And those outfits and mannerisms he had once dismissed as "careless" or "naturally frail"...

"You..." Cheng Ge's voice abruptly shifted, from furious high pitch to an incredulous low tone, as if squeezed through gritted teeth, "All that before... was deliberate? You've been trying to... all this time..."

He couldn't finish the sentence, but his eyes said it all: You've been trying to seduce me all along?

Zhou Ming's scalp prickled under that stare, his face cycling through pale and red. Knowing there was no hiding it anymore, he threw caution to the wind.

He crossed his arms, his voice small but carrying the self-righteous indignation of "I'm the victim here":

"Who... who knew you'd be this dense! A steel plate has more bend than you! I've been dropping hints for almost a year now!

Started back in our freshman year! But no, all you saw was food and younger girls. I was batting my eyelashes at a blind man!"

The more he spoke, the more aggrieved he felt. Fear gave way to a flood of complaints tumbling out like a dam breaking:

"I brought you breakfast, and you patted my shoulder and called me a 'good bro.'

I 'accidentally' fell asleep on your shoulder, and you shoved me off, saying I was too heavy.

I paraded around in front of you dressed like that, and you asked if I couldn't afford clothes or something!

Then you forced a long down jacket on me! Cheng Ge! A down jacket! How am I supposed to seduce anyone in a down jacket?! I... I was at my wit's end too!"

Cheng Ge listened to this barrage of accusations, his head buzzing even louder than when he'd just been beaten.

Cheng Ge stared at Zhou Ming, silent for a good ten seconds or more.

The wind howled through the camp, numbing the pain in his wounds to a dull throb.

His mind replayed Zhou Ming's tearful tirade, every word crashing against the steel-reinforced straight-male worldview he'd built over more than twenty years.

Then he raised his hand and delivered a solid slap to the side of Zhou Ming's face that wasn't already injured.

Cheng Ge: "Hilarious. Trying to flip the script and gaslight ME?!"

Zhou Ming: "..."

Cheng Ge slowly brought Zhou Ming back to the tent, only to find Wuliji absent.

The brazier fire was dying, reduced to a faint red ember glow. The medicine bowl sat alone on the low table, its ink-black surface crusted with a thin film.

The air, thick with the smell of bitterness and blood, seemed heavier than when they'd left.

Cheng Ge didn't go inside. Instead, he wandered around the camp several times, feigning aimlessness.

A Northern Di soldier on patrol, spear in hand, frowned at him several times.

Finally unable to hold back, the soldier spoke gruffly, his accent thick and halting: "You... want... what?"

Cheng Ge seemed startled by the sudden voice, looking up at the man as if he hadn't expected a common soldier to speak the Great Zhou language.

He clasped his hands behind his back, scuffed his toes against the ground, and spoke in a low voice with a rare, awkward hesitation.

"Um... so... Wuliji... where did he go? I... have something I need to see him about."

The soldier blinked, clearly not expecting that question. "You... want to see our Chief... for something?"

Cheng Ge nodded emphatically, his lips pale but his eyes earnest. "Yes. Something... important."

The soldier gave him another look, asked nothing more, and said curtly, "Wait."

With that, he turned and strode quickly toward the brightest cluster of lights at the camp's center, disappearing into the shifting shadows of the tents.

---

Inside the gilded yurt, the charcoal fire blazed hot but couldn't dispel the knife-edge tension hanging in the air.

Hutuke's face was flushed with rage, his chest heaving violently as he pointed at Wuliji standing below him, his voice seething through clenched teeth.

"Last night! You returned to the main camp, took the token, and then holed up in your tent like a coward! The front lines are burning with urgency—do you take me for blind?!"

Wuliji kept his eyes lowered, standing ramrod straight. At the edge of the thick gauze on his right hand, dark red was seeping through the bandage.

His face betrayed nothing, his voice flat. "My wound hasn't healed."

"Wounded?" Hutuke sneered, his gaze cutting through the gauze like a blade, dripping with mockery. "A scratch like that, and you use it as an excuse to hide away?

Wuliji, do you think I can't touch you?!"

He lunged forward a step, his voice dropping lower and turning more venomous: "Listen well. I have no time to waste on you.

The Nanling main force is hammering our left flank. Now—right now—take your men and get up there!

