Chapter 69: Two-Faced Phoenix Man 28

Tonight, the kidnappers seemed utterly agitated.

They were likely a ragtag group thrown together on short notice—eight or nine men huddled in one place, rough around the edges and none too bright, barely on speaking terms with each other. But the Leader had a knack for keeping things in line; whenever tempers flared, he’d smooth them over with just a few words.

Tonight’s quarrel, however, was no simple matter to defuse.

It all came down to money and profit.

The ransom the Lu Family had delivered to the drop point was generous—thirty percent more than they’d demanded—but still just shy of enough for an even split.

Tensions had always simmered among the kidnappers. Some boasted they’d put in more legwork and deserved a bigger cut; others claimed the whole kidnapping had gone off without a hitch thanks to their brilliant schemes…

They argued fiercely, faces flushed and eyes blazing, neither side willing to back down.

Lu Xiang simply slumped in a shadowy gray corner, his pitch-black eyes fixed eerily on the bloated, jagged shadows pooling on the floor.

In a mere two weeks, the man had undergone a shocking transformation, as if reborn into someone entirely new.

Filthy rags clung to his neck like flakes of dead skin. His navy shirt was caked in grime and oil stains that turned the stomach. Strands of curly hair draped over his forehead like a tattered curtain, casting his eyes in gloom. Beneath the pallid lamplight and encroaching darkness, they gleamed with an unearthly greenish hue.

It was a chilling sight, like a forest at midnight—stripped of all serenity, harboring only the promise of ambush.

“Enough bickering! That Eldest Young Master is still our hostage, isn’t he? We say what happens next,” growled one burly thug, his face a map of bulging flesh. He knocked back a cup of liquor and wiped his mouth with impatience.

“That’s not the way to look at it,” the Leader countered. He cut an imposing figure too, but with a steadiness in his gaze. His eyes flicked toward the corner, where the man lay wasted away like a husk, before he spoke slowly. “The Lu Family’s got power and reach. They didn’t send the cash exactly as we asked today because they want us fighting among ourselves.”

“Their tricks run deep. Even with…” He trailed off for a beat, then pressed on. “We can’t get sloppy now. It’s gone on long enough—don’t get greedy, or if they pinpoint this place, we’re all done for.”

His words hit home; the clamor died down noticeably.

It was clear they put a lot of stock in their ‘head man.’

“Alright, ease up on the booze, lads. Chug some water to clear your heads, stay sharp. Keep an ear out tonight.”

No sooner had the Leader finished than the Rough Man lost his cool. He stomped over to Lu Xiang and prodded the man’s rigid knee with his battered shoe, like he was kicking trash. “On your feet, pour us some water. What, you a corpse now?”

He pulled back his foot, his face—grotesquely sliced by the overhead shadows—twisting in revulsion. His voice turned mocking. “Tsk tsk… And this was supposed to be some neat-freak Eldest Young Master? Filthier than a bum—they’d turn their noses up at you.”

With that, he stepped back, pinched his nostrils shut, and fanned the air in front of him like he’d caught a whiff of pure rot.

The room erupted in laughter.

But Lu Xiang refused to give them the satisfaction of a humiliated grimace.

His expression remained even. Head bowed, a sheen of cold, clammy sweat beaded on his forehead. His elbows dug into the filthy floor, his muscles twitching mechanically.

The Rough Man couldn’t abide the indifference. He hurled his cup aside, his bloodshot eyes rolling toward a rusty side door on the factory’s right, half-buried under a pile of junk. A grin split his face, baring a mouthful of yellowed teeth in a creepy leer.

“Your little lover’s such a pretty thing—fair-skinned and pristine. Bet he couldn’t stomach your stink, huh?”

Laboriously, Lu Xiang pushed himself up. He paused for the briefest moment at the jab, then shuffled toward the water bucket in the corner without a flicker of reaction.

It was all too dull to rouse their interest in tormenting him further.

With his head down, no one caught the shadow cloaking his face—where eyes burned crimson, on the verge of bleeding. A storm of loathing and creeping dread heaved his chest, as if someone had jammed a roaring fan down his throat on the bitterest winter night, bloating him from within until he threatened to burst.

Gritting his teeth, Lu Xiang wrestled his emotions in the blizzard of his mind. Veins bulging, he gripped the bucket with trembling arms, making a show of trying to hoist it up.

This was a derelict abandoned factory, tucked away in secrecy. Even their sleeping spots were makeshift. No fancy water cooler here—pouring meant lifting the whole damn barrel.

Of course, in Lu Xiang’s current state, there was no way he could manage it.

Those men just wanted to humiliate him.

And of course, he would play along.

He would play along by letting them drink the drugged water of their own accord—sending them straight to their deaths.

Sure enough, once the kidnappers had their fill of mockery, they poured themselves glasses of water and drank.

Soon after—or perhaps only moments later—the thudding sounds of bodies hitting the floor rose one after another. The vast, dilapidated space fell into utter silence.

