Yetao raised his hand and arched like a peacock, his slender form silhouetted against the flickering oil lamps. This was his starting pose—elegant and commanding. His gaze drifted upward, catching sight of Bam watching intently from the roof, his figure half-hidden in shadow.
Their eyes locked across the distance. Yetao's lips curved into a subtle smile as he mouthed, "I'll handle this. Stay put," followed by a confident wink that spoke volumes. Bam flinched, his shoulders tensing visibly, but he remained motionless, eyes sharp as a hawk's as he surveyed the scene below.
Taking a deep breath, Yetao began his performance.
His hands flowed through the air like silk ribbons caught in a gentle breeze. Each movement told a story—fingers extending to trace invisible patterns, wrists rotating with practiced precision. His feet seemed barely to touch the ground as he moved, like a spirit dancing across the surface of a tranquil lake.
Like a gentle stream in fresh spring, the onlookers thought, yet sharp as a well-cut gem.
Yetao's body curved and twisted, blooming like a flower under the first rays of dawn. The watching men fell under his spell, their eyes glazed with awe, their minds captivated by the otherworldly performance unfolding before them.
Makko's throat constricted painfully dry, his body forgetting even the most basic functions as he watched. He didn't dare swallow, terrified that even this small sound might disrupt the magical atmosphere. Without realizing, he had risen to his feet, drawn forward as if by invisible strings.
But he wasn't the only one entranced by the graceful dance.
Above them all, the King, Bam had forgotten to breathe. His heart thundered against his ribs like war drums, each beat an echo of Yetao's movements. Time seemed to slow, the world narrowing to just this moment, just this dance.
The spell shattered when Makko, driven by an impulse beyond reason, approached Yetao mid-performance.
Yetao, lost in the rhythm of his own creation, only noticed the intrusion when Makko's shadow fell across his path. With the fluid adaptability of a master performer, he altered his steps, creating distance between them—a dance of approach and retreat.
But Makko was persistent.
What the fuck is this bastard doing? Yetao fumed internally, maintaining his serene expression through sheer force of will.
Their chase across the dance floor might have nothing to do with the observers, but Yetao's patience was wearing thin. Just as he contemplated a more direct evasion, Makko lunged forward, capturing Yetao's waist in a firm grip.
This filthy jerk! Yetao's mind screamed, even as his body froze in momentary shock.
Looking up at his captor, Yetao's retort died on his lips. Makko's eyes weren't just predatory—they burned with a fanatical light that sent ice through Yetao's veins. Those weren't the eyes of a man enjoying a dance; they were the eyes of a beast that had found its prey.
"Um... my lord? Can you let me go now?" Yetao forced his lips into a sweet smile, though his insides churned with disgust at the unwelcome touch.
Makko didn't budge. Instead, his grip tightened possessively. "Why don't you come with me?" he murmured, his voice dropping to a honeyed whisper. "I will cherish you more than these barbarians."
Isn't HE the barbarian here? Yetao thought incredulously, the smile frozen on his face as he discreetly glanced upward.
On the roof, Bam's entire body had gone rigid with fury. His fists were clenched so tightly that they trembled visibly, even from a distance. The look in his eyes promised violence.
Yetao shot him a reassuring glance—I've got this—before turning his attention back to Makko. Time to play the game. With practiced grace, he placed a delicate hand against Makko's cheek, the touch light as a butterfly's wing.
"Awww, how sweet of you," Yetao cooed, his voice dripping with false admiration. "But I don't think I can leave here."
"Why? Did they lock you up?" Concern flashed across Makko's face, his grip loosening slightly.
Seizing the opportunity, Yetao pushed gently away, summoning tears that glistened like diamonds on his lashes. "I can't go anywhere when my sisters are here. They are my world." The performance was flawless—voice breaking at exactly the right moment, eyes downcast in performed sorrow.
Makko reached out, brushing the false tears from Yetao's cheek with a tenderness that was somehow more revolting than his earlier aggression. "Then I'll take them with you too."
Yetao tilted his head in calculated vulnerability. "But the king will kill us if we accept to go with you. After all, our regions are not on the best terms. Didn't you come here for a war?" His expression was a masterpiece of careful fear and longing.
Makko leaned in closer, his breath hot against Yetao's ear.
Gosh, this guy's breath stinks worse than a month-old fish, Yetao thought, fighting the urge to recoil. Just speak from a distance, will you?
But all thoughts of discomfort vanished when Makko whispered, "You don't need to act longer, pretty one."
A chill colder than midwinter frost raced down Yetao's spine. He gasped, instinctively looking up to signal Bam, but Makko's grip on his waist tightened painfully, drawing a genuine groan of pain.
Above them, Bam sprang into action, leaping down with a fury that promised retribution. His hand extended, summoning his sand—only to find... nothing. The familiar rush of power, the manifestation of his element, simply didn't come.
