Help! I Became A Guy In A BL Novel!-Chapter 321: In Search For Him

Soren’s hand lingered midair, suspended over an empty space. His breath hitched. It took him a second to realise he was standing upright—but leaning heavily against the side of the carriage. His body trembled faintly, but not from poison. The haze of the vision still clung to his mind like smoke after a fire.

His hand had been at Riven’s neck in that vision. His voice, calm and hollow, still echoed in his head: "The chance of survival is low. Rather than let you take your own life, let me set you free."

There hadn’t been hate in his voice. No rage, no sorrow, not even grief. Just... Resignation. Cold, indifferent, clinical. As if he were merely tying up loose ends.

Riven’s eyes had looked directly at him. Red, raw, tear-filled. Whether it was from the effects of the drug or from his pain, Soren didn’t know. He didn’t want to know. The image was burned into him—Riven bound to a rotting chair in a forgotten house, barely human, his body shaking. But in the end, he looked like he accepted fate.

Soren stood there in stunned silence, his breath heavy, heart pounding. The last thing he saw in that vision was his own hand reaching for Riven’s neck, cold and steady, ready to end it all. That final expression on Riven’s face haunted him—bloodshot eyes, tear-streaked cheeks, a look that was both terrified and strangely accepting. The words he had said—"Let me set you free."—rang in his ears like a curse. He- He strangled Riven?

Was that real? A memory from another time? A hallucination from the fear and stress? Or worse—was it a glimpse of what could have happened?

He didn’t have answers, only instincts, and right now they screamed that Riven might be in danger.

The crunch of footsteps broke through the fog in his mind. The carriage driver had returned, brushing some dirt off his sleeve. "Sir," he said, "Nicholas got away."

Soren barely registered the words. His hand shot out, grabbing the driver’s shoulder firmly. "Forget him," Soren said, voice tight. "Listen to me—go back. Check if he’s there, right now." He paused for a second before continuing.

"If he’s not there," Soren continued, eyes narrowing, "or if anything seems off—anything at all—you’re to start a search. Tell the guards. Raise the alarm. Dispatch scouts. I don’t care if you have to drag nobles out of their beds—do not wait. Start looking for him the moment you have a doubt."

The driver nodded, caught off guard by the urgency. "Yes, of course."

"Go." Soren’s tone left no room for questions.

The driver turned and left without delay, climbing into the carriage and taking off down the road.

Soren took a moment to collect himself. His legs felt steadier now. His body didn’t hurt like before—the poison must’ve run its course. He had built a tolerance to it long ago, even if it still left a bitter taste in his mouth.

But that wasn’t important now.

He looked back toward the woods, his eyes narrowing. That house from the vision—it was familiar. It existed. He had seen it before, on the outskirts near the old stream, long abandoned. It wasn’t far.

No one lived there. It wasn’t a place anyone visited anymore.

Except in his vision... Riven had been there. Bound. Drugged. Dying.

Soren’s jaw clenched. He didn’t believe in premonitions. He never had. But something about this didn’t feel like imagination. He didn’t have time to question it, anyway.

He started walking. Fast. Then faster.

The forest path swallowed him up quickly. Trees loomed on both sides, casting long shadows over the trail. Soren didn’t hesitate.

The cold wind bit at Soren’s face as he ran through the thinning woods, his boots pounding against the muddy earth. Branches scratched at his coat, leaves whipped past his cheeks, but he didn’t slow down.

His breath came out in sharp bursts, clouding the air before him. That house—the one from the vision—wasn’t far now. He remembered it vividly: the cracked roof tiles, the overgrown weeds curling over the collapsed wooden fence, and the rotted door hanging on one hinge. He ran towards this place. It was just outside the western edge of the capital, a place people avoided because of rumours of bandits and ghosts. Soren never believed in either gods or ghosts.

Until now.

His chest tightened. Each step felt like it was dragging time behind it. He cursed under his breath, clenched his jaw, and—without hesitation—shifted. His form blurred into a flurry of silver and white.

Massive paws slammed against the earth, claws digging into the dirt as he sprinted faster, faster. The wind howled around his sleek snow-leopard body, but he ignored it. He only saw that house in his mind—his destination. And he only thought of one person.

Riven.

The forest blurred around him. The scent of decay and damp wood grew stronger, stinging his nose. His body was built for this—silent, swift, and deadly—but the pounding in his heart wasn’t just from the run. It was dread. Pure, unfiltered fear.

He reached the clearing where the house stood. Just like in the vision, it was falling apart. Shingles were scattered like broken teeth around the yard. The front door creaked open slightly, letting out the smell of mildew, old dust, and something darker.

Blood?

Soren shifted back into human form, panting heavily. His dirty blond hair fell into his eyes as he adjusted the collar of his coat, he felt his hand shiver for the first time. His hand went to his waist, gripping the dagger hidden beneath his belt. Slowly, he walked toward the house, every step careful. He was silent, ears straining for even the tiniest sound. A whisper. A whimper. Anything.

The silence was unbearable.

His foot crunched on some broken wood near the front steps. He flinched. His heart was thudding in his ears, drowning everything else out. He raised a hand, pushed the door open, and slipped inside.

It was dark. And the smell of blood only made him hesitate.

What if Riven was in there? What if the vision wasn’t just some cruel trick of the poison?

His hesitation did not last long. If Riven really was in there, he was wasting precious time.

Then he shoved the door open.

Dust burst out in a cloud, as if even the air inside recoiled from being disturbed. The house was quiet. Too quiet. No movement, no sound of struggle. Just the long, aching creak of rotting wood.

But as Soren stepped in, something strange happened.

The room transformed.

He could still see it as it was now—abandoned, lifeless, smelling of mildew and mold—but overlaid with that, like a double exposure, was the vision.

A visual imprint burned into his memory. He could see where Riven had been tied to one of the beams—ropes rough and frayed, digging into skin rubbed raw. He saw the place where the floorboards were stained with something darker than dust, the outline of a body curled inwards in suffering.

There was no one there. But the ghost of pain lingered like the scent of blood.

Soren’s knees buckled slightly as he stepped forward, drawn to the spot like gravity itself had shifted. His breath caught in his throat. He couldn’t stop himself—he reached out, fingers brushing through empty air where Riven’s head had once slumped, shaking, barely conscious.

Relief hit him first. It was empty. Riven wasn’t there.

He was experiencing grief and relief at the same time, it made it hard for him to breathe, but perhaps the dust gathering in that house was the reason.

He still did not move.

He could see what had almost happened. Smell the fear and agony that lingered like a shadow across the room. The house held the memory of it all, and it gave it to him like a punishment.

He stumbled back a step, one hand pressed to the beam as he stared at nothing. Riven’s voice echoed in his mind—Don’t... Don’t come closer... That look in his eyes—pleading, terrified. Soren hadn’t even sounded like himself in the vision. He had looked at Riven with disdain. As if he were a thing to be discarded.

"I could never do that... To him. Could I?" He faltered.

He clenched his jaw, chest rising and falling in shaky gasps. Was that really what he’d become? He did not think so, he couldn’t do that, he kept saying this to himself. The vision disappeared before he could see himself... Kill Riven. He did not think he could stay sane if he had witnessed what happened.

He remembered Riven’s face from the vision, the despair, the tiredness, the hopelessness that was etched onto his face, like he had been suffering. The way his smile never quite reached his eyes, but it still stayed.

Soren had seen glimpses of that vulnerability when he coldly spouted affectionate words that had no feeling, Riven wanted to believe him so bad. And in the vision, he had almost destroyed what little was left of that hope.