A silence like that of a graveyard, dimly strewn with scraps of yellow funeral paper.

After the faint rustling of ropes being dragged across the floor came the sight of bound corpses littering the ground.

The only man left standing was like a soul-summoning banner thrust stiffly into grave soil. His body still trembled with uncontrollable neurological weakness, but on closer inspection, it might not truly be called trembling.

It was more like the slow-rising thrill of a graverobber, stirred in his spine by the cold wind whispering over a tombstone.

Lu Xiang parted his lips soundlessly. Moonlight crept through the window to caress his crimson cheek.

The man had grown gaunt, his bones straining against a thin sheath of skin. In the pale moonlight, it seemed a mere gentle tear would rip that skin—and the man beneath it—wide open.

He slowly retrieved a small knife from one of the kidnappers’ sleeves. Facing the plump, gleaming moon, he eased the blade open.

The knife wasn’t particularly sharp; its edge was even slightly curled and dull. But it was enough to carve out organs.

This was the knife Lu Xiang had set his sights on after long observation.

He didn’t need a sharp blade.

He didn’t need swiftness.

The man simply wanted to wield that insidious, blunt little knife—one painstaking cut at a time—gutting them with every ounce of his strength.

The shadows on the floor twisted into a writhing heap, prone like beasts awaiting the slaughter. The upright shadow had become the hunter.

That dark, solid silhouette slowly raised the blunt knife high—like a Western sorcerer in a sacrificial rite, hoisting the blade dramatically above his skull before slashing it down.

A chaotic, rasping scream erupted, feeble as a dying serpent.

Lu Xiang kept his eyes downcast as he yanked the blade free from the man’s thigh.

A faint, wriggling tear of flesh was followed by flecks of blood spattering his pale cheek, trickling slowly down the center of his face.

Lu Xiang’s black hair and black eyes flew wild, like an evil ghost from the depths of hell. The beauty mark beneath his eye seemed to flicker with the glow of crimson candlelight.

He flashed a slight grin, his sharp canine gleaming like a vampire’s fang.

Where should the next cut land?

Lu Xiang slowly smeared the bloodied blade across his fingertip. The glint off its tip caught the moonlight streaming in from outside, illuminating half his face—instantly conjuring the image of some eerie murderer on a stormy night.

Dank, sticky, reeking of blood, twisted in a sinister smile.

He shook out his hand to steady the tremor from his overexertion, his sweat-dampened bangs clumped at the corner of his eye. His knuckles caressed the handle, the second strike poised to fall.

Then, abruptly, a faint sob drifted from behind the rusted iron door.

The voice was soft and helpless, like a fragile butterfly trapped beneath a glass dome—its wings fluttering in muffled, pitiful thuds.

Lu Xiang froze.

As if struck by sudden realization, he dropped the blade in a panic, his steps stumbling and rigid.

His breaths heaved like a bellows. He doubled over, shuddering violently, until he finally located the silver key on the leader’s body.

In that instant, Lu Xiang’s pupils contracted to pinpricks. Clutching the key in one hand, he frantically smeared away the bloodstains on his face with the other.

He desperately tried to make himself presentable—clean, tidy, properly dressed—so he could face his lover, locked away in the basement, looking normal… handsome.

Needless to say, he was doomed to fail.

Never mind the glaring filth on his clothes—the blood he’d smeared across his cheek was a vast crimson smear, claiming most of his face. It was more horrifying than any ghost.

His trembling hand fumbled with the lock. In his tension and disarray, it took several tries before the key slid home.

Click.

With the sharp snap of the lock giving way, the small rusted door swung open.

This was the first time Lu Xiang had laid eyes on the basement.

It was dim and cramped, with a long staircase plunging straight down to a sealed chamber the size of a coffin.

And there sat Jiang Rang—his lover—at the foot of the stairs. The instant light pierced the gloom, he recoiled, curling into a tight ball. His white shirt was filthy and gray.

Lu Xiang couldn’t make out his face, only the stream of pitiful mewls, like a frightened kitten.

“A-Xiang… A-Xiang…”

“Save me… whoever you are, please… take me away—”

Lu Xiang stood frozen in place, dazed. In his stupor, he saw his own soul as if it had already detached from his body. He watched as that shell of a form mechanically crouched down, slowly opening arms woven from the wind like dandelion seeds scattering in the breeze, and tightly pulled the youth into its embrace.

“I’m here—I’m right here.”

A bloody taste welled up in Lu Xiang’s throat, nearly making him cough it out, the metallic tang in his voice so nauseating it turned the stomach.

But he couldn’t spit it up.

He had long since discarded all physical and spiritual sensations, transformed into a beast that knew only to guard its beloved.

Faint, hazy moonlight filtered down from the factory roof, gently scattering around this pair of pitiable lovers, as if weaving an illusory dream for them.

In the distance, blinding lights pierced the wasteland, and the piercing wail of sirens blared.

The moonlight receded—dawn was about to break.