Help! I Became A Guy In A BL Novel!
Chapter 198: Sensitive

Chapter 198: Sensitive

Leon’s hair was a sensitive subject. Always meticulously styled, not a strand out of place. He did that himself. And on the days he was lazy, he let his mane free.

And no one—not his servants, not his mother, not even the royal barbers—was allowed to touch it. Riven knew that. He read the story. It had something to do with his sisters.

The major question was, why was he the king when he had sisters? It was a matriarchal society after all, so why wasn’t one of them the Queen? This was a question that remained unanswered along with why his hair was such a touchy subject.

Riven’s offer had been a test, in a way—a playful one, but still a test. A way to gauge where he stood in Leon’s world. And Leon’s retreat made the answer clear: they weren’t close. Not yet.

The walls were still up. High, carefully constructed, and guarded with reflexive arrogance.

But Riven wasn’t discouraged. If anything, he was more curious than before.

Leon still needed time. Time to understand himself—and time to figure out what kind of relationship they even had.

Leon walked briskly back to his room.

He opened the door, stepped inside, and slammed it shut behind him.

The room fell into silence.

He stood there for a moment, staring at the ornate wooden door. His shoulders were tense, his jaw clenched. Then, slowly, he turned and faced the mirror across the room.

The tall mirror loomed over his dresser, framed in gold filigree, spotless as ever. Leon walked over and stared at his reflection.

There it was—his hair.

Every strand was immaculate, combed perfectly into place, the weight of it brushing his shoulders. Silky, well-kept, and undeniably regal. It was a lion’s mane, as befitted his bloodline. People admired it. Servants complimented it. His mother once called it a crown of pride. But now... all he saw was a reminder that he could not go back to the past.

He leaned in closer, eyes narrowing.

It didn’t matter how many compliments he received. It didn’t matter how glossy, soft, or noble it looked. All he could see in that mirror was a reminder of everything he had lost.

A memory clawed its way to the surface- the youngest of his older sisters brushing his hair when they were children, her tiny hands fumbling through the strands, laughing.

His second sister scolding him to keep it neat before an event. His eldest, silent as always, but the way she gently braided it when he was sick spoke volumes.

Now?

Now, none of them were by his side.

He hadn’t spoken to the eldest and the second eldest sister in months, years even.

Only his third sister still spoke to him occasionally—short letters, usually sent through their mother, filled with pleasantries and mundane updates. Not warmth. Not real connection. Just enough not to disappear completely.

He reached toward the drawer and pulled it open with trembling fingers.

Inside lay a pair of silver scissors.

He picked them up and looked at them, then back at the mirror.

What if he just... cut it all off?

The thought came sudden and sharp. He raised the scissors, brought them close to the strands that framed his face.

One snip. That’s all it would take.

His fingers trembled.

He hated it. He hated this hair. Hated the symbolism of it, the expectation it carried. He hated how it was the one thing he still clung to—the one part of his identity that hadn’t crumbled to dust.

Because that’s what it was now, wasn’t it?

A symbol.

A remnant of the prince he used to be.

He lowered the scissors.

His hand dropped to the table with a soft clink as metal met wood.

He couldn’t do it.

Cutting it felt like surrendering. But keeping it... Was a constant reminder. He hated this feeling.

He bit his lip, hard, until the taste of iron hit his tongue. His breath hitched, and he turned away from the mirror. His chest felt tight, as if something were coiling inside him, twisting and twisting until it couldn’t twist any more.

His legs gave way, and he sank onto the velvet-covered stool beside the dresser.

Tears stung at the corners of his eyes.

He clenched his fists.

He wasn’t supposed to cry.

He wasn’t that kind of a King.

But then, he wasn’t a King anymore, was he?

His mother had made that clear.

The only reason he was still in the palace was because of some ridiculous agreement with Riven. And Riven—Riven, with his smug smile and sharp tongue—had been treating him like a servant, and he had been taking it. Why? Because of some fragile, desperate hope of redemption? Of getting his title back?

For without it he knew that he would not amount to anything deep down.

He scrubbed at his face with the back of his sleeve, smearing away the tears before it could fall. He wasn’t going to break down. Not now. Not where anyone could see.

His gaze drifted back to the mirror.

He saw himself again—his tear-reddened eyes, the tension in his jaw, the defeated curve of his shoulders. But still, his hair remained perfect. Regal.

He let out a broken laugh. It sounded bitter.

He thought again of his sisters.

How they used to fight beside him. How they stood up for him, covered for him when he made mistakes, always there in the background, supporting him even when he didn’t deserve it.

And now... they were silent.

According to his mother, they still protected him. Pulled strings behind the scenes. Covered his failures from the court’s whispers. But not once had they come to him. Not once had they reached out—not in kindness, not in anger.

He deserved their silence. He knew that.

Still, it stung.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, fingers laced tightly together as he stared down at the floor.

Riven’s words floated back to him.

Telling him to prove the world wrong and control his temper, his arrogance. Wasn’t that the reason why he was alone in this huge kingdom?