Help, I'm in Another World and All the Men Are Are So Dangerous! [BL]
Chapter 56: Brotherly Whiplash

Chapter 56: Brotherly Whiplash

Of all the times, why did it have to be in front of Sylas—the final boss of his life?

Rocco was sure that his brother, who despised him, was laughing hysterically at his expense.

Any second now, Sylas would spread word of this humiliating fall throughout the main house, annihilating not just Rocco’s physical dignity but his social standing as well.

Lost in these thoughts, Rocco trembled on the ground, unable to move.

The footsteps drew closer and finally stopped just beside him.

Then, without warning, a pair of hands reached down and firmly grasped him under his arms, lifting him up with surprising ease.

With a strong lift, Rocco was picked up and set down onto the ground, sitting upright.

His trembling lips tightened as he tried to hold back sobs.

As his tear-streaked face was exposed to the sunlight, he felt the collective intake of breath from those nearby.

"...You’re crying. Was it that painful?"

"I’m not crying! It doesn’t hurt... ugh."

A large, slightly awkward hand patted Rocco’s head.

The gentle gesture tugged at his emotions, and despite his best efforts to hold back, tears began pouring down his face.

Big, round drops streaked his cheeks as his composure crumbled.

Even his nose started to run—a pathetic, unsightly display.

After a few seconds of embarrassing sobbing, a new thought struck him.

Wait, whose hand is this?

Slowly, he raised his tear-stained face to look at the owner of the hand.

What he saw stopped him cold.

The doll-like, flawless face of his older brother Sylas loomed above him.

Sylas, the very brother who was supposed to dislike him, was the one who had lifted him up and was now patting his head.

"B-Brother..."

Rocco was so stunned that the tears stopped flowing altogether.

Staring up at Sylas in utter shock, Rocco noticed that his brother wasn’t even looking at him.

Instead, Sylas’s sharp gaze was fixed on something lower, his brows furrowing deeply.

What’s he looking at? Rocco followed Sylas’s gaze nervously and realized what had drawn his attention—a small scrape on Rocco’s knee, likely from his earlier fall.

A little bit of blood was trickling from the wound.

"Oh, uh... that," Rocco muttered, wincing slightly as he now became aware of the faint sting.

Still, it wasn’t a big deal—it was just a scratch that would heal on its own.

He plastered on a casual smile, trying to downplay the injury.

Sylas, however, didn’t seem to share his indifference.

His expression darkened, his lips pressing into a thin line as if he were the one feeling pain.

Before Rocco could say anything, Sylas turned sharply toward the handsome man standing behind him, addressing him in a low, commanding voice.

"...Treat his wound."

"Yes, sir," the man replied crisply.

Without hesitation, he knelt down in front of Rocco, efficiently pulling out gauze and other supplies from seemingly nowhere.

"W-wait a second—" Rocco stammered, but the man gently held his leg in place, skillfully cleaning and dressing the wound in what felt like seconds.

The entire process was so quick and precise that Rocco could only gape in astonishment.

"Who is this guy?" he thought, staring at the man as he rose to his feet, his movements smooth and professional.

As if sensing Rocco’s unspoken question, the man gave a polite, charming smile and bowed slightly.

"Please forgive my impertinence in touching your leg without permission, Young Master Rocco," he said smoothly. "I am Philip, an attendant to Young Master Sylas. It is an honor to meet you."

Rocco blinked, his head spinning at the calm, courteous introduction.

"Philip," he repeated to himself, the name of this ridiculously capable and composed man now etched in his memory.

What a stylish and refined gentleman! Rocco thought, his eyes sparkling with admiration.

This was exactly the kind of smart, sophisticated demeanor he aspired to.

Leaning forward eagerly, he blurted out his response.

"Sir..Philip!"

A soft chuckle escaped the composed man. "You may simply call me Philip, Young Master Rocco."

"P-Philip! Philip! You’re so cool! Super cool and elegant!"

Rocco’s cheeks flushed with excitement as he clasped Philip’s hands in both of his own and shaking them energetically.

Despite the overly enthusiastic handshake, Philip’s calm expression softened into a warm smile as he allowed Rocco’s fervor without a hint of annoyance.

How could someone be this gracious and charming?

"Do you really think I’m that cool? I’ve been told my appearance is rather plain," Philip remarked modestly.

"Not at all!" Rocco declared. "Your brown hair is so soft and stylish, and your eyes—they’re gentle and warm, and I love their color and shape! You’re incredibly cool!"

The idea that anyone could dismiss Philip’s looks as ordinary baffled Rocco.

His hair, seemingly casual, was impeccably styled with a modern flair.

His gentle hazel eyes, soft like a field of wheat, and his sweet, wholesome features were nothing short of breathtaking.

Unable to contain his enthusiasm, Rocco kept talking, his words spilling out in rapid bursts.

Philip, meanwhile, lowered his head slightly, and a faint sound escaped his throat.

He raised a hand to cover his face and crouched slightly, leaving Rocco anxious.

"Philip? Are you okay?" Rocco asked, his voice tinged with concern.

Philip finally murmured something under his breath, his voice strained yet oddly reverent.

"I’m sorry... I was overwhelmed by the sheer purity and innocence radiating from you. I think I might have gone temporarily blind..."

"What?! Are you okay? That’d be a waste—your eyes are so beautiful!" Rocco exclaimed, his tone growing even more worried.

At that, another faint, strained sound escaped Philip’s throat.

Rocco began to fidget nervously, wondering if Philip was unwell.

Just as he prepared to say something else, a hand suddenly shot out from his blind spot.

His cheek was grabbed with a firm squish, tilting his head as if someone were trying to force a pose on him.

"Brother?" he mumbled in confusion with cheeks still pinched.

"...So, you’ve taken a liking to this fool?" a cold voice grumbled, laced with irritation. "Your taste, as always, is abysmal."