“…I can’t believe it. When something so terrifying happened, when Everly had a high fever and needed you the most, you were damn well holding Rachel’s insurance money and drinking that damn alcohol of yours!”

“What else could I do! It’s all because of that kid—Rachel left me! Every time I see her, I think of my beloved Rachel. If it weren’t for the kid, she wouldn’t have gone out alone by car!”

“Shut up!”

Everly was awakened by the sound of a fierce argument.

Her body ached, her head was dizzy, and her throat felt dry, as if it were being roasted over a charcoal fire. Every breath brought a searing, burning pain.

Everly knew she had a fever. Terrified, weak from being a premature infant, and after that nightmarish evening, she had been trapped in a continuous high fever, at its worst even ending up in the ICU.

During that time, she had woken up a few times, but due to the high fever, her consciousness was never fully clear. She only vaguely remembered that stormy, rainy night, trembling in fear in the darkness for what felt like forever. It wasn’t until dawn began to break that the piercing sound of police sirens finally tore through the endless night, the incompetent police arriving far too late.

The scene was cordoned off, bodies were cleared from the hospital, and only a dozen or so survivors, including Everly, were taken by police to another hospital in a neighboring town for temporary care.

The chaos lasted for a long time. When Everly opened her eyes again, she was lying in an unfamiliar hospital room, her small hand hooked to an IV drip, and electrodes attached to her belly to monitor her vital signs.

Under the meticulous care of the medical staff, Everly was out of life-threatening danger and slowly began to recover. Yet the image of Nancy, her eyes wide open in death, full of resentment and unwillingness, haunted Everly like an unshakable nightmare. In the half-dream, half-awake haze, that figure repeatedly appeared in her mind—standing in the shadows, silently staring at her, as if reproaching, questioning, or offering a wordless invitation from hell. It made the infant’s high fever come and go, never fully subsiding.

Everly breathed painfully, her eyes rolling in their dry sockets, and looked toward the side of the bed. Standing there, arguing, were two men. One was not yet thirty, tall and thin, with mid-length golden—or perhaps white, Everly could not yet distinguish the two—curly hair tied in a braid at the back of his head. Dark, tired circles marked his eyes, giving him a disheveled, artistic air. This was the father of the body she now inhabited, named Shelly.

The other man arguing with him was an elderly figure, his hair completely white, around fifty or sixty years old, tall and broad, with a robust build. When he spoke, his voice was booming and full of presence. Everly had never seen him before, but somehow, seeing his furrowed brow and tightly drawn mouth, she felt an inexplicable sense of closeness deep in her heart.

Perhaps he was a relative of this body…

She let out a small hum and weakly stretched her arm. The sound was barely noticeable, yet it immediately caught the attention of the enraged elder. Seeing that Everly had awakened, he swallowed the curse he had been about to utter, left Shelly behind, and took a few steps toward the bed. He crouched beside her, carefully inspecting her face.

“Poor Everly, it must hurt so much… I’ve already made the call. Once [someone] comes to [help] you, you’ll definitely be fine.” His face remained stiff the whole time, as if he didn’t know how to smile, yet his words came out gentle and tender.

Shelly immediately objected: “I don’t agree! All this [ritual stuff] is nonsense! Put away your old-fashioned ways. In this day and age, people only believe in science. Everly is just too weak—after some more treatment, she’ll recover on her own. There’s absolutely no need to bring in any [rituals]!”

There were too many obscure terms for Everly to understand what they were arguing about. Her physical discomfort also left her with no energy to probe further. However, by nighttime, she came to understand exactly what the old man had meant by “[rituals].”

“Uwaa…” She lay in her hospital bed, blinking curiously at the small old man dressed entirely in black before her. It was the kind of priest robe she had often seen in movies and TV shows, completely different from the black cloak worn by the figure at the hospital that night. The robe’s clean-cut lines and solemn, dignified style exuded gravity and steadiness.

So the old man thought she was possessed and wanted to bring in a priest—or maybe a minister, Everly couldn’t tell the difference—to perform a ritual?

Everly found it rather fascinating.

She carefully studied the little old man in the priest’s robe. He was not tall, barely over 1.7 meters, with sparse, unruly hair that looked almost comical at first glance. Yet when he performed the ritual, his expression was serious.

The little old man held a Bible in one hand, while raising a small bottle of water in the other. Half-closing his eyes, he murmured quietly, reciting words as he moved the bottle in the air above Everly, drawing crosses in a regular pattern. Each time, a few drops of crystalline water fell downward.

Trapped in her nightmare, Everly was awakened by the droplets landing on her forehead.

Cold, but not unpleasant.

“…In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God…”

Everly lay in her hospital bed, listening to the old man recite scripture. At first, her attention drifted for various reasons, but gradually, the baby’s eyes seemed drawn by some mysterious force. They began to follow the priest’s hand, tracing crosses in the air alongside him.

The old man’s movements were slow; each gesture harmonized with the rhythm of the verses, radiating an indescribable sense of holiness and sacredness. His drooping eyes and furrowed brows carried both a mother’s tenderness and a father’s strictness, as if the light around him imbued him with some divine aura. The droplets of holy water falling from his fingertips felt like gentle breezes, dispersing the fog that clouded her consciousness, and at the same time like a heavy rain, extinguishing the endless blaze burning within her body.

She lost track of time. Eventually, the old man closed his book, producing a soft “snap.”

The sound acted like a signal, pulling Everly back from that deeply mystical state. She took a deep breath and realized the weight that had lingered in her chest for so long had somehow disappeared. Her body, once so heavy, now felt light as air.

It was as if… some burden that had clung to her had been removed.

“All done, child. The one following you has now departed. Sleep…” The old man reached out, covering Everly’s eyes with his hand. His palm was warm, carrying a hint of sunlight, and it made Everly feel deeply safe.

Though she had only just woken, Everly felt unusually exhausted. A wave of drowsiness swept over her, and she surrendered to it, closing her eyes. Before long, she drifted into a calm, sweet slumber.

The high fever that had plagued her for more than ten days was dispelled in a way that was… not entirely scientific.

…

The next day, when Everly woke, she felt refreshed and, for the first time in a long while, genuinely hungry.

Her father, Shelly, was absent—probably out drinking again. By the wall, dozing at her bedside, was the burly old man she had met the day before.

The old man didn’t sleep very soundly. The moment Everly let out even a small hum, he would jolt awake from his nap, lean over to check her forehead, then fetch a cup and some formula to prepare her milk.

Perhaps because he frowned often, a deep crease ran between his brows, and even while feeding her, his tightly pressed mouth never curved into a smile, giving him a stern appearance. Yet Everly had a good impression of him—he used warm water, never cold, to make her milk, and after feeding, he would skillfully lift her, pat her to burp, completely unlike her absentee father, who she rarely saw.

John took care of Everly diligently. After the previous night’s “exorcism,” Everly’s body had improved significantly, and she was awake for longer periods. With time on her hands, she would play with her hands while listening closely to John and the people around him.

Although her English was still limited, by listening more, Everly gradually learned that this man named John was actually her maternal grandfather. Over ten years ago, her mother, Rachel, had a falling out with her father for some reason and left home alone to “pursue her dreams.” Since then, she had completely severed contact, not even informing him of her marriage. By the time John heard any news of his daughter again, more than a decade later, it was already too late—the two had long been separated by death.

