Please get me out of this BL novel...I'm straight!
Chapter 83: ’Huh?’

Chapter 83: ’Huh?’

"What took you so long?!" Florian’s voice cracked, sharp with frustration. The raw edge carried a volatile mix of anger and desperate relief, spilling out before he could restrain it. His chest heaved as adrenaline lingered, though exhaustion gnawed at his fraying resolve.

Lancelot froze, utterly stunned. He had expected a broken, trembling boy—one overwhelmed by terror and gratitude after enduring captivity. But what stood before him was someone brimming with defiance, glaring daggers at him through bruised eyes. Florian’s rage burned brighter than his pain.

The knight’s heart lurched in his chest, confusion tightening his throat. ’Why does this feel so... wrong?’

He wanted to dismiss the prince’s words, maybe toss back a playful retort about royal brats and the dangers of impulsive behavior. But something in the sight of Florian—bruised, torn clothes, blood streaking his skin—stole the sharpness from his tongue. The boy had clearly fought tooth and nail to survive.

Lancelot’s voice softened without his consent. "I’m sorry for being late, Your Highness."

Florian blinked, clearly thrown off by the apology. He had probably been expecting sarcasm or deflection. Still, the defiant glint in his eyes didn’t waver.

"You better be sorry!" Florian huffed, though his voice faltered. He looked away, hiding the raw emotion threatening to break through. "I thought... I thought you all left me."

"Eh? How could we leave you?" Lancelot scoffed, forcing a more playful tone. "You’re part of His Majesty’s harem, believe it or not—"

A sudden presence surged behind him, cutting his words short. Lancelot’s body tensed instinctively, and Florian’s eyes widened in panic.

"Lancelot, behind you!" Florian shouted, his voice breaking from the effort. Pain lanced through his body, drawing a sharp gasp from his lips.

Lancelot didn’t hesitate. He yanked his blood-streaked sword from the corpse at his feet and spun swiftly, just in time to block the incoming strike with a deafening clang. Sparks flew as steel clashed against steel.

"Well, well... if it isn’t the commander of the royal knights." The rogue sneered, his voice dripping with malice. "And here we thought you left the little prince for dead."

Florian winced, clutching his side as he tried to push himself upright. His breathing was ragged, each inhale laced with pain.

"We were just about to have some fun with him—until you ruined it," the rogue continued mockingly.

Lancelot’s grip on his sword tightened. Rage flickered in his chest, hot and fierce. ’No more time for chitchat with His Highness—this isn’t over yet.’

"I’m guessing you’re not the leader since he’s already dead," Lancelot said coldly, his lips curving into a smirk. "But you seem important enough." He shifted his stance, eyes gleaming. "Good. Now I can fight without holding back."

The rogue’s grin widened. "I’d love to see you try, pretty boy."

Lancelot barked a laugh. "Pretty boy? Looks like spending time with the prince has rubbed off on you." He braced himself, muscles coiled for an attack. From behind, he heard a pained cough—Florian trying to speak despite his injuries.

Florian’s voice was faint but urgent. "Lan...Lancelot..." he gasped.

The knight glanced over his shoulder, concern flickering across his face. "What is it?"

"Arthur..." Florian struggled to keep his eyes open. "He... can use... magic... makes branches...sharp... from the ground..."

Lancelot’s eyes widened, his expression turning grim. ’Magic that manipulates the trees branches?’ His gaze darted back to the rogue, sizing up the battlefield. If what Florian said was true, then fighting recklessly was no longer an option. The ground itself could become a weapon against him.

"Oi! Arcaniors—stay with the prince!" Lancelot barked, his voice steely. "Use whatever healing magic you’ve got. Keep him safe and conscious."

The two Arcaniors snapped to attention, rushing to Florian’s side. One knelt beside him, placing a glowing hand over his wounds, while the other kept watch for any incoming attacks.

"Let’s see what you’ve got," the rogue taunted, his blade gleaming under the fading moonlight.

"With that injury? Child’s play." Lancelot forced a smirk, masking his growing unease.