If you don't push them back, the Uliangha Tribe's summer pastures—and the person hiding in your tent—will be dealt with together!"

Before the words died, the tent flap stirred. One of Wuliji's personal guards slipped in, head bowed, and darted to his side. Rising on his toes, he whispered something in a very low voice.

Wuliji's calm, still gaze suddenly sharpened. His brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, and a flash of alarm shot through his eyes.

He didn't even wait for the guard to finish. Ignoring Hutuke's instantly darkening face and the thunderous fury about to erupt, he spun on his heel and strode out of the tent with long, urgent strides.

"Wuliji!" Hutuke's roar detonated like a thunderclap inside the lavish yurt. Veins bulged on his temples, murder blazing in his eyes. "How dare you walk out?! Halt, I command you!"

"Urgent matter in my camp. I must return at once. I'll accept whatever orders you give—later."

Wuliji's steps paused for a heartbeat before the tent flap, but he didn't turn back. He left only those words behind.

As he swept the flap aside and stepped out, his words scattered into the biting wind that rushed in.

The flap fell. Hutuke stood frozen, his expression shifting through shades of color before settling into a terrifying iron-gray.

He stared at the still-swaying heavy curtain, fingers cracking as he clenched them, chest heaving with barely contained rage—yet in the end, he gave no order to stop him.

The yurt fell into dead silence, broken only by the crackle of the charcoal fire, its light reflecting the Great Khan's churning fury and calculation.

Outside, the wind was bitter. Wuliji moved at nearly a run, heading straight for his tent.

When Wuliji stepped back into his tent, carrying the night's cold air with him, the brazier fire had gone completely out, leaving only darkness and chill.

Thin slivers of pale moonlight leaking through the felt curtain traced the blurred outlines of the objects inside.

Wuliji's gaze instinctively swept to the small table where Cheng Ge usually sat—it was empty.

The furs piled messily on the sleeping platform showed signs of being disturbed.

He paused mid-step, but didn't speak immediately. His gaze swept slowly across the dim tent.

The fire had completely died out. The medicine pot sat cold beside it, and the air was thick with lingering herbal bitterness—and something else… a faint, unfamiliar scent.

Then he saw it: the figure on his bed, curled up under the brocade quilt, back turned to him.

Wuliji's breath hitched almost imperceptibly.

He didn't move, just stood a few paces away, watching in silence.

The figure was wrapped tightly, only a sliver of nape and a few loose strands of hair visible, rising and falling with slow, even breaths—deep asleep.

Wuliji's eyes darkened in the gloom. He stepped forward slowly, his footfalls featherlight, almost silent.

He stopped at the bedside, looking down at the defenseless sleeping form.

The gauze-wrapped edge of his right hand cast a stiff outline in the dim light.

He slowly raised his hand, fingertips prying open a small gap at the edge of the tightly wrapped quilt.

In the faint light, he could make out the undergarment inside—Cheng Ge's—and a sliver of thin shoulder.

The sleeping figure seemed to feel the chill, instinctively curling inward with a muffled grumble.

The moonlight slipping through the felt curtain shifted, spilling coldly across the edge of the bed.

From the narrow shadow between the old felt blanket and stacked leather armor, Cheng Ge poked out half his head, revealing only a pair of eyes gleaming in the dimness—like a cat watching from the dark.

He saw Wuliji standing by the bed, his tall figure blocking part of the moonlight, a silent silhouette.

Wuliji leaned forward slightly, as if examining something, his fingertips hovering near the quilt's edge.

Just then, the bundled figure on the bed moved.

Not the fluster of being startled awake, nor deliberate coquetry, but a lazy, well-rested squirm.

Zhou Ming seemed to sense the nearby presence, or maybe the weight of that gaze was too much to sleep through.

He let out a vague "mm," then slowly, thick with drowsiness, propped himself up.

The heavy brocade quilt slipped off his shoulders, pooling at his waist.

He clearly wasn't fully awake, eyes half-lidded, instinctively raising a hand to rub his bleary eyes.

It was this most natural movement that tugged at the oversized undergarment he wore.

That fine, soft garment—Cheng Ge's—had a loose collar to begin with.

As Zhou Ming lazily raised his hand to rub his eyes, the fabric on one side seemed to lose all friction, sliding with silky smoothness down his thin shoulder.