It was a truly sad story.

Apparently having heard some complaints from Rachel, Shelly was extremely hostile toward John. Whenever they encountered each other at Everly’s bedside, a few words were usually enough to ignite an argument. When John suggested taking Everly to raise her himself, Shelly flatly refused. To dissuade his father-in-law from such a notion, Shelly even went so far as to stay at the hospital for several days, pretending to be a “reformed and devoted father.”

Later, probably realizing that Shelly would never willingly let him take Everly, John left behind a sum of money and carefully hung a simple, old-fashioned cross necklace around Everly’s neck. One early morning, he quietly departed on his own.

Once John was gone, Shelly immediately dropped the act.

By this time, Everly had passed the most fragile stage of her premature infancy, and her illnesses had healed. After consulting the doctors, Shelly gleefully took Everly out of the hospital that very afternoon and brought her to his home in the old district of a neighboring city.

Of course, his joy wasn’t born of genuine paternal affection—it was simply that the hospital bills had been too expensive, and he didn’t want to spend any more money. Once he brought Everly home, he naturally treated her like a hot potato to be pushed aside.

He didn’t have much money, which was evident from the cheap furniture scattered around the house. Although some compensation came from the driver and the insurance company after Everly’s mother, Rachel, died in a car accident, the premature infant had been an expensive patient—most of the insurance money had already been spent in the hospital. To save costs, Shelly didn’t hire a nanny, and all matters relating to Everly—feeding, changing diapers, and so on—were entirely his responsibility.

But that was all he was willing to do. Everything else—turning her over, putting her to sleep, teaching her to speak—Shelly refused to touch. Even bathing her had to wait until her body smelled unbearably; only then would he drag her to the shower with a look of disgust, hoisting her up like a cat and randomly rinsing her under the water.

Apart from these few minimal acts of care, the rest of the time Shelly either sat staring at a photo of his deceased wife, Rachel, drowning his sorrows in alcohol, or holed up in his studio, wildly smearing paint across canvases in the name of “art” that made no sense. As for his own daughter, Everly, he basically followed the “out of sight, out of mind” principle.

Fortunately, Everly had an adult mind inside her tiny body. She had some ability to manage herself—crying when hungry, signaling when she needed a diaper change, and being extra careful not to get too close to the edge of the bed or do anything risky near it. Otherwise, judging from Shelly’s negligence, it was easy to imagine that one day the baby could crawl off the bed and meet a fatal accident.

In short, under her “attentive” father’s care, baby Everly’s life after leaving the hospital was nothing short of a struggle through fire and water.

<< TOC >>

The post Rules Ch.2 first appeared on A Wandering Potato.

“Bang bang! Bang bang bang!”

A series of violent knocks on the door jolted Everly awake from a sweet sleep.

She blinked in confusion. Through the transparent incubator, she stared at the all-white ceiling. Her sluggish brain lagged behind by half a beat before slowly forming a single question: Why would anyone be banging on the door of a newborn ward?

Yes, a newborn ward.

Everly—perhaps she had another name in her previous life, but when she woke again, born into this world, most of her past had already faded. She simply decided to go by the name people around her called her—Everly. She was a premature baby, born from a tragic traffic accident. Her mother, a strong and determined young woman, struggled to give birth to her in the wreckage of a car, but could not survive until the rescuers arrived and lost her life.

All this information she had pieced together from the occasional idle chatter of the medical staff caring for her.

Because she was born over a month early, Everly was physically weak. For as long as she could remember, she had always lain in a newborn incubator.

Except during visiting hours for the infants’ parents, the ward was almost always quiet. Even when babies cried, the sound was soft, barely louder than a mosquito’s hum. After all, most of the children lying here had various health issues.

And now, the long-held silence of the newborn ward was shattered by urgent, aggressive pounding on the door.

“Open the door! Open the door! Damn it, those two little b*tches locked it from the inside!”

“Hey, don’t rush, Frank. Did you forget? The entire hospital is under lockdown—sh—nowhere they can escape…”

“Exactly! Just thinking about—sh—sh—I get so excited—sh… My Lord will—sh—sh—bring terror—sh—hahaha…”

The pounding on the door paused for a moment. Through the relatively soundproof door, muffled voices reached her—snippets of conversation interspersed with malicious laughter and unpleasant curses.

The people outside were speaking English. It wasn’t the language Everly had used in her previous life, so although some fragments of past memory lingered, she couldn’t fully understand what they were saying. She could only sense that something was wrong, and the feeling of unease settled heavily in her chest.

As a newborn, there was very little she could do. She lay on her back in the incubator, struggling to engage her still-undeveloped neck muscles. Slowly, painstakingly, she twisted her head just enough to glimpse toward the ward door.

A newborn’s eyesight was poor. From her distance, all she could make out were two blurry white figures leaning against the door, breathing heavily, their arms and legs trembling.

One of the figures fumbled, holding something in their hands that looked like a phone, tapping it desperately. The voice trembled with despair: “It’s no use, it won’t go through! The signal’s blocked here!”

From the quivering voice, Everly was able to connect this figure with a gentle nurse who often came to check the ward.

“What do we do… we’re dead, everyone’s dead… those—sh—are completely insane! What do we do, Nancy? Help me, I don’t want to die…”

The voice came from another figure next to the nurse. She held her head in her hands, her back arched, like a prey animal cornered at the edge of survival, letting out hysterical screams from her throat.

Everly recognized her as another nurse from the station. She wasn’t assigned to the newborn ward, but occasionally came here to gossip with Nurse Nancy. They got along well, and she had even made faces at Everly across the incubator before.

“Bang! Bang bang!”

Just as the two nurses were sinking deeper into panic, the pounding on the door erupted again—this time with even greater force. The impact made both nurses, pressed against the door, sway back and forth with each strike.

“No, no! I don’t want to die!”

The nurse from the neighboring ward was the first to break down. She abandoned Nancy, who was still desperately trying to make a call for help, and the white figure screamed as she stumbled past Everly’s incubator. Everly’s neck was too weak to turn; she couldn’t see what was happening behind her. She strained her ears, following the sound of hurried footsteps moving backward, until they stopped at the window, which was pushed open with a loud crash.

“No! You’re crazy! This is the eighth floor!”

Nancy reached out in panic, but it was too late—she couldn’t grab anything. A few seconds later, between the next two thuds on the door, Everly heard the faint but unmistakable sound of something heavy hitting the ground behind her.

Thud.

Like a ripe watermelon smashing to pieces, a life ended so simply, so carelessly. Everly’s mouth fell open, and her fragile heart thumped violently in her chest.

What was happening? What could have scared them so much… had a criminal broken into the hospital?

Everly’s tiny brain couldn’t make sense of the situation. Before she could piece it together, a deafening crash rang out. The metal door of the ward, battered by the relentless pounding, finally gave way and collapsed inward under the pressure.

“Ah!” Nancy screamed as she was caught off guard, falling forward to the ground.

