Even pinned down and completely under control, Chi Zhuo didn’t look the least bit flustered. Lying flat on the ground, he asked bluntly, “So, Your Highness, were you planning from the start to use the Phantom Butterfly’s hand?”
“I wasn’t, at first.”
“Hm?” Chi Zhuo let out a low sound of confusion, but Ji Chenxi clearly had no intention of explaining.
His face was calm, almost blank. The dagger in his hand glinted with a dangerous light, pressed hard against Chi Zhuo’s chest, inching forward like it meant to go all the way.
“Got anything you want to say?”
“Hm?” Chi Zhuo sounded puzzled again, then let out a soft, quick laugh. “Last words? Or are you asking if I dare to dream after losing?”
The tip of the blade tapped lightly. Just a bit more force and it would slice clean through the fabric over his chest, then slip straight into flesh without any trouble.
Being held at knifepoint never felt good. But Chi Zhuo showed none of the fear or panic that should’ve come with it. His eyes didn’t waver. He wasn’t scared—because he was almost certain Ji Chenxi wouldn’t actually hurt him.
Ji Chenxi toyed with the dagger, already looking a little bored. The hand that had been holding Chi Zhuo down behind his back shifted to his neck instead, moving fast—like an owner grabbing an unruly cat by the scruff while trying not to lose his temper. The dagger, no longer fully pressed to Chi Zhuo’s chest, flicked lightly and picked out the gold coin there. The shining coin was caught in the same hand that held the blade. Then Ji Chenxi tore off a silk ribbon from his own clothes and, with one hand, tied Chi Zhuo’s wrists together.
Ji Chenxi seemed to have a special liking for long, flowing decorations. Almost half of what he wore could be stripped off into ribbon-like strips. Thinking back to the black butterfly bow, Chi Zhuo’s expression softened just a little.
He asked quietly, “Where did I make you unhappy?”
His voice was light, brushing past like a small, soft brush.
They were close—very close. But Chi Zhuo spoke so softly that even at that distance, Ji Chenxi could barely hear him.
Ji Chenxi’s brows dipped slightly. He happened to be standing with his back to the recording drone. Chi Zhuo wasn’t completely blocked from view, still bold as ever, but Ji Chenxi answered in a faint breath of sound, shaping the words more than speaking them: “I’m not angry. What would I even be angry about?”
A double denial. Not that different from admitting it outright.
Chi Zhuo was sharp—when he wanted to be, he noticed every tiny detail. ‘Got anything you want to say?’ That question had been… a little out of place. He quickly caught the key to it.
He’d asked whether Ji Chenxi had planned from the start to use the Phantom Butterfly’s hand. Ji Chenxi said he hadn’t—at first. So what changed his mind?
Countless thoughts raced through Chi Zhuo’s head. He almost caught the fleeting answer several times, but it slipped away each time, just out of reach. Since he couldn’t pin it down, he started ruling things out one by one.
“Is it because I used Lan Mu’s spider to drain your spiritual strength?”
Ji Chenxi’s brows were still drawn down, even the corners of his lips hinting at a faint downturn. Most people would’ve missed those tiny shifts, but in Chi Zhuo’s eyes, they were blown up a hundred times over.
It looked like anger on the surface—but underneath, there was a trace of hurt. A little bit of grievance. For a moment, Chi Zhuo didn’t know what to say. It felt like a kitten he adored had been wronged—turning its back on him in silence. When he reached out to poke it, the kitten shot him a glare that looked fierce, yet was filled with blame and quiet sadness.
Ji Chenxi wasn’t a kitten. He didn’t look soft and sweet like one either. But people see what they want to see—especially when they’re in love. One tiny expression was enough to set his mind racing.
Ji Chenxi was usually bold and bright in front of him. That made this subtle look hit even harder.
Heartache, guilt, and a dark little urge to take advantage of that soft moment and tease him—all those feelings tangled together, twisting Chi Zhuo’s heart tight.
He wanted to do something. Say something. But he had no idea where to start.
The usually cold man frowned, lowering his voice even more. “Talk to me, little rose. If you don’t say it, how am I supposed to know?”
People always say couples need to talk—be patient, be understanding. But when someone’s upset, do they really want to talk?
Ji Chenxi narrowed his eyes at him. Seeing that Chi Zhuo was genuinely troubled over his small mood, he figured… fine. He wasn’t exactly furious anyway.
He’d already tied the man up. Ji Chenxi’s fingers moved without restraint now, drifting to Chi Zhuo’s Adam’s apple and tapping it lightly. “If I just told you straight out, wouldn’t that make it seem like I’m begging for comfort?”
“No,” Chi Zhuo said softly. “I’m the one who wants your comfort. I made you upset. Seeing you unhappy makes me feel bad. I really want to know what I did wrong. I even want you to kiss me. I’ll secretly steal everyone else’s points and give them all to you—would that make you feel a little better?”
Ji Chenxi spared a second of silence for the “everyone else” in that sentence. His gaze didn’t change much, but his face did. Heat crept up his pale cheeks without him even noticing, staining them a beautiful shade of red.