Confusion and frustration twisted Bam's features as he landed awkwardly, suddenly just a man without his divine power.
Makko's laughter cut through the tense silence. "You think I came unprepared? You'll remain powerless until tomorrow ends" he sneered, voice dripping with contempt. With a casual gesture, he signaled his soldiers, who emerged from the shadows to surround Bam.
The doors burst open with a thunderous crash as Chen, sensing the disturbance, stormed into the hall. His expression shifted from concern to shock to fury in the span of heartbeats as he took in the scene—Bam on the floor, surrounded by hostile soldiers, and Yetao trapped in Makko's grip.
"What is this behavior?" Chen's voice boomed through the hall, authority radiating from every syllable. "This means war!"
Makko seemed utterly unperturbed by the threat. If anything, his smile widened, revealing teeth like a predator's. "I very much appreciate a war. My master loves war, you know?" His gaze shifted to Yetao, hunger evident in his eyes. "But more than that, I love beauties like her."
Yetao couldn't suppress a shudder of revulsion at the look in those eyes.
With another signal to his men, Makko announced, "So I'll be taking her. Warm up with my soldiers before you start a war with us." He moved to lift Yetao bodily, already savoring his victory.
But Yetao had been waiting for precisely this moment—the split second when Makko's grip shifted from restraint to transportation. With the fluid grace that made him a peerless dancer, he slipped from Makko's grasp like water through fingers.
In one continuous motion, he seized a sword from the nearest soldier, its blade gleaming in the lantern light as he pointed it directly at Makko's heart.
"Get back," Yetao commanded, his voice steady despite the trembling of his hands. Throughout his life, he had wielded swords only in dance, as extensions of art and beauty. Never had he imagined needing one as a weapon.
Makko's surprise melted into amusement. He stepped forward, utterly unconcerned by the blade. "You think you can stab me with those delicate fingers?" he taunted, advancing steadily as Yetao retreated.
Across the room, the soldiers had pressed their blades against Bam and Chen's throats, keeping them immobilized with the threat of instant death.
Chen's mind raced with calculations. If we hold them off for a few more minutes, our soldiers will arrive. I've already signaled them to appear when I leave my monitoring station. The God of Knowledge remained outwardly calm, his eyes tracking every movement in the room.
Beside him, Bam had reached his limit. With a roar of rage, he seized the soldier restraining him, using raw physical strength rather than divine power. "You think I solely rely on my powers?" he snarled, hurling the man across the room.
Alarm flashed across Makko's face—clearly, he hadn't anticipated this development. "Take them!" he shouted to his remaining men, even as he reached into his robe.
From a hidden pocket, he withdrew a small pouch of powder. With practiced ease, he blew it directly into Yetao's face.
The fine particles filled the air, impossible to avoid. Yetao gasped involuntarily, inhaling the substance. Almost immediately, the world began to swim before his eyes, the sword growing impossibly heavy in his grasp.
"You... freak," he managed, as Makko hoisted him over one shoulder like a sack of grain. "Am I a... potato sack...?"
The words slurred into silence as consciousness slipped away, darkness claiming his vision.
The palace guards burst into the hall just as Makko, with Yetao unconscious over his shoulder, disappeared through a hidden passage. The remaining soldiers engaged in combat, creating chaos and confusion—the perfect cover for their master's escape.
Bam and Chen fought their way through, desperate to pursue, but by the time they reached the passage, Makko had vanished like morning mist before the sun.
"No!" Bam's anguished cry echoed through the palace halls. The audacity—someone had dared to abduct a person from his very palace, before his very eyes.
"We need to find him before something happens to Yetao," Chen said, panic evident in his usually calm voice. Immediately, he gathered the elite palace guards, forming search parties to scour every corner of the kingdom.
"I'll take the eastern road," Bam declared, already moving.
"Then I'll search westward," Chen replied, matching his urgency.
They departed in opposite directions, each leading a contingent of soldiers, determination burning in their eyes.
But the desert was vast, and Makko had planned his escape well.
....
Five hours later, consciousness returned to Yetao in waves.
First came awareness of motion—a rhythmic rocking that spoke of travel. Then sound—the creak of wooden wheels, the soft padding of hooves on sand. Finally, sight—his eyes cracking open to reveal an endless expanse of golden desert stretching to the horizon.
He was in a chariot, the sun beating down mercilessly from above. And beside him...
"Don't panic. You're safe with me," Makko said, noticing Yetao's returned consciousness.
Yetao sat up with a jerk, instinctively moving as far away as the confines of the chariot would allow. His head throbbed painfully, an aftereffect of whatever drug had been used on him.
"If you want to start a war, I won't help you at all," he stated coldly, gathering his wits. "That guy thinks I'm an assassin. Do you think holding me hostage will bring you victory?"
