The Beloved Guide Was Forced in a Love-Rival Shura Field - Chapter 14

Ning Ning’s “defection plan” was officially doomed the moment he held that cup of taro boba milk tea in his hands.

【System 89: Ding! Host, mission failed! One point deducted! But it’s okay, we’ll try harder next time!】

In his mind, System 89’s voice was soft and cute. Ning Ning took another guilt-free sip of the chewy taro, his violet eyes narrowing comfortably. Just one point deducted? Pfft, nothing serious.

But this was only the beginning. His life seemed to have entered some strange “over-satisfaction mode.”

One noon, his meal delivery was the standard military nutrient paste—a tube of dark green sludge that smelled unappetizing. Ning Ning poked it with the tip of his spoon, his pretty brows furrowing. He didn’t complain out loud, only pushed the tray aside and collapsed lazily on the table, muttering in a tiny voice:

“Too hard… hurts my teeth…”

His voice was so soft it sounded like self-talk.

But the very next day, his three meals were completely taken over by a royal chef team.

That morning, Ning Ning was woken by the aroma of food. Rubbing his eyes, he walked out of the bedroom and found the dining table laid with a delicate breakfast: pancakes drizzled with maple syrup, perfectly runny fried eggs, and a glass of fresh juice at just the right temperature. Several chefs in spotless whites moved quietly in the temporary kitchen area, even the sound of knives barely audible.

When Ning Ning put on the standard academy undershirt, the newly washed fabric felt stiff and itchy against his skin. He couldn’t help but rub against the sofa, tugging at the neckline with visible discomfort.

On the third day, a gigantic wardrobe was silently carried in by a group of robots. Curious, Ning Ning opened it to find rows of clothes made from the rarest star-cloud cotton, from innerwear to robes, daywear to sleepwear—all custom-made. The fabric was softer than the fur of his moon rabbit spirit.

Ning Ning gave up on thinking altogether.

He lounged on a sofa that could swallow him whole, covered in a silky blanket, eating imported limited-edition raspberry ice cream while a boring soap opera played on the holo-screen.

Life was far too decadent. Far too comfortable.

He felt like… he had ruined something. And yet, maybe… not entirely?

He was even starting to forget what his original goal was. Oh, right—defection. He lazily glanced at the guard posted by the door. The sentinel stood ramrod straight, but Ning Ning had the odd feeling the man’s gaze was brighter today than yesterday.

Forget it. Ice cream mattered more. Ning Ning dug a huge spoonful into his mouth and sighed happily.

Meanwhile, the squad assigned to guard him had—without Ning Ning realizing—already shifted from dutiful vigilance into a kind of frenzied devotion.

“Today’s dessert was handed out by me. Lord Ning Ning ate an extra bite of strawberry mousse.”
“I checked the room security. Found he kicked his blanket last night, so I raised the temperature by 0.5 degrees.”
“You guys are nothing! This morning, Ning Ning went out to get milk—and he smiled at me!”

The sentinels had even opened an encrypted group chat, where they battled daily—like military war games—over who got to deliver food, who got to record Ning Ning’s habits, and other trivial “duties.”

When Marshal Xiao Lin came to visit, he happened to catch a young sentinel standing with his back to the door, carefully peeling fruit for Ning Ning.

Those hands, meant for controlling mecha and pulling triggers, now held a tiny fruit knife, moving with almost sacred gentleness.

Xiao Lin’s face instantly darkened.

A cold pressure swept across the room, freezing the air.

The young sentinel stiffened, the fruit knife clattering to the ground.

“Marshal!” He spun in panic, saluting sharply.

Xiao Lin’s icy gaze slid over him, then over the half-peeled apple in his hand.

“The Imperial Marshal’s personal guard… are you here to play servants now?”

The voice wasn’t loud, but it carried a crushing weight that made cold sweat bead on the sentinel’s forehead.

Curled on the sofa, Ning Ning watched and muttered inwardly: So fierce. It’s just peeling an apple, is that necessary? Even capitalists don’t exploit workers this harshly.

Xiao Lin waved the petrified guard away, then stooped to pick up the fruit knife himself.

He grabbed another apple and began to peel.

The Marshal’s hands, long-fingered and powerful, looked awkward at such delicate work.

His grip on the small knife was stiff, like he was defusing a bomb. He moved slowly, with grave focus, yet the peel came off thick and uneven. His hands were accustomed to mecha control sticks and weapon recoil, but here they wrestled clumsily with a small apple.

A faint crease formed between his brows. In his deep eyes there was no battlefield coldness, only rare, stubborn seriousness. Sweat beaded at his temple and slid down his sharp jaw, unnoticed.

At last, he held out the finished product—a lopsided, dented apple with finger marks marring the skin.

