Celoa painfully downed the entire cup of bitter potion, then silently retreated to a corner to act like a brooding little mushroom, his face filled with a sense of world-weary emptiness.
Droville felt a light shove from Caesar. His body had already stiffened; he turned his head, his gaze dark and menacing, as if to say: Speak if you have business, otherwise, don’t go looking for trouble.
Caesar, knowing he was in the wrong, lowered his voice by several notches. Rubbing his nose, he hurriedly whispered a sentence and quickly retreated, fearing a beating.
“Go up and comfort him. After all, not only does he have to keep drinking the medicine for three days, but injections are also indispensable. To put the ugly truth first: these shots hurt quite a bit.”
Droville felt his headache worsen. He knew perfectly well that Celoa wouldn’t complain, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t hurt. After a moment of thought, he quickly rummaged through his spatial storage bag until he felt the item he had prepared in advance, and finally let out a slow sigh of relief.
He walked slowly to Celoa’s side and crouched down. Holding his hand in a fist, he placed it before the boy, shook it gently, and said with a grin, “Guess what this is?”
Celoa blinked, his attention shifting to Droville’s hand. He extended a finger and poked it cautiously, asking, “It’s not… something alive, is it?” He was a bit afraid that Droville had caught some live creature to turn into medicine; the pile of things Caesar had thrown into the clay pot earlier had left him with deep psychological trauma.
Droville let out a muffled chuckle but didn’t answer, instead playing mysterious by tightening his fist further.
Celoa’s eyes went round, tossing all other thoughts to the back of his mind as he began to guess seriously: “Is it a flower? Like those pretty wild flowers we saw by the roadside—smelling sweet and fragrant?”
Droville shook his head. “I couldn’t hold those in my fist; they’d crumple into a withered mess.”
Celoa’s face scrunched up. He bit his lip, thought some more, and tried tentatively: “Is it a toy? I remember seeing the little black cat playing with a yarn ball in the corner yesterday.”
“It is not.” Droville was quick to veto that idea, the tips of his ears turning slightly red. Since when had he been seen playing with a yarn ball? How utterly lacking in dignity. He added surreptitiously, “Actually, black cats rarely play with yarn balls. It probably just happened to be bored at the time.”
Celoa completely missed the hidden meaning. He thumped his palm with his fist in frustration, looked up, and promised very seriously: “I won’t let it be that bored next time. I’ll play with it every day.”
“So,” he changed the subject, his voice full of expectation and excitement, “is it candy? Sweet candy to take away the bitterness!”
The corners of Droville’s mouth curled up as he opened his palm. Several crystal-clear, round candies lay obediently in his hand, looking exceptionally dazzling in the dim light.
“Strawberry, grape, apple… all the common flavors are here. You can try them all.”
“Eh?” Celoa tilted his head in confusion, seemingly not understanding why the man emphasized this. His finger rested atop the candies, his eyes like glowing blue sapphires—clear and brilliant. He counted them one by one, muttering: “One for me, one for Dro, one for Caesar, one for me…”
Droville raised an eyebrow and closed his hand again, capturing Celoa’s fingers as well. He emphasized: “These are all for you to eat.”
Celoa’s fingers struggled and slid out of Droville’s loosely held grip, swiping two candies in the process.
He leaned forward two steps, snuggling into Droville’s arms. He pressed a finger against the man’s lips and said softly, as if coaxing a child:
“Dro, open your mouth for a second.”
Droville’s eyelashes fluttered and lowered. After a moment’s hesitation, he obediently opened his mouth. A candy slid inside—sweet and juicy, strawberry flavored.
He bit down lightly, and the burst of juice flooded his mouth.
Only then did he see Celoa happily let go and pop the other candy into his own mouth. Immediately, the boy scrunched his face at the sourness of the green apple flavor, crying out, “Dro, this candy is sour!” before lunging back into his embrace.
Droville spread his arms to hold the Celoa who was wiggling around in his lap. A smile touched his eyes, yet he spoke the coldest words: “Stop acting spoiled, Celoa. It’s time for your injection.”
Celoa let out a weak whimper, but he still couldn’t escape the nightmare of the needle. He was carried and set aside, pressed into a proper sitting position. Then Caesar walked over carrying several bags of unidentified liquid.
Caesar acted like the most professional doctor now, not saying a single word from start to finish. Tying the arm, inserting the needle, taping it down, and releasing the bind—it was all done in one smooth motion. Before Celoa even felt the pain, it was already over.
Caesar stood up and began to brush off his robes, intending to leave, but Celoa’s other hand grabbed his clothes. He turned around hesitantly and asked as gently as he could, “Little one, do you have something you want to say to me?”
He was old, his skin wrinkled, and added to the rough, cracked black skin characteristic of demons, he didn’t exactly look pleasant. When he made this gesture, he looked more like a villain trying to kidnap someone.
Celoa let go and fished out the candies Droville had stuffed into his pocket earlier. He held them all out to Caesar, saying generously, “These are for Grandpa to eat.”
Caesar let out a confused “Hmm?” A long-lost sense of mischief rose within him. His gaze roamed over Celoa’s face as he deliberately picked the best-looking candy and said, “I want this one.”
Celoa nodded, his expression showing no trace of reluctance or stinginess.
But Caesar’s hand didn’t move away. He took another cute-looking candy, pushing his luck: “But I want this one too. What should I do? Why don’t you help me choose?”
Celoa waved his hand with a grand air: “Grandpa can have that one too.”
Having said that, he seemed worried that Caesar might be afraid of losing face and wouldn’t say what he really wanted. He added thoughtfully, “Grandpa, take as many as you want to eat. I have lots and lots more.”
The corners of Caesar’s mouth twitched, and his gaze softened significantly. He rubbed Celoa’s cheek. The rough palm made the boy’s skin turn a little red, but Celoa didn’t pull away; instead, he nuzzled his warm, soft cheek meat against the hand several times.
He sighed and said to Droville, “You really are quite lucky.”
Droville didn’t argue. An invisible tail seemed to wag behind him as he said pridefully, “Of course. My taste has always been excellent.”
Caesar remained silent for a while, as if contemplating something.
The warmth in his palm lingered for a long time.
He turned toward the door, his steps hurried. A secret telepathic message reached Droville’s ears:
“I will go and research some new treatment methods.”
“Also, injections make the hands cold. Remember to keep him warm.”