“Waa waa waa…” The other babies in the ward were startled by the noise, their tiny cries rising in a chorus of fear. Amid the chaos, four figures cloaked in black entered in single file through the gaping doorway.

The figure at the front was tall and broad, massive like a black bear. He held a gleaming dagger in his hand, his gaze sweeping across the room before quickly locking onto Nancy on the floor.

“Hahaha, little b*tch, keep running—running won’t save you, you’ll end up in our hands anyway…” He sneered, bending down and reaching toward Nancy.

“Ah!”

In the moment of crisis, an unprecedented surge of strength erupted from Nancy’s slender frame. She let out a scream, kicked the black-cloaked figure with her left leg, using the momentum to push him back, then scrambled to her feet and ran deeper into the room.

“F*CK! Little b*tch! B*tch!” The black-cloaked man staggered from the kick, snarled viciously, raised his dagger, and gave chase.

Everly’s eyes widened as she watched the scene unfold. In her heart, she silently prayed for Nancy—‘Hurry, faster, run…’ But tragically, Nancy tripped near Everly’s incubator and fell once more.

This time, luck was not on her side. Everly saw the black-cloaked figure reach her, grab Nancy by the hair with one hand, and slam the small nurse down onto the incubator. By terrible coincidence, it was the very incubator Everly occupied.

Smack!

The impact sent a dull, harsh sound reverberating through the incubator. Nancy’s body blocked the overhead light, and through the transparent plastic, Everly came face-to-face with Nancy’s eyes, wide with fear and despair.

It was the first time tonight that Everly truly saw…

She saw crystal-clear tears rolling down the nurse’s eyes. She saw her trembling lips, opening and closing, silently muttering something. She saw the black-cloaked man raise his hand and drive the dagger into Nancy’s throat. And she saw… a twisted, snake-like strange totem flick past the man’s sleeve as he withdrew the blade.

That totem burned itself into her retina like a brand.

Immediately after, a dark flood erupted from the nurse’s neck, a thick gush that splattered over the incubator and blocked Everly’s view. A newborn’s visual cells weren’t fully developed yet and couldn’t distinguish colors, but even in the black-and-white world she saw, Everly knew—that was blood.

Warm. Viscous. Foul-smelling. Blood that meant life and vitality…

A wave of nausea hit her. She couldn’t bear to watch any longer and squeezed her eyes shut in terror.

Nancy, lying in the pool of blood, soon went completely still. Yet the black-cloaked intruders lingered in the neonatal ward even after ruthlessly killing one nurse. They seemed to be searching for something, splitting up to stop at each incubator, inspecting and lingering over every baby.

“Born in June… June… June…”

One of the cloaked figures stopped not far from Everly. Through the incubator, she could hear him muttering the same words over and over.

At first, she didn’t understand what “June” meant—until the black-cloaked figure circled around and came to her incubator.

A soft rustling sound came as the medical record card hanging on the incubator was flipped. Seeing Everly’s birth information, the cloaked figure exclaimed with delight: “Ah, found her! The baby girl born in June…”

Everly barely had time to feel a sense of dread before she heard the figure toss the record aside, cursing violently:

“Damn it! This incubator is covered in blood! Frank, you barbaric idiot, your head’s only the size of a bullet! I told you not to make such a bloody mess—I hate getting my robe dirty!”

“But you were excited when I killed her, weren’t you?” Frank’s coarse voice shot back.

“Nonsense! I was only satisfied because my Lord is about to get the blood and—sh—”

“Cut the act. You’re just a—sh—!”

Just as it seemed the two were about to start fighting, a third black-cloaked figure hurriedly spoke up:

“Hey, you two, calm down. The mission is important. There isn’t just one baby who meets the requirements. Eli, look—here I’ve found one…”

The figure called “Eli” paused his search, flipping through the incubators. After a moment of thought, he let out a dismissive sigh and stepped away from the blood-soaked incubator.

The sound of footsteps—tap tap, tap tap—echoed as he walked away from Everly’s crib. Not far off, an incubator opened, and the wailing of a newborn broke out again.

The four black-cloaked figures lingered in the ward for a while longer. Whatever their purpose, they selected three babies from the continuous cries, checking their birth month and gender. They wrapped each infant tightly in strange black fabric. Curiously, the babies who had been crying immediately went silent the moment they were swathed in the cloth, not making a sound again.

Over ten minutes later, as if carrying something dead, three of the black-cloaked figures each held a wrapped bundle. They moved swiftly, following the strongest and most brutal of them all—the black bear-like Frank—leaving behind a neonatal ward in utter chaos.

Rumble!

Somehow, a heavy rain had begun outside. Amid the thunder and lightning, the incandescent lights inside flickered crackle for a moment before suddenly going out.

Darkness swallowed the entire neonatal ward. In the dead silence that followed, Everly lay face-to-face with the nurse’s lifeless body. She didn’t know how long she remained there, until the dizziness grew unbearable, and she finally drifted into an uneasy sleep.

TOC >>

The post Rules Ch.1 first appeared on A Wandering Potato.

Wu Heng didn’t hear a word Lin Mengzhi was saying. It was only after he landed that he realized something had appeared above his head—something that really didn’t fit his usual image.

Before anyone could wax nostalgic about days gone by, the group crowded around Wu Heng, pressed him down, parted his hair, and began studying the thing’s appearance and growth mechanism.

Wu Heng squatted on the ground, feeling as if countless lice were crawling over his scalp.

The flower bud’s stem drooped downward, suspending a small bulb. The folds were faint; both the stalk and the bud were covered in tiny soft barbs.

“The thorns are soft!” Wu Zhi exclaimed in surprise.

“It kind of looks like the head of a Venus flytrap,” Shen Ping’an said.

Ruan Silian glanced at the bud on Wu Heng’s head, then at Shen Ping’an. “Why don’t you have a flower bud?”

Propping himself up on his knees and bending forward, Lin Mengzhi said, “The main body is inside Wu Heng. Shen Ping’an’s functions might not be that complete.”

“Poppies can be used medicinally. If it’s a mutated poppy, maybe it can even relieve pain—I can smell it,” Chen Meng said as he stretched his arm into the middle, about to pluck it.

“Get lost—grow your own flower if you want one!” Wu Zhi shoved Chen Meng away hard.

Wu Heng sat on moss that had already lost all its moisture, his expression blank. “We’d better determine our direction of travel first.”

After he spoke, he pulled out a map from somewhere. It wasn’t an old pre–apocalypse map—it was new.

“Where did this come from?” Lin Mengzhi sat down on the spot.

Wu Heng slowly unfolded the map, his gaze dark and unreadable. “The class monitor just stuffed it into my hand.”

There had once been rumors at their school about seniors changing their university preferences for the sake of early romance. Most people sighed that it wasn’t worth it, loudly condemning lovestruck foolishness for ruining one’s future. Wu Heng had always been indifferent to other people’s affairs, let alone judging choices that didn’t affect him.

But now, deep in the dead-silent primeval forest, Wu Heng felt that his own situation wasn’t much different from those students in the rumors—both had encountered, in their lives, a weight on the scale that could be weighed against their future.

It was strange. He hadn’t even managed to successfully take a single bite of Xie Chongyi.

How could that person make him feel so reluctant to let go?

