Celoa’s body was still trembling uncontrollably. His fingers were clenched tight, and the sweat seeping from his palms had almost soaked through Droville’s clothes.
Droville pressed the back of his hand against the boy’s damp forehead. As his gaze swept over Celoa’s hair, he keenly noticed that the already supple and dazzling golden locks had become even more brilliant.
He smoothed the hair under his hand and suddenly realized that after the injection, Celoa was practically glowing.
Pure, sacred—the boy exuded an aura of light that could only be born under the sun. It was a scent that had never existed in the Demon Realm, yet one that everyone secretly yearned for.
Droville knitted his brows. He felt a sharp pang in his heart, a faint ache. Driven by an inexplicable urge, he pulled Celoa tighter into his embrace.
“Caesar, you never told me there would be side effects if the treatment failed.” He was somewhat incensed—not at Caesar, but at himself. He hated that he had agreed to Celoa’s medication without fully understanding the consequences, leaving Celoa to bear this unknown price. He said in a heavy voice, “Perhaps you should tell me now how to fix this. I cannot let him continue in this much pain.”
Caesar’s eyes flickered. He stroked his chin, seemingly baffled. He shook his head and muttered, “It shouldn’t be. The dosage was standard. Even if the treatment wasn’t successful, there shouldn’t be such a massive side effect. Besides, look—the demonic miasma truly can no longer remain in his body. Our initial goal was achieved.”
He murmured to himself, appearing somewhat frantic, deeply lost in his own thoughts. His inquisitive gaze swept back and forth over Celoa as if he wanted to dissect the boy’s body to find the reason for the potion’s failure.
Droville pulled his lips down impatiently and said coldly, “I believe the most important thing right now is solving the aftereffects. I do not consider it a small matter for a child to be in constant, full-body pain.”
“You could infuse him with demonic energy…” Caesar answered instinctively, but stopped halfway through his sentence. His eyes suddenly exploded with a sharp light.
He rushed over to a pile of instruments nearby, toppled them over with a wave of his hand, and began rummaging through them like a man possessed. Only when he pulled out a bottle filled with a golden liquid did he let out a long sigh of relief.
He turned and tossed the bottle to Droville.
Droville froze the moment he saw the bottle. His hand slipped, and he nearly failed to catch it.
He questioned Caesar in near disbelief, “I ordered everyone to destroy this substance back then. Why do you still have it?”
Caesar curled his lip and spread his hands in a gesture of innocence. “I didn’t do it on purpose. I collected it while I was bandaging your wounds back then. It’s not like you don’t know the state you were in—blood was pouring out of you like it was free. I couldn’t just let it go to waste, could I? This is the only bottle I have; even if you want more, there isn’t any.”
Droville took a long, heavy breath. At this moment, the Blood Moon of the Demon Realm was at its brightest, yet it could not illuminate his eyes. He seemed to think of many things in this moment, his gaze obscure, but eventually, it condensed into a single sentence:
“What is this for?”
Caesar smiled. “You only need to let Celoa consume it.”
“If I haven’t guessed wrong, my treatment method wasn’t a total failure. It’s just that Celoa’s constitution is even purer than we imagined. After we used the potion to expel the demonic miasma from his body, his meridians could no longer tolerate anything other than the Light.”
“He needs nourishment, but the Demon Realm cannot provide what he requires. Therefore, his body has fallen into a state of extreme weakness.”
“And your blood… is the best nourishment for him right now.”
Droville loosened his tight grip, adjusted Celoa into a more comfortable position, and opened the bottle.
A faint, enticing fragrance wafted out. Even in his semi-conscious state, Celoa couldn’t help but frown. It was as if he had smelled something he couldn’t accept; he tilted his head back slightly, struggling to retreat.
Droville gripped the back of Celoa’s neck, refusing to let him dodge. Droville’s own nose twitched; at some point, even he found that the smell triggered a deep hunger. Caesar had wisely covered his nose and refused to even look in their direction.
Droville coaxed him gently, “Celoa, drink the medicine one more time, alright?”
Celoa turned his head away dismissively. His teeth bit hard into his lip, stubbornly refusing to accept the potion. Even though his body was throbbing with pain in its extreme weakness, screaming and craving for relief, he refused to give the small, alluring bottle a second look.
He refused in a weak voice.
“No, Dro… I don’t want to drink that.”
The hand Droville used to hold the bottle trembled slightly. He pinched Celoa’s cheek, using his own way to soothe the frightened child.
“You’ll feel better after drinking it. You heard what was said—this is something that was already discarded. If you don’t drink it, then it truly has no value left.”
Celoa’s eyes welled with tears. He couldn’t imagine Droville being injured, nor could he truly understand or empathize with the pain.
Being heavily wounded with no one to care for him, and instead having his blood collected and its value measured… Celoa had never experienced such a situation because he had Droville’s protection. But what about the Droville of the past? How did he survive it?
Celoa choked out, “But I don’t want to drink it. I feel…” He felt as if doing so would be ignoring Droville’s past suffering and pain.
Droville grew quiet. He stared into Celoa’s clear eyes and suddenly felt the irony of fate. It was as if this bottle of his blood had been prepared specifically for this moment.
He let out a soft laugh. “No. Only if you consume it will I feel that everything back then had a purpose.”
At the very least, this liquid born of agony could alleviate the pain of someone else he cared about.
In this instant, Celoa felt a deep empathy for Droville. His movements of resistance faltered. His eyes went round as he stared directly into Droville’s face. The two of them stared at each other in silence—no words, no expressions.
Celoa reached out on his own initiative and took the bottle. He unscrewed the cap, pressed his lips to the rim, and began to sip the liquid in small, precious gulps.
It wasn’t very sweet, nor was it very bitter. The taste was plain, incomparable to anything Celoa had ever tasted before, yet he slowly savored it as the most beautiful flavor in the world.
Droville lowered his head, pressing his forehead against Celoa’s. Then, as if giving up, he closed his eyes.
He asked Celoa with a sense of self-abandonment: “Celoa, I don’t want to send you back to the Human Realm. Though it is selfish, I want to ask you—no matter what happens, are you willing to stay by my side and remain in the Demon Realm?”
Celoa blinked. He reached out and hugged Droville. For some reason, he felt a bit sad. He promised in a low voice:
“Dro, as long as you don’t chase me away, I will stay with you forever.”