It was ugly.

Xiao Lin’s face remained severe as he extended it, arm stiff and taut. Yet deep in his eyes lurked an unfamiliar nervous anticipation. Like a giant wolf offering its first prey, hiding claws and fangs, waiting for praise.

Ning Ning had watched silently the whole time. He thought simply that this usually scary Marshal… looked kind of cute.

He raised his violet eyes, bright with laughter. Looking at the misshapen apple, then at Xiao Lin’s tense, perfect face, he reached out.

His pale fingers brushed Xiao Lin’s hot palm as he took it. The Marshal flinched, a shiver running through him.

Ning Ning didn’t notice. He bit into the apple.

Crunch.

The crisp sound rang in the quiet room.

Juice burst sweetly across his tongue.

He looked up, his violet eyes curving like crescent moons. Dimples flickered on his cheeks as he spoke in a muffled, sugary voice:

“It’s sweet.”

The tension in Xiao Lin’s jaw eased instantly. All his jealousy and predator’s possessiveness melted under that smile, smoothed by one soft word of praise.

His heart, long hardened by scheming and wariness, felt steeped in warm spring water, each crease slowly unfurling.

“As long as you like it.” His voice unconsciously gentled, the oppressive air gone, leaving only indulgence. He longed to touch Ning Ning’s silken hair, but restrained himself.

He only watched silently as the boy nibbled the ugly apple in earnest, cheeks puffing adorably.

Ning Ning soon finished most of it. Then he held out the core toward Xiao Lin, saying naturally:

“The core, it’s for you.”

His violet eyes were so clear it seemed perfectly normal to ask someone else to throw away trash.

But this someone was the Imperial Marshal whose footstep could shake the whole empire.

Xiao Lin showed no displeasure. He accepted the core with silent tenderness, turned, and tossed it precisely into the trash.

Ning Ning squinted in satisfaction, like a little hamster. He thought it was the best apple he’d ever eaten.

In his good mood, he decided to show a little kindness to this strange but caring man.

He noticed how, even relaxed, Xiao Lin’s brows held traces of vigilance and exhaustion, born from years of war. He could never fully let down his guard, even in safety.

So Ning Ning shifted, patting the seat beside him.

“Xiao Lin, sit.”

The Marshal froze in surprise at being invited. Then, obediently, he sat on the sofa’s edge, posture rigid like a statue poised for battle.

Ning Ning looked at him, then tentatively stretched out a slender finger to poke his tense arm.

“Don’t be so stiff,” he whispered. “It’s safe here.”

At that touch, a faint wisp of guiding power slipped from Ning Ning’s fingertip—carrying the scent of grass and moonlight—brushing across Xiao Lin’s taut mental sea.

It was the purest comfort of a Guide.

Xiao Lin froze as if struck by lightning.

His mental sea, long stained crimson by war and slaughter, suddenly glowed with moonlight breaking through clouds. Every trace of fury, fatigue, and scars was smoothed away in an instant.

It was like a dying wanderer in the desert, suddenly embraced by a lush oasis.

The ruthless will that had carried him for so long collapsed. His long-buried weakness and weariness surfaced, defenseless.

He whipped his head toward Ning Ning, eyes blazing with shock, joy, and a near-insane hunger to devour this boy whole.

“You…” His voice rasped, breaking after one word.

Startled, Ning Ning tried to pull back.

But a scorching hand seized his wrist in a grip strong enough to crush bone.

“Don’t move.” Xiao Lin’s voice was hoarse, every word squeezed out with restraint. “More… give me more.”

Ning Ning blinked in confusion. More… what?

Not understanding, he stayed still, letting the Marshal hold his trembling wrist.

The room sank into dead silence.

And in that silence—ding!—Ning Ning’s terminal chimed.

Both looked down.

A new message flashed on screen. The sender—Gu Qingfeng.

The elegant words almost carried his voice:

【Ning Ning, I heard the royal chefs’ breakfast suited your taste. But the clothes and daily items prepared by the military are still too rough. I’ve arranged for some replacements to be delivered. See if you like them. Also, let me know what music you’d like tonight to help you sleep.】

At the end, there was a picture: a set of refined, luxurious home goods—fragrance, bedding, everything crafted with royal elegance.

In an instant, Xiao Lin’s gaze turned from dazed longing to colder than Siberian ice.

His grip on Ning Ning’s wrist tightened brutally.

The restlessness that had just been soothed flared again, fiercer than ever, stoked by Gu Qingfeng’s subtle, calculated intrusion.

Ning Ning felt like his wrist was about to snap.

He looked at Xiao Lin’s stormy face, then at Gu Qingfeng’s message.

Like a tiny animal caught between two apex predators.

Done for.

The love-rival battlefield… had just leveled up.

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