Could it be that he, too, was like Shen Ping’an? That there was something wrong with Xie Chongyi’s blood? That he, too, would turn into an insect?

“A’Heng, what are you spacing out for? Are we really here?” Lin Mengzhi pointed to a red mark on the map.

Ruan Silian had tied up her hair. She didn’t have any special abilities, so she couldn’t see clearly like the others. The ground beneath the tree canopy was already pitch-dark, impossible to see even an arm’s length ahead.

“…There are words here. The green dot in the northwest corner is Kuhuang. We’re heading to Yaozhou—either crossing the river or passing through the primeval forest,” Shen Ping’an said, scanning their surroundings. The dense, dark shrubs were taller than a person. Ferns grew intertwined among them, and the tree trunks resembled impenetrable walls.

He pressed his palm to the ground. Vines sprouted and curled up behind everyone, forming a temporary, small safe zone so they could confidently plan their next moves.

“Are there really savages in Shenjian?” Lin Mengzhi read the words clearly and stroked his chin. “Do savages eat people? What do they turn into after mutating? Super savages? How are we supposed to deal with them?”

Wu Heng snapped out of his daze, lowering his eyes, looking calm and quiet.

“They’re just legends. Although ancient texts record them, there’s no direct evidence proving the existence—or past existence—of savages. No hair, fossils, or images. So I don’t believe savages exist.”

Wu Zhi didn’t understand. “I don’t think savages exist either.”

Lin Mengzhi still insisted, “Then are all those rumors baseless?”

“Then you can go into the mountains and check for yourself,” Shen Ping’an said, lowering his head. “For now, look at the map first.”

Everyone leaned over the map. Doctor Chen came too, but the others held their noses and pushed him away.

“It really stinks!”

“Doctor Chen, do you need to pee? Go ahead then.”

“Doctor Chen will keep watch nearby.”

Wu Heng held the map. “The first place we’ll pass through isn’t Shenjian—it’s Yunling. After that comes Shenjian. Shenjian is bigger, but the danger level of Yunling and Shenjian should be about the same.”

“The geographic location of Yunling makes it inherently challenging. Although Liu Ning didn’t specifically emphasize it, Yunling—before the apocalypse—served as a boundary in multiple domains: geography, culture, cuisine, climate, and more. If you’re interested, we could go straight through Yunling, and you’d clearly feel the contrast in climate.”

Ruan Silian and Shen Ping’an both nodded.

Lin Mengzhi looked confused. He leaned over and tried to spread the map. “Is it really written in such detail?”

“…No, it isn’t.”

“‘The Great Barrier of the World’ refers to Yunling,” Ruan Silian said, tracing her finger over the map. She couldn’t see clearly, but she could vaguely distinguish a few differently shaded areas.

“Maybe we’ll encounter giant pandas, crested ibises, or takin,” Shen Ping’an added.

“Go, go, go! Let’s go through it! Tomorrow we go!” Lin Mengzhi didn’t understand all the species, but he knew what a giant panda was.

Shen Ping’an replied flatly, “If it’s a mutated giant panda, eating us would probably be no more difficult than chewing peanuts.”

Wu Zhi exclaimed with delight, “That would still be so cute!”

Wu Heng remained motionless. “But we’re still over ninety kilometers from Qinling. Walking twenty kilometers a day, it’ll take five days to reach the foot of Yunling.”

“Preliminary estimates suggest the earthquake hasn’t shifted the mountains. Yunling has multiple entrances. Once we arrive, the closest point is Kuyongkou. We could cross directly south, about forty to fifty kilometers,” Wu Heng analyzed calmly. “But that’s based on pre-apocalypse conditions. The map only gives a rough outline. The area and length haven’t changed, but what the terrain looks like now, or what creatures inhabit it, we won’t know until we go in.”

“Right now, we could head west to nearby towns or counties, find a car—or buy one—and drive along passable roads into Yunling. That would save us a lot of time,” Wu Heng rolled up the map. “Also, we’ll need to prepare more supplies.”

X flew above Lin Mengzhi’s head, circling. After pressing down on his hair, it seemed ready to sleep.

The others stood up as well. Shen Ping’an adjusted the straps and waist belt of his backpack, tightened the water bottle, and fastened his cap.

X, which had already been sitting, suddenly stood up. It stretched its neck in one direction, spread its wings, and remained motionless.

Something rustled through the shrubs.

A sharp tearing sound cut through the air.

Lin Mengzhi’s fireball had just appeared in his hand when Wu Heng swatted it away. He quickly muttered, “Burning the mountain will land you in jail,” and a huge green leaf appeared above his head.

The leaf looked soft, but it radiated a hard, icy sheen.

Bang! Bang! Crackle! Crackle!

After a series of explosive sounds, the disturbance outside ceased. X poked its head out.

“Wow!”

The entire bird toppled from Lin Mengzhi’s head. A spiky chestnut embedded firmly into its feathers, its sharp points piercing through.

Vines had crept along the ground, and with a loud creak, a thunderous rumble came from above—a lush chestnut tree had fallen beside them.

“It’s safe now,” Wu Heng said, retracting the leaf shield. He walked to the fallen chestnut tree and stomped on a chestnut. The spiky shell split open, revealing a nut barely the size of a peanut.

“So tiny,” Lin Mengzhi said, hugging a pitiful X closer. “Can’t eat it.”

Shen Ping’an added, “Too dry, no moisture. Hardly any chance for it to grow well.”

“Why use such a sympathetic tone? It just tried to kill us!”

“Maybe it’s also a form of new biodiversity,” Wu Heng remarked calmly.

Stepping over the fallen canopy, Lin Mengzhi and Wu Zhi bickered loudly. Shen Ping’an responded to each of their remarks, while Doctor Chen stank unbearably—being put into a pocket dimension made him much more bearable than having him around. Wu Heng walked at the front, clearing the path, with Ruan Silian following behind.

Shadows flickered throughout the forest. The scent of plants had never been so strong—dry, bitter.

Passing through them felt as though countless eyes were watching from all sides.

Wu Heng raised a branch of a tall tree, letting Ruan Silian pass first, then set it down.

“I actually can’t protect you either.” His voice was low, drowned out by the chattering behind him, but Ruan Silian happened to hear it.

A faint smile appeared on Ruan Silian’s face. “Being by your side is safer than being with the others. It’s my own choice. If the judgment is wrong, it’s not your fault.”

“Why do you say that?” Wu Heng asked, looking at the vast, dense forest, uncertain when they would find a way out. He didn’t understand how Ruan Silian had reached that conclusion.

“Because I feel from you that rules exist to serve people,” Ruan Silian said, wiping the sweat from her face with the back of her hand, smiling gently. “When the subject becomes the rules themselves, everyone is in danger.”

“So, rather than saying I follow you, I’m following a concept. I hope that everyone can be happy, joyful, and safe.”

Wu Heng held a juvenile chestnut. Without peeling the shell, he tossed it into his mouth. It was soft, sweet.

After chewing, he nodded. “Mm. You’ve tried.”

Branches and leaves constantly brushed overhead. After walking a long stretch, Wu Heng paused slightly, calmly raising his hand to touch above his head.

The bud was still there.

