The Fake Son Wants to Live [BL]
Chapter 185 - A real farian

Chapter 185: Chapter 185 - A real farian

On the other side of the ship, away from the chaos and noise of departure and tearful goodbyes, Bian had been transferred into a clean, sterile room. The operation was over. His body was still and pale under the sterile white sheets, his chest rising and falling slowly as machines monitored every beat of his heart and every twitch of his fingers.

He was under observation now, and beside him, Dican sat quietly in a chair.

The Farian prince looked different from the glorious being he had once appeared to be—his golden hair slightly tousled, a faint crease on his brow, his posture stiff with something that resembled discomfort.

He sat silently, shoulders tense, hands in his lap.

In his left hand was a small glass bottle of jam.

It was out of place in the pristine white room. Just a simple, human item. The label was slightly peeling, the glass warm from his hand. The jam inside was a soft red hue—strawberry or cherry, maybe.

Dican stared at it as if it were a sacred relic.

He didn’t understand it. The bottle made his chest ache.

There was nothing special about the jam—at least not visibly. When he brought it close to his face and sniffed, all he got was the sweet scent of fruit. No poison, no sedative, no alien pheromones. Just fruit.

But the scent triggered something. Something hollow. A tug in his chest. A strange, aching warmth in the back of his mind.

Why?

He didn’t remember where he got it from.

Only that... someone had handed it to him.

He could remember the boy’s back as he left the ship. His figure walking into the distance.

But his face—he couldn’t see it. No matter how hard he tried to picture it, it was a blank blur. Like the memory had been scrubbed clean. Like someone had sealed that part of his thoughts shut.

Dican’s expression darkened. His brows furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line.

’Why can’t I remember his face...?’

He brought the bottle closer, his fingers trembling slightly as they gripped the glass. He wasn’t used to this. This... emptiness. He felt like something important had been stolen from him.

’What is happening to me?’

His eyes glazed over as he sank into the quiet, thick confusion of his thoughts.

Then—suddenly—a soft gasp broke through the silence.

The bottle slipped from his fingers and landed with a quiet thud on the sheets.

His head snapped toward the bed.

Bian.

The boy’s eyes were fluttering open, his fingers twitching against the edge of the blanket. His skin was pale, but his chest rose with more strength now. A faint red returned to his lips.

Dican felt the air rush out of his lungs. All of the questions, all of the strange feelings, everything that had just clouded his mind—vanished in an instant.

He rushed forward and leaned over the bedside, gently grabbing Bian’s hand. His grip was soft but firm, grounding.

Bian blinked slowly, his vision still blurry. But even with groggy eyes, he saw the familiar golden strands leaning close.

Dican’s voice trembled just slightly, full of warmth and something deeper he couldn’t name. "How do you feel, love?" he asked quietly.

Bian stared blankly at the stunning golden-haired beauty in front of him, eyes locked on Dican’s face as his brain slowly caught up with his waking body. Then—like a sudden jolt—everything came rushing back.

The operation. The transplant. The promise of change.

His eyes widened in alarmed excitement. Did it work? Did it work?!

Without even realizing it, he lurched up from the bed, his body surging with strange, boundless energy. There was no weakness, no drowsiness, no ache. If anything, he felt stronger—almost light. Too light.

Panting slightly, he looked down at his hands with anticipation—searching for change, any change.

But they looked the same.

Exactly the same.

His face fell. Brow furrowing, he slowly turned to Dican, panic brewing in his eyes.

"Bring me a mirror," he barked.

Without question, Dican scrambled around the sterile room. His movements were erratic as he searched. Eventually, he spotted a small bathroom attached to the corner. Not bothering with subtlety, he yanked the wall-mounted mirror clean off its hinge.

It cracked slightly at one corner, but he rushed it over anyway, setting it down carefully in front of Bian on the edge of the bed.

Bian leaned forward.

The moment his eyes met his reflection, his entire body stilled.

Same pale skin. Same sharp nose, full lips, and smooth cheeks. He looked no different. He felt different, but he didn’t look Farian. There were no otherworldly glows, no ethereal beauty, no golden shimmer to his hair or skin.

Just... himself.

Ordinary. Human.

No, no no—this isn’t right.

He scowled and looked down at his hands again, turning them palm up and then back over.

"Did they even do the surgery correctly?" he muttered, voice tight with rising frustration.

Dican knelt beside the bed and set the mirror down slowly. "Yes, my love," he said softly. "I made sure to watch every single step. They did exactly what they were supposed to."

"Then why don’t I look Farian?!" Bian snapped, voice shrill. His chest heaved as rage overtook logic.

His hand shot out, grabbing the small glass cup sitting on the side table. With a furious cry, he hurled it at Dican’s face.

The cup struck Dican squarely on the forehead, shattering upon impact and slicing the skin. Golden blood beaded and trickled down his temple.

Dican didn’t flinch. Not even once. He merely looked at Bian with a calm, unreadable gaze.

"Why didn’t it work?!" Bian screamed again, fists clenched, trembling as his face twisted in anguish and fury. "Did you lie to me?! You said I would change! You said I’d become beautiful like you! Powerful like you!"

Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. All he’d ever wanted—since the beginning—was to rise above his role, to escape being the shadow, the unwanted, the ugly duckling. And now... now he couldn’t even see the difference.

Dican stood quietly.

Then, wordlessly, he reached up and plucked a tiny shard of glass from his own forehead. He didn’t wince as he did so.

Walking toward the bed, he took Bian’s hand—despite the other boy trying to jerk away—and gently made a shallow cut on his fingertip using the shard.

Bian hissed, pulling back. "What the hell are you—"

But he froze mid-sentence.

Golden blood oozed from the cut.

Not red.

Golden.

He stared at it, disbelief etched into every inch of his face.

Dican smiled softly, setting the shard aside as he gently clasped Bian’s bleeding hand between both of his. His voice was quiet, almost reverent.

"But it did work, my love," he whispered. "You are a Farian."

Bian blinked, staring at the golden drop sliding down his fingertip. His lips trembled, eyes wide.

"I.. I’m a farian..."