Help! I Became A Guy In A BL Novel!-Chapter 147: Hurt!

The market had emptied too fast.

Riven was the first to notice.

One moment, there were crowds, colours, and clamour. The vibrant hum of the market had died, eerily so. The noble ladies with parasols, the gossiping barons and their powdered escorts, the flower girls and musicians—they were gone.

Not fled.

Gone.

Riven stood very still, his fingers tightening around the wrapped bundle of perfume bottles in his hand. The silence pressed in, broken only by the distant flutter of a fabric banner.

"Troy," he said softly.

"I see it," Troy replied, his hand already drifting toward the sword strapped beneath his coat.

The knights had noticed, too. Their stances shifted subtly, shoulders squared, feet braced. Professional. Alert.

That’s when they appeared—men dressed in dark leather, emerging from alleyways and corners. They weren’t subtle. They didn’t need to be. At a glance, Riven counted twenty. There were likely more.

"A big entourage just for me?~" Riven was up to his usual shenanigans, he did not feel a bit of fear, not even in the slightest. Troy said that Ronan would come here soon, and he believed in Ronan.

Troy stepped closer to him, one arm slightly outstretched. Protective. "Stay behind me."

Riven, ever the picture of calm, tilted his head and added, "This feels more like an ambush than a kidnapping. Very dramatic. Very... organised."

He scanned the now-empty stalls, noting the untouched goods, the pristine silk still draped from the awnings. "No struggle. No panic. The nobles didn’t flee. They were moved. Quietly. Which means... they’re in on it."

Troy tensed beside him.

Riven smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "Seems the elders are buying loyalty faster than you guys expected."

The leader of the approaching men stopped a few paces away. His face was weathered, but his eyes were sharp. Efficient. No flair. He wasn’t here to send a message. He was here to end one.

Riven took a single step forward, tilting his head. "You know, if this is about my outrageous fashion sense, you could’ve just sent a letter. Ambushing me like this is so last season."

No response.

Riven offered a more sultry smile. "No? Not even a little banter before you try to stab me? I could make it worth your while."

The man raised a hand.

Riven sighed. "Fine. You can’t say I didn’t try."

Then he dropped the package, and his form shimmered.

Where once stood the graceful figure of a prince in flowing silks, there was now a wolf—sleek and sharp, fur the same rich ebony as his hair, his eyes an emerald flame.

Riven was not large. His wolf form was lean, more beautiful than beastly. But there was something dangerous in that beauty. Something feral beneath the polished look.

Riven’s voice was gone now, but his eyes gleamed with mischief. Thank Ronan, he might’ve said. The Alpha had spent a good chunk of the night helping him tame the shift, guiding him through panic and excitement, whispering encouragement when he eventually took on a new form.

But now was not the time for sentimentality.

The attackers lunged.

Troy met them head-on.

Steel sang against steel as the two knights flanked him, moving with synchronised brutality. They had been chosen for a reason—each blow they struck was measured, intentional. They didn’t waste movement. They didn’t hesitate. For Troy, he needed only one member alive.

Troy was quicker than either of them, his blade carving arcs of silver light as he deflected and countered. His expression was unreadable, deadly calm. This wasn’t a fight. It was a promise. A line drawn in blood.

Riven appreciated the view even though he was in danger. Troy was quite hot!

He hadn’t shifted to fight. He wasn’t a warrior. Not like them.

He was the prize.

The princess.

And as much as that annoyed him, he couldn’t deny it. He was what they were trying to steal. Either way, they were not getting out of here alive. Ronan will come soon.

Another wave of enemies surged forward. One of the knights took a knife to the side but didn’t flinch. The other kicked an assailant so hard into a wall that the stone cracked.

Riven darted to the side, weaving through barrels and crates, keeping low. His senses were sharper now—he could smell the sweat of adrenaline, the copper of blood, the sourness of fear... But none of it was his.

He felt like a cowardly wolf!

He saw a quick flash-

Pain ripped through his side like a lightning strike.

Riven yelped, stumbling as hot blood spilt onto the cobblestones. One of the assassins—fast, almost impossibly so—had slipped past Troy and the knights in the chaos, catching him off-guard. The blade had sliced through fur and flesh, shallow but vicious, searing against bone.

He didn’t have time to think. He didn’t even have time to react to the pain.

Something primal surged in his veins, something ancient and wild. His eyes, already glowing green, burned brighter. The pain twisted into fury, into survival.

And Riven moved.

With a growl that echoed through the emptied market, he leapt—no grace now, no teasing lightness in his steps, only raw, brutal instinct. His claws slammed into the assassin’s chest, knocking him backwards with a snarl of surprise. Riven’s weight bore him down, and he struck.

Claws tore across the man’s face in two vicious swipes, leaving red ribbons in their wake. The assassin screamed, blood spraying as he tried to shove Riven off—but Riven was already slashing again, lower this time, his claws catching fabric and skin alike.

Chest. Ribs. Blood.

The scent of it—coppery and thick—hit him hard.

His fangs snapped close to the man’s throat, but he didn’t bite.

He was still from the modern world after all, he couldn’t... He could not kill. He was not used to it. He regained some of his mental capacity upon realising what he was about to do.

He looked at Troy, who was already walking towards him... To finish the job.