A smile spread across Makko's face—not reassuring but calculating. "That was originally my intention, if the other girl showed up" he admitted. "But change of plans now. I'm postponing war for a bit."
Confusion furrowed Yetao's brow. "What do you mean?"
Makko's smile widened. "I will marry you before the war."
The words hit Yetao like a physical blow. His jaw dropped in genuine shock, disgust crawling across his skin like thousands of tiny insects.
"On whose permission?" he snapped, all pretense of deference abandoned.
"Don't panic, my bride," Makko soothed, utterly misreading—or deliberately ignoring—Yetao's reaction. "I won't touch you before our wedding. We value women's consent a lot in our territory."
Is he completely insane? Yetao's mind screamed. Where exactly is the CONSENT in abduction? And first of all... I'm not even a woman, dammit!
As Makko turned his attention back to the road ahead, Yetao's mind raced, evaluating options. I need to do something. NOW.
His gaze darted around the chariot, seeking any potential weapon. Finding nothing immediately useful, his hand drifted to his ear, feeling the sharp decorative earring still in place.
Perfect.
With movements too swift for Makko to counter, Yetao struck—driving the pointed end of the earring into a specific point at the back of Makko's neck. It was a technique he'd learned years ago but never had cause to use.
To his immense satisfaction, Makko's eyes rolled back, and he slumped forward, unconscious.
"It worked? That was the first time I actually used it!" Elation surged through Yetao, but he quickly suppressed it. There was no time to celebrate.
Moving quickly, he cut the harness ropes binding the horses to the chariot. Freedom was just one horseback ride away. He grabbed the nearest horse's mane, attempting to mount—
Only to slide off the animal's back and land hard on the sand. The horse, suddenly free, bolted away across the dunes.
Yetao groaned, both in pain and frustration. "Of all the skills I never learned..." he muttered, watching his best chance at escape disappear into the distance.
Looking around, he saw nothing but endless sand in every direction. The chariot offered shelter but also danger—Makko wouldn't remain unconscious forever.
"Where the hell should I go?" he wondered aloud, desperation creeping into his voice.
After a moment's hesitation, he chose a direction—opposite to the one the chariot had been traveling—and began to walk. His elaborate dancer's garments, beautiful but impractical, hindered his movement through the shifting sand.
With a decisive tear, he ripped away the excess fabric, freeing his legs for faster movement. Escape first, modesty later, he thought grimly.
He walked until his legs ached, then ran until his lungs burned. The sun beat down without mercy, and thirst clawed at his throat. But fear drove him onward, step after painful step.
Just when his strength was failing, a distant shape appeared on the horizon—not a mirage, but people! A traveling group, their forms blurry with distance.
Hope surged through his exhausted body. "Hey!!!" he screamed, waving his arms frantically above his head.
The group changed direction, moving toward him. Relief washed over Yetao—until they drew close enough for him to make out the distinctive uniforms of Makko's soldiers.
"Shit!" The curse escaped his parched lips as realization dawned. He had been running in circles, or worse, they had anticipated his route.
Summoning his last reserves of energy, he turned and ran again, muscles screaming in protest. His vision blurred, partly from exhaustion, partly from unshed tears of frustration.
He didn't see the figure until he collided with it, the impact sending him staggering backward.
A man stood before him—tall, with dark hair that fell past his shoulders and eyes the color of rich earth. His features were sculpted as if by a master artist, skin glowing with an almost unearthly light.
For a moment, they simply stared at each other. Something flickered in the stranger's eyes—shock, recognition, disbelief—too complex to read in that brief moment.
"Are you with them?" Yetao gasped, pointing back at the approaching soldiers.
The man shook his head, a simple negative.
It was enough. Without further hesitation, Yetao grabbed the stranger's hand and pulled him toward a horse standing nearby. With desperate strength, he leapt onto the animal's back, dragging the man up behind him.
"You know how to ride, right?" Yetao asked breathlessly. "Help me escape them. I'm not a criminal. Ask the king if you don't believe me."
In answer, the stranger took the reins, spurring the horse into a gallop that ate up the distance. The soldiers followed for a time, then inexplicably halted their pursuit, growing smaller and smaller in the distance until they were just specks on the horizon.
Only when they were truly gone did Yetao allow himself to relax, his body sagging with relief. "Thank you," he said, turning to look at his rescuer.
The man's expression was an enigma—calm yet intense, as if he were looking at Yetao yet seeing someone else entirely. There was a depth to his gaze that Yetao couldn't fathom in his exhausted state.
"I'm Yetao," he offered, hoping for reciprocation. "Who are you?"
The man flinched slightly at the question, as if startled out of deep thought. He hesitated, then said simply:
"Nut... Peanut." At the man's words, Yetao closed his eyes, be it from exhaustion or stress.
To be continued...