Half a shoulder, the sharp collarbone, and a pale, narrow sliver of chest were suddenly exposed to the cold air—and to Wuliji's gaze.

The moonlight caught that patch of skin, even revealing the fine goosebumps rising from the sudden chill.

In the shadows, Cheng Ge's eyes flew wide!

What the hell?! Slippery shoulder?!

Cheng Ge stared hard at Wuliji's back, adrenaline spiking.

Wuliji's silhouette didn't budge an inch, not even when Zhou Ming suddenly sat up and the collar slipped.

The candlelight traced the straight lines of his shoulders and back, taut as a drawn bowstring.

But that cold, scrutinizing aura from before seemed to falter for a single, almost imperceptible… hitch?

He didn't act or speak, just held that slight lean, pausing for a breath or two.

Cheng Ge watched the two of them—Wuliji leaning toward the bed, Zhou Ming's collar slipping to expose a broad swath of pale chest.

Tsk! This scene, this distance, this silence… kindling and dry wood, two men alone—this was bound to—

But before he could finish the thought, something unexpected happened!

Wuliji's hand—the one wrapped in gauze, hovering near the quilt's edge—shot forward!

Not a gentle touch, not an ambiguous tug, but like an eagle swooping on a chick.

His fingers, like iron pincers, seized the back collar of Zhou Ming's half-slipped undergarment.

And with it, the thin neck beneath—he yanked hard!

"Urk—!" All of Zhou Ming's drowsy charm and that pitiful bit of "allure" were strangled in his throat. His face flushed red, his feet kicking uselessly at the air.

Wuliji's face showed no ripple of emotion. His brow furrowed in disgust, as if what he held wasn't a person but a dirty rag in his way.

The muscles in his arm tensed, and he lifted Zhou Ming clean off the bed with no effort.

Man and quilt alike—"whoosh—thud!"

Zhou Ming yelped, landing in a heap outside the tent, quilt and all.

The quilt flew open, leaving his bare feet and half-open chest exposed to the biting wind.

He shuddered violently, his scream twisting into a different pitch, like a frog tossed into ice water, flailing in place.

Cheng Ge: "?!?!"

He yanked his head back, heart nearly leaping out of his throat. Hey, hey, hey! That's not how the script goes!

From outside came Zhou Ming's pig-slaughter screech and teeth chattering.

Inside the tent, Wuliji's face was as dark as a stormy sea.

He didn't even glance outside, only speaking to the guard who rushed over at the noise, his voice cold and devoid of emotion: "Drag him away. Feed him to the wolves."

The guard froze, glanced at the flailing "white meat dumpling" outside, then at the general's unyielding expression, and bowed: "Yes!"

Feed him to the wolves?! From the shadows, Cheng Ge's blood ran cold.

Holy crap!!! This is a disaster! Zhou Ming, that useless fool—his seduction failed and now he's about to lose his life!

He couldn't think straight, his mind racing, his body already moving like a startled crab, pressing against the cold, rough tent wall.

Inch by inch, agonizingly slowly, he sidled sideways toward the shadow near the tent flap, away from the bed.

Run! I have to run! While Wuliji's attention is on Zhou Ming, I need to—

He reached the tent flap, his fingers just brushing the edge of the thick felt, about to pry open a crack—

A boot-clad foot landed silently on the ground in front of him, cutting off his path.

Cheng Ge froze, then raised his head with agonizing slowness.

Wuliji had somehow already appeared just inside the tent entrance, looking down at him.

His towering figure loomed over Cheng Ge, backlit, his expression unreadable.

Only his eyes gleamed with a piercing intensity in the dim light, bearing down on Cheng Ge's face with the oppressive weight of a gathering storm.

Cheng Ge: "..."

His throat went dry as a hundred ways to die flashed through his mind.

Wuliji said nothing, merely stared at him.

Outside the tent, the guard had already begun dragging the wailing Zhou Ming away.

Zhou Ming clawed desperately at the ground, his face a frozen mess of tears and snot.

Mid-struggle, he caught a glimpse of the two frozen figures through the gap in the tent flap—especially Cheng Ge—and seized on him like a lifeline.

He shrieked in a voice warped beyond recognition: "A Ge!! A Ge!! Save me! Say something! ...Mmph!"