The Fake Son Wants to Live [BL] Chapter 189 - The Orchard

The shuttle’s landing stirred up a cloud of dust over the quiet mud road. As the wind carried it away, the trees ca into view—tall, thick-limbed, and heavy with fruit. The scent hit Jian first: sweet, ripe, warm from the sun. He stepped out of the shuttle slowly, taking it all in.

The trees hadn’t been trimd in years. Branches hung low, thick with leaves, tangled together like they were hugging each other. Wild vines wrapped around trunks. Lush undergrowth sprawled beneath their feet. Jian stood still, wind brushing through his hair, as a slow, bright smile rose to his face.

This place...

This was the only place that ever truly felt like ho.

In his past life, He had lived here.

He had spend Five years with his grandmother right here. A modest, quiet life after everything else had been lost.

The orchard was neatly planted with the trees in rows. But in his past life ti had let it grow wild. Untad. Still beautiful.

It felt like a lifeti ago.

He looked over his shoulder at Xing Yu, who had followed him out of the ship. The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could think better of them.

"I like this place," he said softly.

Even he didn’t know why he said that to him. But he did.

Xing Yu gave a slow nod, stepping closer as he looked around the orchard. "It’s a beautiful sight. Well-organized...is this a fruit farm?"

Jian’s smile grew again. "It is!" He stepped forward into the shade of the trees, his fingers brushing against a branch heavy with apricots. "If you go further, you can find peaches, and in the front there used to be a lot of persimmons. They’d fruit early in the spring... sweet, bright orange ones." His voice carried an edge of excitent, a child-like joy. "And there were even lychee trees too. But I had to climb them. They’re harder to reach."

He laughed lightly and kept walking, his boots crunching softly over dry leaves and soil. It was easy to lose himself in mory, in the familiar scent of bark and fruit.

But just as his steps turned lighter... he stopped.

His smile froze, then faded.

Lying beneath one of the trees, tangled in the grass and dry leaves, was a grayling. Its limp body was contorted, a sharp tal rake still embedded deep into its side. Blood—thick and dark—had seeped into the earth around it.

Beside it lay a man.

Older, gray-haired and balding, his clothes were stained, his chest unmoving. One of his hands still gripped the rake’s wooden handle.

Jian stared.

He didn’t speak. His lips parted like he might say sothing, but no sound ca out. Slowly, he crouched next to the two bodies, eyes lingering on the man’s worn, sun-marked face.

He’d died fighting.

With a rake. Against a monster.

And he’d won... only to die a few breaths later.

Jian lowered his head and closed his eyes for a mont. A rush of grief—quiet, but deep—rose in his chest.

This dead man... he must have been one of the workers who stayed behind to protect the orchard.

Jian knelt beside the body and gently closed the man’s eyes. He didn’t say anything. Just stood back up, silently, and turned away.

There were signs of a struggle in the dirt—heavy drag marks, footprints, patches of black-gray blood sared into the earth. The grayling had chased him here. Jian followed the trail cautiously, his jaw tight.

And then he saw it.

A farmhouse.

Small, aged, tucked neatly among the trees, still standing. Jian’s brows furrowed. He didn’t recognize it. In his past life, there had only been a charred patch of land in this area. Just rubble and ash. But now... the house was still here.

He stepped toward it, sword held loosely in one hand. The wooden door was splintered but open. Jian slipped inside.

The air was heavy with dust and faint rot. A broken lamp on the floor, chairs knocked over—signs of panic. Maybe the struggle began here.

Then a noise. A light clatter.

Jian froze.

He reached for his sword again, sliding it free from its sheath. Quietly, carefully, he moved toward the back of the house. Behind him, he sensed soone trailing.

He glanced over his shoulder to see Xing Yu lazily strolling in behind him, arms relaxed at his sides like this was a casual walk through a museum. Jian rolled his eyes. Of course he’d follow him. But now wasn’t the ti.

Jian edged closer to the bedroom.

The sound had co from there.

He pushed the door open slowly, sword raised—

The room was still. Clean. A bed made neatly on the ground, a faint scent of detergent. Nothing out of place.

He stepped forward.

Just as he turned to leave, he heard it again.

A soft, choked gasp.

Jian spun toward the wardrobe and moved without thinking. He grabbed the handle and yanked it open.

And what he saw froze him.

Nansich.

Curled up in the corner of the wardrobe like a kicked puppy, arms hugging his knees, eyes red and swollen. His breath hitched in a panicked, broken rhythm as he stared back at Jian. His bleached blond hair, short and choppy, was tangled and ssy, the black roots growing out and giving him a ssy, unkempt look. Normally, he acted like a brat—always too loud, too cocky, too much. But now he looked small. Fragile. And terrified out of his mind.

"Nansich?" Jian said, blinking hard, his voice lowering in disbelief. "What the hell are you doing here—?"

But the boy didn’t speak. His mouth trembled like he was trying to form words but couldn’t. His whole body shook like a leaf.

Jian felt his chest tighten.

He lowered his sword to the floor and knelt in front of the wardrobe.

"Hey," he said softly. "It’s okay. You’re okay."

Nansich blinked, eyes glossy, lips parted. Then suddenly, the boy moved—he shot forward and threw his arms around Jian’s neck, gripping the front of his shirt in both fists as he sobbed loudly into his chest.

He was crying like it hurt to breathe. Like the fear had been bottled up so tightly it was exploding out of him now. Jian held him close, stunned by how thin and cold he felt. The tough, cocky attitude was gone. All that was left was a scared kid who had survived sothing terrible.