Last time, he had pulled the sprout straight off. This time, he didn’t dare.

He had promised to give the first blooming flower to Xie Chongyi. If he couldn’t produce it when they met, the other would get angry.

—

“Stop watering it! If you overwater it, where are you going to find another one?” Xue Shen took the water bottle from Xie Chongyi’s hand. “Everyone else needs water, and you’ll turn a whole pot of flowers into mush.”

The plastic flowerpot was missing a chunk. The soil was damp, water spilling over the rim. The central green sprout was barely half an index finger tall—thin, fragile, and incomparable to its true body.

Xie Chongyi grabbed the water bottle back and poured the remaining water straight onto the sprout. The poppy seedling collapsed under the heavy flow.

“…”

“Childish,” Xue Qi commented from the side.

“You don’t want him to leave, you could just say so. Why blow up instead of talking?” Xue Shen said, carrying Xue Qi—who had changed into clean clothes—over to the bed.

When he turned back, Xie Chongyi was holding a flowerpot, bent over, pouring the water out the window.

Childish. Pointless.

The collar of Xie Chongyi’s uniform was half undone. After emptying the excess water, he placed the pot on the windowsill and said lightly, “If he did it only after I told him, no point.”

“If you don’t tell him, how would he know?”

“If he’s interested in me, do I even need to tell him?”

“…Then you just wait and see if you can get a grand wedding.”

Xie Chongyi’s eyelashes flickered. He used his fingers to prop the tiny sprout that had fallen into the mud. “You noticed?”

“It’s written all over your face.”

“You can already see it, and he still wants me to say it,” Xie Chongyi said plaintively, struggling to hide his frustration. “And he said I was lacking love?”

“Aren’t you?” Xue Shen sat at the desk, writing his work log as usual.

“That’s not the same thing,” Xie Chongyi replied. He took a toothpick, stuck it into the soil next to the sprout, plucked a hair, and carefully tied the sprout to the toothpick.

Watching this, Xue Shen knew there was no hope—his friend had always been stubborn and unreasonable.

Leaning over his desk, Xue Shen wrote a few lines, then paused, sighing: “Colonel Xie would be relieved to see you finally wearing this uniform.”

The boy’s uniform buttons were undone, sleeves rolled up. His stray hair partially covered his dark brows, and he said coldly, “Just for now. This outfit is easier for walking.”

Xue Shen pretended not to notice the coldness in his friend’s eyes and continued: “At this pace, the zombie tide might take over half a month to end. Then we continue on to Jingzhou. Wu Dian and Sheng Jiang are bringing Professor Ye, so they won’t move fast.”

“Professor Ye still has to bring his students and their loved ones. In short… it’s troublesome,” Xie Chongyi said, leaning against the window. He realized he hadn’t taken Wu Heng to meet Professor Ye yet.

Xue Shen added, “Dou Lu cried all night and hasn’t eaten. Before she goes to bed later, remind her to eat. If she doesn’t, it’s fine—she’ll eat when she’s hungry.”

“Teacher Ying really needs someone to pay more attention to him. He’s far too capable of causing people to turn on each other for no reason. Knowing everyone’s dark side and successfully amplifying it is genuinely a terrifying ability,” Xue Shen shook his head in awe, then couldn’t resist teasing Xie Chongyi. “You’re probably more easily provoked than before—you’ve just been through heartbreak.”

Xie Chongyi shot Xue Shen a displeased glance. “He didn’t reject me.”

Xue Shen had already turned away, muttering under his breath, “Maybe worse than a rejection.”

Footsteps echoed behind them. Following the sound, Xue Shen saw that Xie Chongyi had already left the room, and the door closed behind him.

…

Xie Chongyi left the inn and made his way to the outer city of Kuhuang.

Mo Xie’s supernatural protective barrier still stood, so the guards didn’t need to intervene personally. They only needed to take turns keeping watch to ensure no undead slipped through.

As Xie Chongyi crossed the barrier, his presence triggered the zombie tide into frenzied howls, all of them rushing toward his location.

A faint, almost ethereal long sword appeared in Xie Chongyi’s hand. When he swung it, the blade’s radius extended dozens of meters. Zombies fell in waves, the ever-pushing tide seemingly cleaved by some massive force.

Carelessly, Xie Chongyi swung a second strike. His face, cleaned just last night, now bore fresh streaks of blood from somewhere, making his expression all the more indifferent.

A shadow leapt into the air.

Caw!

A mutated zombie, growing multiple arms, sprang from the horde. Its mouth dripped with slime, and its dark fingers clawed viciously toward a human neck.

Xie Chongyi sheathed his blade, not even using his supernatural ability. Instead, he picked up a chipped iron sword lying on the ground. It was clearly a weapon forged by the Kuhuang base—heavy, crude, and ill-suited for combat, meant only for hacking at unresisting zombies.

Yet in Xie Chongyi’s hands, it moved as lightly as a world-renowned sword. He gripped the hilt and, with astonishing speed, struck at the mutated zombie. The three arms on its left side were cut down in unison, blood spraying like hot wind.

The zombie lunged, snapping its jaws at a human neck. Xie Chongyi remained expressionless. With a metallic clang, the tip of his sword pierced the zombie’s shoulder blade.

The zombie felt no pain, but its movements were instantly restrained, and it reared its head, letting out a guttural roar.

Xie Chongyi leaned closer. The sword’s hilt spun in his hand as the blade sank further. Against all odds, the blade bent slightly inside the zombie’s body, cutting through its neck and straight into the skull.

He released both sword and zombie at the same time.

Only after the zombie collapsed did Xie Chongyi turn back toward the protective wall. Yet, a sense of gloom lingered. His mood hadn’t lifted an iota.

He leaned against the base’s wall, rough plaster falling onto his shoulders and epaulets. He didn’t bother brushing it off, squinting thoughtfully. Perhaps this is what growing up feels like.

—

At dawn, the group trudged through scattered dew onto a mottled road. In their view lay several zombie corpses sprawled across the ground.

They had initially been still.

Sensing the scent of food, one emitted a weak growl, propping itself up and looking around frantically.

“Snap!”

Lin Mengzhi and Shen Ping’an both retracted their blades, discarding the rotting heads in their hands and quickly absorbing the energy cores from the skulls.

“Where to next?” Lin Mengzhi asked.

“A few kilometers west is a small village,” Wu Heng replied, using vines to search the roadside cabins. He found nothing inside, but behind one cabin stood a wild apple tree, laden with fruit—small, shriveled from lack of water.

When the poppy dragged out a broken tree full of red fruit, the others jumped in surprise.

“Eat,” Wu Heng said, tossing the tree into the middle of the road, in a tone like calling a dog to dinner.

Before anyone could react, he proceeded to throw out biscuits, milk, dried red dates, and an entire bucket of bottled water, one by one.

“Eat,” he repeated, in the same commanding tone.

Lin Mengzhi broke some small branches and laid them across the relatively clean road, arranging the food on top. “I’m starving to death here!”

“Smells… kind of okay,” he said, picking up a bag of biscuits and sniffing it. The expiration date was fine. He tore open the package—inside was the scent of milk, but no actual flavor. The flavor, it seemed, was all on the outside.

