It seemed like Mobei-Jun had just killed his way out of a Huan Hua Palace ambush. The Demon Race held their grudges for a long time, and the Mobei clan had held a long-standing animosity toward Huan Hua Palace. That sect would suffer the greatest number of deaths and injuries at the ill-fated Immortal Alliance Conference precisely because Mobei-Jun wished to retaliate against them. This event had connected seamlessly with Airplane Shooting Toward the Sky’s master plan.
Shang Qinghua muttered to himself back and forth, a mischievous cast to his face. He looked around on the ground for a while before finding a stone about half the size of a skull and hefted it up; it was quite heavy.
One, two, three—he got in position above Mobei-Jun’s head, the demon’s eyes still closed.
The System offered neither warning hints nor prohibiting alerts.
Shang Qinghua relaxed. There was no warning, which meant, in other words: Go ahead and kill him!
“My king, ah, my king, this is the will of the heavens—don’t blame me.” With a thoroughly insincere prayer, Shang Qinghua’s hand rose and the stone fell.
And braked to a halt, right above the tip of Mobei-Jun’s arguably perfect nose.
To tell the truth, this Mobei-Jun character held an unusual significance to him. It could have been said that Mobei-Jun was the type of man “Great Master” Airplane had always dreamed of becoming: strong, cool, doing as he pleased—just like how every little kid had dreamed of becoming Ultraman.
How could he just stand by and watch himself kill Ultraman with his own hands?!
Shang Qinghua bemoaned his dilemma for a while. After he finished, he had a perfectly shameless thought. It would be fine if he just didn’t watch, right?
So, he turned his head and raised the stone up high…
Nope. He still couldn’t do it.
Shang Qinghua chucked aside the cumbersome murder weapon with a plop. His eyes shone with excitement, and by now he was almost completely on top of Mobei-Jun.
I can’t, I can’t—the more I look, the more I feel this face is just too damn mesmerizing!
In truth, deep down, Bing-ge’s fair and clean pretty-boy type didn’t really suit the tastes of “Great Master” Airplane Flying Towards the Sky. He had only assigned this sort of configuration to the protagonist to meet his stallion hardware specifications. The art of growing stallions was grounded in science, and the research was clear: women preferred men who looked cultured, pretty, and even a bit soft and feminine.
Protagonists couldn’t avoid getting roasted; it was fair to say that Bing-ge had a fan every three steps and a hater every five. But Mobei-Jun wasn’t the same. Supporting characters inevitably attracted a lot of love, and Mobei-Jun had practically never been hated on.
This character had been created entirely according to the author’s own tastes. And because Mobei-Jun was secretly favored by that author, he had embodied Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky’s scholarly aesthetic for the ideal fellow man. Don’t ask why Luo Binghe wasn’t the embodiment of his ideal man; Luo Binghe’s use had primarily been to fulfill his desire to be a badass and get revenge, as well as his desire for wanton 【 this section has been censored 】.
Even this young Mobei-Jun, who hadn’t yet grown into himself, was unconditionally in line with the sixteen words that described the author’s true aesthetic: “Eyes deep as night, nose straight and high, full of heroic spirit, icily arrogant beyond compare.”
This was the beautiful man of his dreams!
The stony murder weapon rose and lowered, lowered and rose. For the first time in his transmigrated life, Shang Qinghua was faced with a difficult life choice.
Finally, he decided: Time to get a room!
He would go to an inn to get a room—no, to find somewhere to stay.
At present, though, he was in a field of dead bodies. Shang Qinghua hesitated a bit, then tipped that load of Qing Jing Peak’s heavy, useless nuisance right off the cart the way he’d take out the trash. He hauled Mobei-Jun onto it, face-down, so as to conceal the face that made him lose control every time he looked at it.
For the time being, he couldn’t return to Cang Qiong Mountain. No one there would realize anything was amiss too quickly. This trip was supposed to last seven days, and only two had passed.
To stand steadfast by this demonic young heir and protect him while he had been weakened by a sneak attack—what a wonderful opportunity to garner some goodwill. While comforting himself with this justification, Shang Qinghua huffed and puffed as he pushed that large flatbed cart toward the city.
To rent the room, Shang Qinghua spent the secret stash he had been saving these last few years. At this point, he was only an average, run-of-the-mill outer disciple, and he didn’t have the authority to manage accounts or draw from the sect coffers. Renting a room already stretched the limits of his economic ability. So, as a matter of course, it was a single room. So, as a matter of course, there was only one bed. Who this bed belonged to was also a matter of course.
Of course it was for himself!
For a while, Shang Qinghua sprawled out on the bed like a dead starfish. After he had finished stretching out his muscles and bones, he crawled up and hauled Mobei-Jun onto it.
This was necessary. Mobei-Jun was already in a bad mood and quite the temper after being injured. If he awoke to find himself lying on the ground or scrunched into a chair, could Shang Qinghua expect to keep his life? There was no question that Mobei-Jun wouldn’t stop to consider the truth of the situation before rewarding him with an icicle through the chest.
They had just passed by a medicine stand, and Shang Qinghua had bought a bit of such-and-such ointment. Although, given demons’ unusually strong vitality, he could probably just toss him in the corner and ignore him, and no matter how large a hole had been poked into him, it would gradually close. However, since Shang Qinghua had decided to cling to those thighs, he knew he had to discard all reservations and display his sincerity. As a self-proclaimed “frank and honest reprobate,” “Great Master” Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky looked down on hypocrites who kept up the aloof poser façade despite clearly wanting to cling to people’s thighs.
He boldly scooped up a large lump of ointment and shoved it into the hole above Mobei-Jun’s kidney until it was more or less closed, then flipped him over, arranging his hands palms-together in a Sleeping Beauty pose. After spending some time admiring this perfect face, which he had modeled after his mind’s-eye ideal, he pillowed his head on his arms and fell asleep on the outer edge of the bed.
The summer night was stiflingly hot. Even with the window open, not a wisp of cool breeze flowed in. After tossing and turning for half the night, Shang Qinghua had finally managed to doze off when someone suddenly shoved him to the ground with a kick to the rear.
Shang Qinghua was nearly scared to death. Scrabbling, he fled beneath the table and turned his head in a panic. Mobei-Jun sat straight up on the bed, eyes shining with blue light like an overcharged battery about to explode.
Shang Qinghua had thought up his lines long ago. He beat his chest and stomped his feet, saying with deep expression, “My king, you’re finally awake—”
Mobei-Jun was unmoved, looking at him coldly.
“Do you remember who I am?”
Mobei-Jun didn’t respond.
Shang Qinghua felt not a bit of embarrassment. Delightedly entertaining the possibility of amnesia, he barreled onward. “We met on a little road just a moment ago. I said I would follow you for the rest of my life, my king, as close as—”
Mobei-Jun cut him off. “Why were you hugging me just now?”
“…as a little padded jacket…” Shang Qinghua started. “What did you say? I did what just now?”
“You were hugging me.”
A sudden realization, thunder from a clear sky.
Sleeping in this damn heat was like being baked in a furnace, and Mobei-Jun’s body temperature just happened to be cold. In a muddled state of sleep, Shang Qinghua had subconsciously moved toward the cooler side of the bed, and the closer he got, the cooler and more comfortable he’d become. No wonder he had dreamed of a giant popsicle around which he’d happily wrapped his four limbs like an octopus as he licked and cried happy tears.