Jian tried.
He really tried to throw off the man’s persistent gaze.
He walked in circles, paused behind a wall, then backtracked just to confuse him. But it didn’t matter. He could still feel it—that burning stare, heavy like a weight pressed between his shoulder blades.
It made his skin crawl.
It made his pride ache.
Eventually, nature’s call won over his frustration.
With a fierce blush crawling over his pale cheeks, Jian gave up and stormed off a short distance from the car. He picked a spot tucked between a few toppled support beams and remnants of a crumbled building. Far enough that the Farian couldn’t see anything... probably.
Probably.
Still, he couldn’t shake that feeling. That heat prickling over his neck, the way his ears seemed to ring with tension.
He unzipped and peed quickly, hissing through his teeth as he felt the burning relief.
"Fucking alien..." he muttered under his breath, grinding his teeth together.
Even as he finished and shoved his manhood back into his pants, he turned his head abruptly, his eyes blazing.
Sure enough, that bastard was still watching him.
Their gazes met.
The Farian just smiled—calm, serene, shameless.
Jian could’ve screamed.
But there was no time for that now. The worst part still remained.
His stomach groaned.
He needed to shit.
He grimaced so hard his soul almost left his body.
With a sigh of defeat, Jian glanced around and found a relatively secluded spot behind a chunk of fractured cement wall. The ground was dusty, bits of brick and glass scattered in patches, but he’d dealt with worse before.
He crouched down and began digging—just a small hole. Something to keep it clean.
But his hand stopped.
His fingers, coated in grime, had touched something cold... and sticky.
A shiver slithered down his spine.
Jian slowly cleared away the rubble. His heart thudded faster.
Then he saw it.
A dead man’s face.
Staring straight up.
The man’s eyes were wide open, as if locked in a final moment of terror. They were dulled out like lifeless marbles, milky and void of recognition. Blood—blackened by time and dust—caked his forehead and cheek. A trail of it had dried down his neck.
Jian’s breath hitched in his throat.
He didn’t scream.
He just sat there for a moment, frozen in a crouch, staring at death’s hollow face.
Then he slowly straightened and stepped back, mouth pressed in a thin line. He wiped his hand on his pants, his fingers trembling faintly.
He looked around.
The city was a grave.
All these buildings, homes, stores—burnt out husks. Craters and smoldered skeletons of towers loomed around him like tombstones. The breeze carried the scent of ash and rot. Somewhere in the distance, something metal creaked.
And all of it...
All of it had happened in a day.
Just a single day.
The graylings had descended like a storm. Like gods of ruin.
They didn’t just conquer cities—they erased them. Human armies fell in hours. Civilizations were buried under rubble and fire. Survivors were hunted like animals.
Jian’s fists curled.
They didn’t deserve this.
No one did.
He took a breath, steadying himself—and turned.
At some point, the Farian had walked closer. He was now just a few meters behind, his expression unreadable. His silver hair, tangled and glinting in the weak light, moved gently with the breeze.
His black armor clung to his tall frame like a second skin.
Jian stared at him.
He wasn’t just any Farian, Jian knew. The man had power—influence. In his last life, the Farians hadn’t shown up until it was almost too late. But when they did... their arrival had shaken the enemy lines. They pushed the graylings back for the first time in years. They brought technology and weapons no human had seen.
Without them... Earth wouldn’t have survived another five years.
But the why—the reason—that was the part Jian never understood.
Why had the Farians helped them? What did they want in return?
Now, here he was, with one of them. A man Jian didn’t even trust, yet had traveled with. Slept beside.
Fought beside.
Jian’s gaze lingered on the Farian’s face. The man was watching him—not mocking, not cold. Just... observing. Like he was seeing Jian in a way no one else ever had.
Jian’s heart beat slowly in his chest, heavy.
"...Why are you really here?" he asked, his voice low and hoarse. "What does your kind want with us?"
Xing Yu fell silent.
Last time, when he’d tried to answer such a question with an "you" he remembered all too clearly the reaction it had provoked.
The prince had flinched like he’d been struck, his eyes flashing with a mixture of disbelief and bitterness, lips curling into a scowl as though Xing Yu had just uttered some blasphemy.
So this time... Xing Yu said nothing.
He simply stood there, gaze steady but quiet, watching the young man crouch once again beside the rubble.
Jian didn’t look back at him. He didn’t speak again.
Instead, he gently moved the slab of concrete back into place, covering the corpse’s face like he was tucking a child into bed. With hands that trembled just faintly, Jian brushed away the loose dust, patting it flat as best he could.
Then he bowed his head and whispered something under his breath—soft, reverent, a prayer or maybe a simple farewell.
It was the kind of moment so human, so heartbreakingly mortal, that Xing Yu felt his throat tighten.
He could hear it—those breathless murmurs.
Jian stood up slowly. He didn’t wipe his hands. He didn’t make a sound.
He simply moved to a different spot, farther from the dead man. His posture was stiff, shoulders high with tension. Every movement he made after that was quieter, more cautious, like he was afraid he might uncover another body.
And maybe he would.
In this broken graveyard of a city, the dead were everywhere. Some visible. Some forgotten beneath layers of stone.
Xing Yu took a slow step forward, but stopped himself before getting too close.
He wanted to say something. Anything.
Are you alright?
You buried him kindly.
You’re not alone.
But he didn’t speak.