“Doctor Chen is in the pocket dimension!” Wu Zhi shouted.

In Wu Heng’s hands was a neatly cut slab of bear meat, roughly ten kilograms. He placed it flat on a large leaf and sliced it into pieces about half the size of a fist, then divided it between himself and X for a shared meal.

The others knew Wu Heng was a carnivorous plant, so they weren’t surprised. Instead, they focused on eating heartily.

Although they still didn’t have a roof to shield them from wind or rain, the oppressive, controlled feeling of the base was gone. They could go wherever they wanted, level up while fighting monsters, and—most importantly—decide for themselves how to proceed next.

Wu Heng ate three large pieces of meat, one of which was wolf meat, along with a few slices of bamboo shoots.

Afterward, with supplies provided by Wu Heng, everyone washed their faces and brushed their teeth.

No one wanted to put their personal items back into Wu Heng’s pocket dimension, afraid they would carry a scent.

Shen Ping’an stretched nearby, performing a few warm-up exercises. Lin Mengzhi mimicked him for a moment and declared loudly, “When we reach the village, I’m taking a proper shower—stinking with sweat all over!”

Wu Zhi bit into a sweet, juicy wild apple and gazed down the bend in the road.

“Brother, someone’s coming.”

The wobbling figures appeared—it was obvious without needing to guess. But there wasn’t just one zombie; several teams streamed forward in sequence.

X, fully fed, flapped its wings. It leapt from Wu Zhi’s head, spreading its wings to cover the entire road, slashing lazily at the zombie horde. Realizing that a horizontal cut wouldn’t kill them, it drew its wings in and began stepping on their heads with its claws—one foot, one zombie—sending dirty blood flying. The energy cores within the zombies released power in streams into X’s body.

Proudly, it flew back to Wu Heng to claim credit. But Wu Heng noticed a streak of red tangled on its claw.

Vines crawled down from Wu Heng’s shoulder, pulling the object from the bird’s claws.

Unfolded, the dirty cloth revealed a flag, with the characters “Anxi” written on it.

Wu Heng’s eyes flickered. These zombies had come from Anxi—they were the third batch of survivors Kuhuang was set to take in.

Ruan Silian stood at Wu Heng’s right and said softly, “There was probably an accident on the way. They were wiped out.”

Wu Heng rolled up the flag. Before he could do anything else, a crying sound came from across the road—helpless, terrified.

A small zombie. A girl. Two messy little braids swung back and forth behind her head.

“Waaah—waaah—waaah—waaah—waaah—waaah—waaah—”

She stretched both hands forward. Her hollow gray‑yellow eyes were threaded with bloodshot veins. She could actually speak, though the words were slurred and broken.

“I wanna go… Kuhuang… find… doggie… doggie… waaah—waaah—waaah—waaah—waaah—”

She cried like a ghost wailing, rising and falling, sticky and drawn-out.

Shen Ping’an stopped stretching and walked toward the little girl.

“Wait,” Wu Heng called to him. He strode over and crouched in front of the small zombie. She immediately tried to pounce.

The boy pressed a long, slender finger against her forehead.

“Do you know how to get to Kuhuang?” Wu Heng asked, slipping the rolled-up flag into the knitted teddy-bear pouch hanging from her neck.

“Hooh hooh… Kuhuang… doggie…”

Wu Heng took a small notebook out of his canvas bag. Wu Zhi pointed at the little zombie and threatened, “Don’t move, or I’ll scoop your brain out right now!”

Tearing out a page, Wu Heng wrote a few words on it, folded it twice, tied it with an extremely thin vine into a little bow, and placed it into the zombie girl’s pocket.

He smiled softly—so faint it was almost imperceptible.

“Go find your doggie.”

The little zombie’s body stiffened noticeably. She sniffed, continued her low sobbing, and then shuffled forward.

“Hooh hooh… Kuhuang… class monitor… miss you… waaah—waaah—waaah—waaah—waaah—”

<< _ >>

The post Eaten Ch.111 first appeared on A Wandering Potato.

“Yeah, keep bragging.” Lin Mengzhi clutched his head in agony. His childhood friend was completely clueless, and judging from his personality, he might stay single for life. His answer had no reference value whatsoever.

Inside the room, countless black hands extended from the walls, pinning the weeping, hysterical guards—some even banging their heads on the floor. Mo Xie leaned against the sofa and asked seriously, “Teacher Ying, why did you attack the guards of our base?”

Ying Liuquan put on his glasses, resting his fingertips against the frame and gently nudging it upward. His eyes were calm. “Why does Mr. Mo think this is an attack?”

“What does Teacher Ying think he is doing then?”

Ying Liuquan couldn’t help recalling his past. Sweat that had yet to dry slid down his gaunt brow and fell. He spoke sincerely: “Perhaps you’ve heard of psychological therapy? In truth, this is more like repairing the most fragile part of a human being.”

Mo Xie swallowed. “Making them kill themselves—you’re calling that repair?”

Ying Liuquan listened to someone quietly sobbing behind him. His own eyes brimmed with tears as though he shared their pain. He said softly, “Since they are beyond saving, it’s better to end their suffering sooner.”

There was almost no smile left in Mo Xie’s eyes. Unrestrained, he scrutinized the young man before him, weighing the nature of the other’s ability—mind reading? Psychological interference? In this vast world, nothing was too strange to exist. Their base wasn’t without ability-users of similar types, though they were nearly non-offensive and gentle as water.

But someone whose ability only harmed and offered no healing effect at all—this was his first time encountering one.

“And what about you? You yourself—you seem,” Mo Xie implied, “in a great deal of pain.”

Ying Liuquan shook his head lightly. “Someone in this world has to be the executioner.”

“A sacrifice?”

“You’re making me sound far too noble,” Ying Liuquan replied modestly. “I only end their suffering. I cannot give them happiness. I suppose… I’m merely an imperfect corrector of this world.”

After a long silence, Mo Xie finally chose to pierce through the façade. “You seem to be making yourself sound even more noble.”

“Mr. Mo, that is merely your personal standard.”

As soon as he finished speaking, a dark shadow appeared behind the young man. Like a ghostly hand, it wrapped directly around his neck, yanked backward, and forced him to fall against the sofa, staring upward.

Mo Xie’s voice came from across the room. “I only need you to write a complete report, Teacher Ying. Your ability should not be used to harm our own people.”

Ying Liuquan gently clasped the shadow with his fingers. The gas-like entity that no one else could even perceive was firmly held in his hand.

“At high places, the cold becomes unbearable, Mr. Mo. You are undoubtedly a successful man—even now. Yet loneliness and solitude have been gnawing at you, unceasingly.”

“You—”

The shadow dispersed. Mo Xie stepped onto the coffee table, his strong fingers gripping the throat of this boastful geography teacher.

“Enough.” Mo Xie lowered his gaze, his heart utterly still.

Ying Liuquan’s level wasn’t high, and his technique was crude—easy to counter. Yet compared to physical or psychic attacks, being pried into like this offended someone like Mo Xie far more deeply.

