The Beloved Guide Was Forced in a Love-Rival Shura Field - Chapter 109

That low, faintly hoarse and trembling voice seemed to pierce through the thick darkness, landing on Ning Ning’s consciousness just as it was about to sink.

“Don’t be afraid.”

“I’ll take you home.”

Home…

These two words felt like a soft key, gently plucking the most fragile string in Ning Ning’s heart.

All his exhaustion, terror, and the strength he had forced himself to maintain shattered completely in that moment.

His consciousness dissipated entirely.

He truly fell into a deep, heavy sleep, like a feather drifting down.

…

Xiao Lin held the completely unconscious person in his arms, his heart gripped by an invisible hand, aching so fiercely that it almost made it hard to breathe.

Too light.

How could his Ning Ning be so light?

Like glass that would shatter at the slightest touch.

He tightened his arms, pressing Ning Ning deeper and closer against his chest, as if only in this way could he confirm that the treasure in his arms truly existed.

The thick fabric of the Marshal’s cloak blocked out everything from the outside.

The familiar scent, a mix of cold pine and gunpowder, wrapped Ning Ning completely, forming an utterly safe realm, one that belonged only to Xiao Lin.

Holding him, Xiao Lin turned and stepped forward, his long legs moving steadily and decisively.

Behind him, his guardian squad followed silently, like shadows, automatically forming a moving steel wall of S-Class sentinels.

They didn’t even need orders from the Marshal.

Clearing the path.

Watching for threats.

Blocking all potential dangers.

It was instinct carved into their bones.

Gu Qingfeng stood in place, watching the resolute and domineering back, his usual gentle and refined smile cracking slightly for the first time.

Everything he had meticulously planned, the atmosphere he had crafted, the victory that was almost within his grasp…

All of it was crushed directly by this man, in the most primal, most violent way.

No reasoning.

No need for reasoning.

Because he was the Empire’s only SSS-Class sentinel—the embodiment of the rules themselves.

A deep, cold, dark glint flashed in Gu Qingfeng’s eyes.

But he did not move.

He simply watched.

Watched Xiao Lin carrying Ning Ning, about to step out of the ruins he had “controlled.”

However, just as Xiao Lin was about to take the last step and board his massive, iron-like military hovercar—

“Hum—”

A nearly inaudible, perfectly smooth engine sound came from the side.

A sleek, jet-black royal-spec hovercar slid silently into Xiao Lin’s path, precise and ghostly, blocking his way without a trace of smoke or fire.

The door opened upward without a sound.

Inside, the understated yet luxurious interior was revealed, and Gu Qingfeng was already standing beside it.

He had somehow moved there without anyone noticing, his face once again wearing that flawless, jade-like smile.

As if the cold-eyed Second Prince from moments ago had only been a bystander’s illusion.

“Marshal, in such a hurry?”

Gu Qingfeng smiled, personally pulling open the empty rear seat.

His movements were elegant, like inviting a guest to a royal banquet, not confronting a bloodthirsty Marshal amidst a battlefield of smoke and ruin.

“Ning Ning… is currently a patient.”

His voice carried a perfectly measured warmth and concern, the kind only a guide could give.

“He just exhausted all his mental energy. His body is extremely weak and needs the calmest, most stable, and most professional environment for transport.”

He reached out and took something from a member of the royal medical team beside him.

It was a bottle, encased in a temperature-controlled device, emitting a gentle warmth—a highly concentrated nutritional serum.

Produced by the Empire’s laboratories, it was reserved exclusively for royal members and S-Class Guides.

Warm.

Not cold, not military-grade.

Gu Qingfeng’s gaze meaningfully swept across Xiao Lin’s metal-and-blood-laden military vehicle.

“And not in your… tank-like vehicle, which likely has nothing but military-grade suspension for a bumpy ride.”

His words were polite, yet distant.

The air froze instantly.

Even the S-Class guards sensed the collision of two equally powerful auras, silently but intensely clashing in the space.

One side, like a drawn blade, carried the blood and fire of raw dominance.

The other, like an invisible web, pressed forward step by step, smiling all the while.

Xiao Lin stopped.

He did not look at Gu Qingfeng, nor at the luxurious hovercar.

His gaze remained downward, fixed on the pale little face in his arms.

Ning Ning seemed disturbed by the surrounding commotion, frowning slightly, nuzzling against Xiao Lin’s chest like a small animal seeking safety.

This unconscious gesture softened the almost air-freezing coldness on Xiao Lin’s body—by the tiniest fraction.

But only a fraction.

He slowly lifted his eyes. The deep, bottomless black of his gaze finally landed on Gu Qingfeng.

There was no anger, no rash provocation.

Only pure, indifferent cold, as if looking at a lifeless object.

“Step aside.”

His voice was hoarse, carrying a command that brooked no argument.

Gu Qingfeng’s smile deepened.

“Marshal, I think you misunderstood my intention.”

“I am concerned for Ning Ning’s body.”

He shook the warm serum in his hand, demonstrating his care and thoroughness.

“Besides… aren’t you curious about what is happening right now on the Empire’s star network?”

Gu Qingfeng spoke, slightly turning.

Behind him, the body of the hovercar shimmered, instantly projecting a massive holographic screen.

On it was a photo.

A photo capable of making the entire Empire lose its mind.

Above the ruins.

The gray, desolate smoke formed the most tragic backdrop.

The silver-haired youth knelt on the ground, cradling a small, dust-covered girl.

His side profile was pale, nearly transparent, long curled eyelashes seemingly wet with unshed tears—fragile as a porcelain doll about to shatter.

Yet his eyes were focused, tender.

A shaft of faint light pierced through the heavy dust, draping him in a hazy, sacred glow.

On his chest, the blood-dyed, scorched yellow wildflower became the only, and the most striking, color amid the gray silence.

Compassion.

Fragility.

Divinity.

Beauty.

These contradictory qualities merged perfectly in him.

He was not a god.

He was divinity itself.

This photo, captured by some journalist risking their life at the scene, was spreading across the Empire’s star network like a virus, unstoppable.

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