His lips moved as he muttered with quiet disdain, “Someone sure knows how to sweet-talk.”
Chi Zhuo hadn’t meant it as sweet talk. But words spoken straight from the heart sometimes sounded even sweeter than planned lines.
Ji Chenxi tugged off Chi Zhuo’s tie as well and tightened the binding around his wrists.
“Not sweet talk,” Chi Zhuo murmured.
Ji Chenxi said nothing.
“But right now, I really do want to say something sweet just to make you happy.”
“Behave yourself,” Ji Chenxi finally said.
He stood up and dusted off his hands, admiring his handiwork. By the time he turned to leave, his smile was bright again, lively as ever. “Senior, see you around—if fate allows.”
With that, he vanished in a flash, the recording drone dutifully trailing behind him.
Truth was, Ji Chenxi wasn’t really that angry. If anything, Chi Zhuo had flustered him a little. He’d honestly thought Chi Zhuo didn’t have any friends—that he was probably the only one who could count as one. Sure, that “friend” now came with the word boyfriend in front of it, but still. It was just a freshman trial, and suddenly Chi Zhuo had someone else he could team up with.
What bothered Ji Chenxi wasn’t only that this new “friend” popped out of nowhere. It was more the feeling of things slipping out of his control—of only finding out after the fact. That subtle sting when his need for control got poked… he had no intention of saying it out loud.
Meanwhile, Chi Zhuo, still tied up, watched Ji Chenxi’s figure fade into the distance. After a long moment, he lowered his head, a helpless yet indulgent smile curling at his lips.
That faint smile wasn’t caught by the recording drone. The leadership at Royal Academy were too busy feeling pleased. As expected of a steady, outstanding graduate—Chi Zhuo handled things with care and balance. Compared to the other side where Lan Mu had basically gone mad, the two were complete opposites.
Just as the school leaders were wondering whether they should send a student to untie Chi Zhuo, a blade formed from condensed spiritual power sliced clean through the ribbon binding his wrists. He rose from the ground, casually rubbing his wrists, then glanced at the recording drone still hovering in the air. The look on his face made it seem like he wanted to crush it in his hand.
The school officials: “…”
This was, without a doubt, the most recording drones they had ever lost in a single trial.
Luckily, Chi Zhuo only looked at it. He didn’t actually make a move.
After leaving Chi Zhuo, Ji Chenxi had a clear goal—go rescue Lu Jianhan and Bai Anran.
From the moment Lu Jianhan entered the underground maze, he had quietly released his spiritual power, spreading it across the entire labyrinth. Keeping that up took almost everything he had, leaving him with barely any strength left to deal with Lan Mu.
His Phantom Butterfly could at best fool Lan Mu for a short while before being exposed. As for Bai Anran, whether it was his spiritual power or his combat skills, he leaned more toward support. He could fight Lan Mu, sure—but the chance of winning was slim. On top of that, Lan Mu’s spiritual power was strange. The mother spider kept spawning countless little spiders. Facing that swarm of densely packed spider spirits, Ji Chenxi couldn’t help but suspect the two of them had already had their points stolen by Lan Mu.
Luckily, Lan Mu loved playing cat and mouse. He enjoyed teasing and wearing down his prey, so he wasn’t in any rush to finish things.
When he saw Ji Chenxi, he lifted a brow slightly. He looked surprised—yet not surprised at all. With a lazy motion, he brushed the messy bangs off his forehead, showing smooth skin beneath. “Looks like Chi failed to catch his cat.”
Lan Mu looked a bit rough around the edges. His clothes hung loose and sloppy, and his hair was a mess. But his face was striking enough that it didn’t come off as careless. Instead, he gave off a laid-back, lazy vibe—carefree in a way that had its own strange charm.
Ji Chenxi narrowed his eyes, though there was still a smile playing on his lips. “Senior Chi was just going easy on me.”
“I don’t think he was going easy,” Lan Mu said lightly. “Teaming up with a Phantom Butterfly gives you a high win rate. Same S-rank, after all. One tiny mistake and you lose. Still…” He tilted his head. “I’ve known Chi for years. I’ve never gotten the better of him. And now he just loses to a little freshman like you? Yeah. That doesn’t sit well with me.”
Ji Chenxi didn’t reply. He simply watched him quietly. Sure enough, right after saying it didn’t sit well, Lan Mu made his move.
Lan Mu was best at long-range attacks—especially assassination. In holographic matches and trials like this, he was always a top-tier killer. Ji Chenxi barely heard any sound before Lan Mu flashed right in front of him. Behind him, his escape routes had already been layered with webs, one after another.
Both were poison types—but spiders were truly annoying creatures.
Not even half as cute as snakes.
Hello, everyone ヾ(＾∇＾). I hope you enjoyed the story! If you’re feeling generous, please buy me a coffee, share/comment on my translated works! Check out the link below for early chapters. (๑>ᴗ<๑)