Ying Liuquan blinked. “Alright then, poor lonely bachelor. Do you have wine here? I could have a drink with you—and chat a bit.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Mo Xie let go. His figure dispersed like black smoke in front of Ying Liuquan’s eyes and reappeared in his original seat, settling into a more relaxed posture. “Go wake up your two students.”

“Why?”

“Because as of now, I don’t believe a single word you say.” Mo Xie held his glass of water and chuckled softly.

Ying Liuquan stood up and smoothed his clothes. In a low voice he said, “Human suffering is sometimes a matter of fate, and sometimes the result of their own stupidity. Mr. Mo, do you think you are the former… or the latter?”

After speaking, Ying Liuquan left the office. The two people waiting outside immediately approached him.

“Mr. Mo wants the two of you to go in and talk.”

“Teacher Ying, how did you know Liu Ning is a man?!”

Ying Liuquan narrowed his eyes slightly. “I was just strangled in there.”

“Uh-huh, and how does that make you know Liu Ning is a man?”

“When your teacher has just suffered a brutal and barbaric ass*ult, you—”

A sharp pain stabbed through Lin Mengzhi’s mind. He originally wanted to say, ‘I’m not even a student from your school, I’m a pure civilian,’ but he suddenly found himself unable to speak. His body swayed. “Sorry, teacher.”

Before Ying Liuquan could continue speaking, Wu Heng punched him square in the face. The young man staggered, his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed onto the floor.

Beside him, Lin Mengzhi shook his head violently, stumbling like a drunk for several steps. He slurred, “A’Heng, why did you knock out Teacher Ying?”

“If you want to set yourself on fire, I can wake him back up for you.”

Lin Mengzhi rolled up his sleeves. “Should I give him another punch?”

“Just go inside first.” Wu Heng stepped over Ying Liuquan, and Lin Mengzhi lifted the teacher, propping him seated against the doorframe.

“Please sit,” Liu Ning said calmly. Two fresh cups of water had already been poured on the coffee table.

—

“Tell me then—why did you kill someone?”

Lin Mengzhi was about to speak, but Mo Xie smiled and said, “Your teacher already gave an explanation for you. But there were two children…”

His gaze landed on Wu Heng’s face. “You killed them.”

Wu Heng nodded slightly, admitting it without hesitation. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Aren’t you human? Why treat your own kind like—” Mo Xie paused, thinking. “When you killed those two children, what were you thinking?”

Wu Heng had barely given the matter any thought. He rewound the memory back to the moment it happened before he remembered what he’d been thinking then. His eyes lowered, his expression gentle. “I just don’t agree with your base’s system.”

“So killing is how you express that?” Mo Xie was genuinely surprised by this answer—there wasn’t even the slightest attempt at justification.

“Everyone has their own way.”

“I know what those kids did. But their crimes weren’t punishable by death. And even if they were deserving of death a thousand times over—do you have the authority to execute them?” Mo Xie looked at the two boys before him. One had the unmistakable look of a troublemaker—thick brows, bright eyes, practically a spark away from having his hair stand on end. The other was thin and quiet, like a mayfly on water that would die if the sunlight grew the slightest bit brighter. Yet paradoxically, it was the latter who gave him an immense sense of danger.

“Execution authority?” Wu Heng’s eyelids twitched. “Do you have it?”

“Of course.”

“Then so do I.”

Lin Mengzhi’s education was limited. He worshiped his childhood friend, but only one phrase appeared in his mind: shameless beyond belief.

“No,” Mo Xie chuckled. “You don’t.”

Wu Heng understood what Mo Xie meant. He lifted his gaze and looked straight at him, eyes calm. “I will.”

Mo Xie casually spread his hands.

“See them out.”

Lin Mengzhi, who had been holding in his words for a long time, finally spoke. “You’re just letting us go? No firing squad?”

This time, Liu Ning spoke. She stood behind the sofa. “You’re people brought in by Wu Dian. Even if you had killed for no reason, we don’t have the right to punish you. Besides, this situation is understandable.”

Her true gender having been exposed for no reason, Liu Ning’s attitude had shifted sharply. Her tone carried a faint mockery. “Inviting you here was only for the sake of recording a report. There was no need for such hostility. Greeting us with a ‘gift’ like that the moment we meet—this time Mr. Mo was in a good mood. Keep acting this recklessly, and dying young will only be a matter of time.”

“Please.”

Having just been scolded by the “goddess” he’d only known for a day, Lin Mengzhi couldn’t lift his head. When he finally did, his childhood friend was already gone.

Wu Heng hefted the unconscious Ying Liuquan over his shoulder and leapt directly out the corridor window.

Below, intertwined vines and leaves formed a giant hand to catch them.

The boy walked slowly out of the building, lifting his eyes toward the distant glow, brilliant as gilded gold.

From Mo Xie just now, he had inexplicably felt a shadow of Wu Shiming. Yet the former had to be far better than the latter. Still, when facing themselves, the roles they played were nearly identical.

“Why?”

“Reason?”

“Explain.”

Why was he standing here, carrying someone who had nothing to do with him on his shoulder? Ying Liuquan was always causing trouble. He could have easily silenced the chatterbox forever, yet he had only knocked him out—and even remembered to take him along when leaving.

He had almost never killed anyone without reason. He had endured countless beatings filled with mockery, suffered hunger no ordinary person could withstand. Yet he still, barely, counted as a good kid.

So why was there always someone sitting across from him asking why? Why did he always have to justify his actions? Why were the rules made by others while he could only obey? Why was he always the responder, the executor? Why couldn’t he be the one asking questions—or the one in charge?

He had no interest in power. He just wanted to sit at a sunlit dining table and eat properly. That was all.

But until today, he had repeatedly been questioned, even offended, by people who had nothing to do with him. His original wish had never been fulfilled.

As his eyelids fell, the lingering light in Wu Heng’s eyes disappeared.

Ying Liuquan crashed heavily onto the ground. At that moment, Lin Mengzhi had just chased out the front gate. A thick vine, as sturdy as a Roman column, wrapped its branches and leaves around his childhood friend’s body, retreating underground and vanishing from sight.

—

Xie Chongyi was dozing inside a truck’s cargo compartment. He was alone inside, while guards passed by continuously. Xue Shen and the others were seated under the shade of a nearby tree.

The ground cracked open, and slender vine tendrils tore through the earth, bringing Wu Heng back to the surface.

Wu Heng climbed directly into the truck.

In an instant, Xie Chongyi’s eyes snapped open.

Their eyes met. Xie Chongyi’s gaze held a faint trace of amusement, though the corners of his mouth didn’t lift at all. He scanned Wu Heng from head to toe, then returned his attention to Wu Heng’s face.

Wu Heng stood at the far end of the truck, silent for several minutes, not moving a step forward. He stood in the dazzling light and shadow, sweat beading densely on his neck like a glistening net, which only made the paleness and gloom of his face more pronounced.

Xie Chongyi gradually sensed that something was off. He straightened up slowly, abandoning his relaxed lean against the truck wall. “What’s wrong?” The boy stood up as he spoke.

Wu Heng’s eyes followed Xie Chongyi’s movement. Xie Chongyi approached and first touched his face—both sides—then his head, his neck, and both arms. The bugs’ senses told him the boy wasn’t injured, but bugs were still just bugs; they couldn’t tell him why Wu Heng was unhappy.

