After Being Forced Into This Obsessive Love, the Master Is Starting to Get a Little Hooked - Chapter 5

Given Shi Changting’s status and position, he was not like any other prisoner. If he were to be punished, the only person permitted to carry out the sentence was Lan Qiao.

Lan Qiao gritted his teeth. In the next second, with a wave of his hand, he conjured a whip out of thin air.

The whip was pitch black, yet it pulsed with a cold, ghostly blue light. It was thicker than a human arm. A single strike from this weapon would be enough to reduce an ordinary person to dust, leaving not even a fragment of bone behind. Even someone like Shi Changting, with his top-tier immortal physique, would likely be left severely weakened, having lost nearly half his life.

This was his signature artifact: Huanling.

Crackle, crackle.

As Lan Qiao channeled his spiritual power into the weapon, ghostly blue electric sparks flashed along the whip, illuminating the great hall and the eyes of everyone watching.

In the next second, under the gaze of the crowd, Shi Changting was bound to the massive stone pillar at the entrance of the sect.

Just before striking, Lan Qiao closed his eyes and brought the whip down hard on Shi Changting’s body.

Snap!

The first strike.

Shi Changting could not help but let out a muffled groan.

“Ah!”

It was so painful.

Although he had spiritual protection, an immortal artifact was, after all, an immortal artifact. Each blow felt like it was tearing his flesh apart. He curled his body in agony, his very soul trembling and shivering.

Two strikes. Three strikes. Over a dozen strikes.

“Ugh.”

Shi Changting’s pupils dilated. He breathed in tiny, shallow gasps, trying not to let others see his frailty, and struggled to ease the pain that felt as if it were ripping his soul away.

Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven.

Bian Menghan. Bian Menghan.

Shi Changting bit his lower lip so hard he nearly fainted from the pain. His mind was a blank slate; his ability to think was slipping away. Mechanically, one strike after another, he silently repeated Bian Menghan’s name in his heart.

He did not even know why he was reciting this name. But it felt like a thread, extremely thin yet incredibly resilient, holding onto the last remnants of his consciousness.

Shi Changting could feel that Lan Qiao was avoiding his face and not using his full strength, yet the pain was still enough to twist his features and rack his body with spasms. He could feel his vision blurring, his consciousness drifting away.

His eyes were filled with tears.

In his final moments of clarity, he thought: So, this is how much it hurts?

Bian Menghan endured thirty-three strikes of this very same pain. And he was only nineteen years old…

Back then, I just waved my hand and dictated that the protagonist would take as many strikes as I chose. I never even considered that the characters I wrote could feel pain. They could feel pain, too.

Is this what they call retribution?

Shi Changting had always spared no effort to cruelly torment his two male leads, torturing the gong, torturing the shou, or torturing them both. All his stories were “BE” (Bad Endings). After putting the protagonists through agonizing heartbreak and despair, he would leave them separated by life and death, never to meet again. He had lost count of how many times readers had cursed him for it, but he had never changed his style.

Compared to a happy ending, Shi Changting had always felt that regret was the natural state of life. Only tragedies, he believed, were ever truly remembered.

Yet, in the moment before he lost consciousness, a daring thought suddenly bloomed in his mind: Perhaps, after writing such tragic endings for so long, I could try to give this novel a happy ending…

“Bian Menghan. Bian Menghan.”

Twenty-nine, thirty. Shi Changting passed out.

The crowd surged forward in a chaotic mess. Some went to release him, while others went to provide medical aid.

However, in a corner where no one noticed, a young man stood with a cold, dark gaze, staring intently at the cool, aloof figure on the sacrificial altar. The emotions swirling in his eyes were viscous, turbulent, and possessed a complexity he had never felt before.

In the end, Lan Qiao’s heart had softened. Since the sect elders and others only wanted a show of justice, and now that Shi Changting had been whipped into unconsciousness, no one bothered to bring up the missing strikes.

Shi Changting lay quietly on the bed. Lan Qiao had already treated his wounds; his breathing was steady, though the lash marks on his body were horrific.

Bian Menghan stood by the bedside, medicine in hand, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on Shi Changting. Although his face was young and refined, with features as delicate as a painting, his eyes were currently swirling with a chilling, unfathomable darkness that made it difficult to meet his gaze.

Because of the pain, Shi Changting had bitten his lower lip until it bled. From Bian Menghan’s perspective, Shi Changting’s lips were a deep, vivid red, stained with a trace of blood, contrasting sharply against his deathly pale skin. His long hair fell softly from the bed, trailing onto the floor.

He looked devoid of his usual cold, aloof distance; instead, he appeared endlessly fragile and pitiful. He looked so vulnerable that one wanted to cruelly…

Bian Menghan’s gaze was profound, carrying an ambiguous meaning.

The Master, who was usually so high and mighty, so cold and inviolable, was now as fragile as a porcelain doll, right there within Bian Menghan’s reach.

It felt as if an ancient beast had suddenly awakened within Bian Menghan’s heart, screaming and clamoring.

Master. He looks so…

He looks so beautiful.

Driven by an irresistible impulse, he reached out. Just as his fingers were about to touch that peerless face, he recoiled as if he had been burned by a high temperature.

Bian Menghan’s eyes flickered with panic. With a chaotic heart, he slowly pulled back his hand and lowered his gaze.

Just moments ago, he had chased everyone else out, telling them that his Master needed rest.

Someone had immediately challenged him: “Then why do you not leave!”

Bian Menghan masked the flash of ruthlessness in his eyes perfectly. He spoke in a calm, steady voice that allowed for no rebuttal: “Because I must apply medicine for my Master.”

For a disciple to undress and apply medicine for his Master was a matter of duty. No one could argue with that.

Lan Qiao, drained from exerting his spiritual power, did not press the matter: “Take good care of Changting. If there is any change in his condition, send word to me immediately.”

Bian Menghan bowed his head, looking submissive and obedient. In truth, his eyes were dark and unreadable, showing no signs of his inner mood. “Yes.”

“If you need anything, just ask. Do not hold back.”

A flash of irritability crossed Bian Menghan’s face: “Understood.”

Bian Menghan worked with extreme care, avoiding the wounds.

Shi Changting looked like a perfectly wrapped gift. The moment he was “unpacked,” if one chose to ignore the wounds, his skin was fair, smooth, and delicate. His muscles were lean and firm, possessing a certain warmth and elasticity.

**********************…………

Bian Menghan’s eyes twitched.

He scooped up a bit of ointment with his finger and, with the lightest of touches, dabbed it onto the lash marks. The medicine dissolved upon contact with the skin, and as the white cream hit the air, it gradually turned transparent, glowing with a crystal-clear sheen in the light of the inner chamber.

“Ugh.”

Even in his unconscious state, Shi Changting whimpered from the pain.

Bian Menghan gritted his teeth, suppressing his reaction. A thin layer of sweat broke out on his forehead as he quickened the pace of applying the medicine.

Because Shi Changting had been punished in front of the public, he was wounded almost everywhere on his front, save for his face.

By the time Bian Menghan finished applying medicine to his entire body, an hour had passed. He set the medicine down, rubbed his aching wrists, and then knelt directly on the edge of the bed, turning his head to watch the other man without moving a muscle.

He sat there, waiting for him to wake up.

Is there anything else you would like me to adjust in this chapter?