The cave was damp, dark, and smelled like mold and old blood. But to Lang Yao, it was the only thing keeping him alive.
He had dragged himself here after escaping the beast tide. Not walked, literally dragged himslef. His legs barely worked, his back was torn open from a fall, and every inch of his skin burned with bruises and dried cuts. The path he left behind in the forest was nothing but streaks of blood and smeared filth.
And worst of all... he still reeked from the dung.
The beast dung he had rolled in to mask his scent clung to him like a curse. Even the flies didn’t want to come near. He had tried rubbing it off with clean soil, but there was only so much he could do with dry dirt and weak arms. His skin had absorbed the stink. It had settled in his hair, his nails, his tongue.
When he finally collapsed inside the cave—an old emergency shelter he remembered from months ag...he thought he might die.
But fate wasn’t done playing with him yet.
On the second day, he woke up with a groan.
His eyes blinked open slowly, and the pain hit him all at once—sharp, burning, and unrelenting. His entire body ached like he had been trampled by stampeding beasts. Which, in a way, wasn’t far from the truth.
His throat was dry, and his lips cracked from lack of water. Hunger twisted his belly like a knife.
He lay there for a while, staring at the jagged ceiling of the cave, breathing through his mouth because the stink on him was still too strong.
"I smell like hell’s asshole..." he muttered hoarsely, coughing.
He tried to sit up and winced.
His muscles screamed in protest. But he pushed through, biting down on his lip hard enough to draw blood.
Lang Yao was a mid-tier awakened. His ability was practically useless in combat—he could mildly heat metal with his hands, a joke in a world overrun with beasts and zombies. But he was still stronger than a normal human. That resilience was the only reason he hadn’t died.
"Damn everyone," he spat weakly.
His voice was dry, and even cursing took effort. "Damn Liora... damn those beasts... damn East River base... and damn that stupid pup!"
He needed to get clean.
Slowly, step by step, he pulled himself up. His shirt was stiff with dried blood. His face felt like sandpaper. He staggered to the mouth of the cave, shielding his eyes against the weak sunlight that filtered through the clouds.
Everything still hurt.
His shoulder was swollen. His ribs felt cracked. But he didn’t stop.
He began walking—if it could even be called that. More like hobbling from tree to tree, groaning, cursing, dragging one foot behind the other like a wounded beast.
The forest around him was quiet.
Even the low-tier beasts avoided him because of the stench.
"Yeah, run away! Smell that? It’s victory!" he hissed at a bird that flew off.
His stomach growled loudly.
He bent down and picked up a mushroom from the forest floor. He stared at it for a moment—wondering if it was edible—but shoved it into his mouth anyway. Bitter. Rubber-like. Probably toxic. He didn’t care.
"Either I die from poison or I die from hunger," he muttered, chewing.
As he walked further, he searched for a river or even a muddy puddle to clean himself.
His anger kept growing.
"How did it come to this? I was a Captain! I ruled East River! I had soldiers, guards, food, women! That bitch—Liora—if she hadn’t—!" he slammed his hand into a tree in rage. Bark cracked. His knuckles bled.
He was still grumbling when his foot hit something soft.
"Damn it!" he growled, kicking back in frustration.
His foot smacked something.
Something that... didn’t feel like a rock or a root.
It was soft—unlike the rigid bite of hard wood or the cold, unyielding surface of stone. Lang Yao narrowed his eyes, suspicion tightening in his chest as he slowly tilted his head downward, gaze sharpening with caution.
A pale hand lay there.
Slender, delicate, unmistakably feminine. The fingers were long and graceful, dusted lightly with dirt, as though they had been dragged through the earth. The skin was fair—almost ghostly under the dim light of large bushes.
He froze, every muscle in his body tensing.
His breath caught in his throat. For a second, he thought it was a corpse—but then he saw the faint rise and fall of a chest under the leaves.
He immediately dropped to his knees and yanked away the surrounding foliage.
A young woman, unconscious and dirty, but unmistakably beautiful—even in this sorry state. Her long hair was tangled with leaves, and her clothes were torn at the edges from a fall. Her skin was pale, but alive.
Lang Yao’s eyes widened with recognition.
Even after everything—even through the dirt and the grime—he knew that face.
"Liora..." he whispered.
At first, he blinked, not believing it.
Then the realization sank in.
She was here. Alone and nconscious. No guards. No base. No shadow monsters. Nothing.
The woman who had stolen his reputation, his base, and turned him into this crawling wreck... was lying in front of him like a gift from the heavens.
A wild, desperate laugh burst from his throat.
He threw his head back and shouted into the sky, his voice echoing through the forest.
"AHHHH!! THE GODS STILL FAVOR ME!"
His eyes gleamed with greed and madness.
"So this is your end, huh?" he said, crouching next to her and brushing a strand of hair from her face with blood-stained fingers.
"No base to hide behind now. No men to protect you."
His voice dropped, venomous and low.
"Let’s see if you still act like a queen when you wake up."
He licked his cracked lips.
Then he leaned closer and whispered, "This time, Liora... you belong to me."