Chapter 20: High-Risk Experimental Subject  

Jing Rong only waited a short while before feeling Jue pull him into an unusually tight embrace.  

Jue’s voice was strained: “I’ll take you back, Brother. I’ll treat your wounds.”  

Holding Jing Rong’s hand carefully, Jue led him toward the tents in the camp area.  

As the leader, Jue had his own private tent, guarded by several red-haired sentinels outside.  

Jing Rong could feel the cold sweat on Jue’s fingers from tension. With his other hand, he gently stroked the back of Jue’s neck, as if soothing a young wolf: “It’s not a big deal for me. A few days of rest, and I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”  

Jue remained silent.  

The guards outside saluted upon seeing him: “Leader.”  

Jue, his face clouded with worry, didn’t even respond before lifting the tent flap and guiding Jing Rong to sit on the camp bed.  

Jing Rong followed obediently, not saying a word, showing none of the demeanor of an Adjudicator. When not in battle, he always resembled a young student—more suited to the title of a geographical exploration society than that of an Adjudicator.  

Jue supported his back, helping him lean slightly against a pillow.  

Jing Rong chuckled softly, unused to such treatment: “This is my first time in the leader’s tent. Pity I can’t see what’s inside.”  

Normally, Jue would glance at him with those blue eyes at such teasing remarks, or his ears would flush red. But today, there was nothing.  

Today was eerily quiet.  

Sensing Jue’s unusual mood, Jing Rong raised his head slightly and reached out, his fingers brushing against a slender waist.  

The owner of that waist stood rigidly, maintaining military discipline.  

Jing Rong wrapped his arms around the stiff leader and pulled him close: “What happened today was all for the best. Don’t be upset.”  

Sitting in his embrace, Jue spoke in a low voice: “You didn’t tell me about the risks you faced. I’ll never let you take such a risk again.”  

Jing Rong lightly touched his face, unsure how to respond. But after a moment, he said, “Alright.”  

His years as an Executor had been too long. Apart from his core consciousness, everything else could be repaired—broken bones mended, shattered flesh restored. To him, his body was no different from any other weapon, merely a tool.  

He had never paid much mind to the wear and tear of tools.  

Lowering his voice gently, Jing Rong said, “I didn’t think of it that way. Next time, I won’t make you worry.”  

Jue whispered, “Brother, my heart is made of flesh. It aches for you.”  

The oil lamp burned softly beside them.  

Jue pressed his face tightly against Jing Rong’s neck, like a young wolf seeking warmth.  

After a moment of silence, Jing Rong held him tighter and murmured, “I know.”  

Once Jue had calmed down, still nestled against his shoulder, he said quietly, “Let me treat your wounds. Did you do any emergency treatment, Brother?”  

Jing Rong answered uncertainly, “A little.”After being injured in the explosion, he had only done basic first aid for the sake of You Tier’s critically wounded teammates.” Shrapnel still embedded in his skin, he hadn’t paid it much attention.  

Upon returning, time had been tight. Jing Rong had planned to tend to his wounds himself that night—until Jue discovered them first.  

Kneeling before him, Jue’s voice remained tense.

Jing Rong’s vision was pitch black, only able to feel Jue pulling his hand over and placing it on his knee, slowly and gently undoing his cufflinks.  

Jing Rong’s outer coat was black, but when the shirt underneath was turned over, something unusual became visible: the bloodstains had dried into a dark red, sticking to his skin.  

“Does it hurt, Brother?” Jue watched Jing Rong’s expression carefully, slowing his movements.  

Jing Rong replied, “It doesn’t. Go ahead.”  

The conversation was admittedly somewhat ambiguous and strange, but there was no time to dwell on it now. Jue focused intently, using scissors to cut away his shirt.  

Ten minutes later, Jing Rong’s shirt was completely removed, his upper body bare and exposed to the air.  

Jing Rong said, “Your hands are steady. Anyone you treat is lucky.”  

Jue ignored him, meticulously examining his wounds.  

The shrapnel from the explosion had affected the entire inner side of Jing Rong’s arm and his waist—all external injuries and burns. Pale red streaks of blood remained on his fair skin.  

Jue paused for a moment, then stood up to fetch tweezers and disinfectant cloth. “Brother, this might hurt a little. I’ll remove the fragments for you.”  

Jing Rong said, “Alright.”  

He still made no sound.  

Jing Rong leaned against the foot of the bed, eyes slightly closed, while Jue remained half-kneeling before him.  

As the fragments were pulled out, the wounds were disturbed, causing fresh blood to trickle intermittently.  

Jue had never systematically studied medical techniques—all his first-aid knowledge had been learned on the battlefield.  

This process should have been excruciating. In the resource-scarce town of Jieke, all anesthetics were reserved for critically injured patients. Ordinary wounds were usually stitched up directly.  

The procedure took longer than expected. Jue steadied his hands as much as possible, extracting every piece of shrapnel and placing them in the sterilized tray beside him.  

Jing Rong didn’t utter a word, though his slightly closed lashes were now damp with cold sweat, dark and glistening.  

Jing Rong could sense Jue looking at his eyes.  

When Jing Rong shifted slightly, Jue suddenly leaned forward, tilting his head up to kiss his eyelids, his tongue lightly licking away the sweat.  

“Brother, if you ever lose your sight, I’ll give you my eyes,” Jing Rong heard Jue say.  

Jue’s voice was resolute, leaving no room for doubt.  

Jing Rong replied, “Alright. If it ever comes to that, I’d be happy to accept the most beautiful eyes in the world.”  

His tone was so calm and casual that it took Jue a moment to realize he was teasing him. Flustered, a mix of worry and urgency rose in him, yet his ears reddened.  

Having grown up on the battlefield, he had never flirted with anyone before and was utterly defenseless against Jing Rong’s offhand remarks.  

Jue applied medicine to Jing Rong’s wounds before tightly wrapping them with bandages.  

After inspecting his handiwork, he looked up at Jing Rong and said, “Brother, rest here with me. Don’t go out for the next few days.”  

Jing Rong thought for a moment and didn’t object. “Alright. Let me know if you need me.”  

Jue nodded but hadn’t yet replied when Jing Rong chuckled again. “Are you already thinking about how to hide using your Mental Power from me?”  

Jue’s hands stiffened.  

Jing Rong slid his fingers into Jue’s long red hair, gently stroking it.  

Jue was overjoyed.

Rescuing fellow prisoners of war, reuniting with the guerrillas, blocking the War Train’s western route—for the entire winter ahead, the western front would be cut off from reinforcements… Each of these was a positive step, and the end of the war seemed within reach.  

He wasn’t sure how much longer he had to live. He wanted to finish everything as quickly as possible.  

Jing Rong said, “Fine, use it if you want.”  

Jue froze for a moment.  

Jing Rong’s tone was casual: “I’ll sustain it.”  

He would sustain his Mental Power.  

And he knew exactly how to nurture his Mental Power.  

This little red wolf of his wasn’t like any other creature—confinement would provoke resistance, taming would lead to destruction, comfort would breed suffering. Only true freedom could restore his Mental Power, freeing him from the shackles of reality.  

When he liked something, he always preferred it alive—and in its most dazzling form.  

Jue’s eyes widened, fixed intently on him.  

Jing Rong’s eyes were slightly closed, his presence restrained yet profound, his scent as intoxicating as the metallic sweetness of a cold winter’s day.  

Jue rolled over, reaching out to grip his chin.  

His voice was slightly hoarse: “Brother, what should I do?”  

“I want to take you right now.”