He wasn’t just fighting for victory anymore—he was fighting with Florian’s desperate warning burning in his mind. One wrong step, and the forest floor itself might betray him. But he wasn’t about to back down. Not now.

"I’ll make this quick," Lancelot vowed under his breath. And with a burst of speed, he charged forward, his blade a blur of deadly precision.

─────── ·𖥸· ───────

As Arthur and Lancelot squared off against the remaining rogues, Florian could only watch from where he slumped against a tree, his body heavy with exhaustion.

Each breath he drew was shallow and uneven, a testament to the countless wounds littering his frame. Though relief flickered faintly in his chest, it was smothered beneath layers of pain, guilt, and numbness.

The scene before him blurred and wavered, but he could see enough—Lancelot and the knights moved with deadly precision, their swords slicing through the enemy ranks. Without the princesses holding them back, they fought without restraint, their strikes ruthless and efficient.

Rogues fell left and right, their cries of pain swallowed by the chaos. The tide had turned.

Florian let out a shaky breath, the weight in his chest momentarily lifting. ’They’ll end this soon. Lancelot will end this soon.’ Kaz and Aden had written Lancelot to be Concordia’s strongest knight. Florian knew that fact better than anyone.

He closed his eyes briefly, allowing himself to believe it was over.

A voice pulled him back.

"Your Highness, are you feeling okay?"

Florian’s eyelids fluttered open. One of the Arcaniors knelt beside him, their hands glowing with soft, golden light as they examined his injuries. Concern etched deep lines across their face. "You have so many wounds... It’s honestly a miracle you’re still awake."

Another Arcanior joined them, hurriedly pulling out a vial filled with shimmering liquid. "I heard you were in a coma for a whole day just from hitting your head, yet here you are—walking around and enduring this much pain. How are you even conscious?"

Florian’s lips twitched into a weak, bitter smile. His voice was thin and fragmented, the words barely audible. "It’s...hard...to feel pain... when... running... for your life..."

Even talking was a monumental task, each syllable scraping his throat raw. The world around him swam in and out of focus. He vaguely registered the Arcaniors exchanging worried glances, their expressions taut with urgency.

But their concern faded into the background as Florian’s thoughts spiraled inward.

Two truths clung to his fractured mind:

One: He wasn’t abandoned after all.

Two: Levi was dead because Florian hadn’t trusted anyone enough to wait.

The weight of that realization settled like a stone in his chest.

Lancelot and the knights looked worn down, their faces grim and lined with exhaustion. Their blood-streaked armor gleamed faintly under the waning moonlight. They must have been searching for him for hours, pushing themselves past their limits to find him.

’If I’d just waited... they would’ve found me,’ he thought bitterly. ’Levi wouldn’t have... he wouldn’t have...’

Guilt wrapped around his throat like a noose, tightening until he could barely breathe. ’It’s my fault. I’m such a fucking idiot.’

He wanted to cry, but no tears came. It wasn’t because he didn’t care—it wasn’t because he was heartless or because he hadn’t known Levi long enough.

No—it was something deeper.

’Maybe... the original Florian... cried enough... there’s nothing left for me.’

The relief that had momentarily flickered within him curdled into bitter regret. Regret for acting impulsively. Regret for getting captured. Regret for Levi’s death.

All because he wanted to escape.

"Your Highness?" One of the Arcaniors’ voices sharpened, cutting through his spiraling thoughts. "Are you sure you’re—?"

Florian blinked sluggishly. His vision blurred as darkness crept into the edges, his limbs growing colder by the second.

"Huh... wha...?" His voice was barely audible, slurred and disjointed.

"Your Highness, can you hear me?"

’Yeah... I hear you... Do you... hear me?’

"...Sir...lot... his Highness has..."

The sounds of their frantic voices blurred, panic threading through the noise.

"...poisoned!"

’Poi...son...?’ The word barely registered, his sluggish mind unable to comprehend its meaning. The cold spread deeper, seeping into his bones, unraveling what little strength he had left.

Everything was slipping. His thoughts fragmented, unraveling like frayed threads.

Then, without warning, the world went black.