Putting aside his earlier anger, Xie Chongyi leaned slightly closer. “Not speaking? Who b*llied you?”

“No one,” Wu Heng said hoarsely.

He was here to take Xie Chongyi. He didn’t want to wait any longer.

After taking Xie Chongyi, he would leave with Lin Mengzhi and Wu Zhi, then, like Mo Xie, claim a city for himself, take over a building and an office, with one assistant—or rather, two, a man and a woman—behind him. Every day, a few people would come to report, standing beneath him to be judged.

“Then what’s going on?” Xie Chongyi placed his palm on the back of Wu Heng’s head, running his fingers through the hair and curling a handful into his palm, gently forcing him to lift his head.

Wu Heng’s expression remained calm. “Class Monitor, I don’t want to go to Jingzhou anymore.”

Xie Chongyi froze. His fingers instinctively relaxed. When he saw Wu Heng wince from the slight pressure, he immediately let go and rubbed the roots of his hair.

“Why? Did someone from Kuhuang say something to you?”

“No,” Wu Heng said, looking straight at Xie Chongyi.

“Then why? Give me a reason.” Xie Chongyi narrowed his eyes. He felt at a loss for words—his own injury had muddled his thoughts. The boy in front of him had delicate bone structure supporting a ghostly face. He had left less than an hour ago, and now he returned only to say he wanted to leave again. Had he been unkind to him? Of course not. It was simply that Wu Heng had no conscience.

Wu Heng had wanted to say he had no reason, but Xie Chongyi was not Mo Xie—he had a little more patience. His gaze lowered. “Why go to Jingzhou?”

Xie Chongyi instead smiled. “What did you want to do at first?”

“Class Monitor, come with me.” Wu Heng lifted his eyes again, his calm now tinged with a curious intent as he made the invitation.

Though he knew Xie Chongyi would surely refuse—he was the same type as Wu Dian and Sheng Jiang—Wu Heng still asked. He had already figured it out; otherwise, Xie Chongyi would have traveled lightly from Hanzhou instead of taking them along.

“Where do you want to take me?”

“I don’t know.”

Xie Chongyi studied Wu Heng for a long moment. Then he stepped back, like an invisible knife cutting a chasm between them. “Be careful on the road.”

Wu Heng quickly grabbed him. “You make me very uncomfortable.”

“I’m uncomfortable too.” Xie Chongyi pushed against Wu Heng’s shoulder, but the truck wall was hard. He immediately pulled him back. The instant Wu Heng collided into his chest, a crack opened in his heart, and his anger flared.

Wu Heng’s eyes widened as he watched Xie Chongyi’s features magnify before him. He had never realized that expressing discomfort could be done through a kiss.

Instinctively, he sank into Xie Chongyi’s scent. His indulgent, heedless enjoyment—regardless of time, place, or circumstance—infuriated the other completely.

Xie Chongyi trailed a kiss along the corner of Wu Heng’s lips to the barely visible lower lip, teasing with the tip of his tongue against his teeth, while his hands mercilessly kneaded Wu Heng’s waist. Wu Heng’s body went soft, like a snake.

Wu Heng’s tongue had been bitten, tingling and throbbing, even bleeding. Xie Chongyi swallowed the blood-stained saliva and slowly let him go.

“Tell me—what did Mo Xie say to you?”

Moisture glistened on Wu Heng’s lips. His fingers unconsciously pressed against the pulsing veins in Xie Chongyi’s neck, and his heart raced.

“I want to go somewhere where only I make the decisions.”

He wanted to do whatever he pleased, even casually grabbing someone on a walk and putting them in his mouth, without anyone forcing him to give reports.

“…Just for that?”

“Yeah, more or less.”

“Your wish can be realized,” Xie Chongyi said, feeling along Wu Heng’s healing neck, “but first, I have to go to Jingzhou.”

Wu Heng nodded in understanding. “Your mother is in Jingzhou.”

Xie Chongyi gave a slight nod. Then he lay down on the mat with Wu Heng. His voice sounded casual, almost offhand. “But I have to remind you—no matter where you go, no matter how supreme your power is, in the course of human development, everyone is treated the same. You are no exception.”

Wu Heng buried his face in the crook of Xie Chongyi’s neck. “I know.”

Wu Heng carried a lot in his heart, but the things he kept inside didn’t affect his sleep or appetite. Once he had answered, he fell into a deep, steady sleep.

Xie Chongyi lowered his gaze. His eyes were clear. Wu Heng was not skilled at expressing himself—or even accurately sensing things—a protection mechanism his body had built from childhood. It had its advantages and disadvantages.

So the boy, coming back and immediately insisting on leaving, had likely been wronged by Mo Xie. And this kind of grievance wasn’t even inflicted deliberately; the other person never cared for human emotions.

Xie Chongyi found he couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t let Wu Heng leave, and he certainly couldn’t let him go off to face the world alone.

—

It was past ten o’clock at night. The survivors from Shisanhe, who had only just been settled today, were mostly asleep. The long journey and the administrative procedures had worn them out so much that they hadn’t even taken a walk around the base; even the feeling of hunger had been pushed aside for the moment.

Of the Outer, Middle, and Inner Cities, the most regular in terms of schedule was the Inner City. There were no ability users to worry about, no stress from failing to level up, and no torment from the leveling process itself. Base workers entangled in Outer City affairs fared far worse—the last lights in the Outer City usually stayed on until dawn.

A slow, dragging footstep echoed through a quiet alley in the Middle City. Judging from the silhouette, it was a long-haired girl. She wore a white nightgown, and a gray tail, almost hairless, trailed from the hem to the ground.

She walked a short distance and stopped in front of a door.

“Knock knock.”

The door opened. It was the woman who had lost her daughter and son earlier that day. Her eyes were half-blinded from crying, and she squinted at the visitor through the haze. Her voice was hoarse. “Who is it?”

The girl held out a bottle of water. “My condolences.”

At these words, more tears welled in the woman’s reddened eyes. She accepted the water and said thank you repeatedly.

The girl had distributed much of the water she hadn’t finished herself. It would go to waste otherwise—better to give it to those who needed it, and it might even save lives.

Meanwhile, Wu Heng and the others were still working at the base entrance.

Night temperatures had dropped significantly compared to the day, and the condition of the survivors in Xingli was even worse than those in Shisanhe. Xue Shen said that Xingli was nearly a hundred kilometers from Kuhuang, and in this weather, just being able to catch one’s breath while traveling was already fortunate.

“Didn’t Dou Lu go back to the hotel?” Lin Mengzhi asked, curious, “I thought she was done for the day.”

Next to him, Xue Shen replied, “She did go back, but when she heard the Xingli survivors had arrived, she came back on her own.”

“Isn’t Anxi almost here too? I remember it’s closer to Kuhuang than Xingli,” Lin Mengzhi glanced back. The jungle behind them was pitch-black, eerie and unsettling.

“Anxi is small but densely populated. The Kuhuang guards said this afternoon that several evolved zombies had appeared over there. It’ll probably take until the day after tomorrow for them to arrive,” Xue Shen replied.

Wu Heng didn’t join the conversation. He remained silent, scanning and releasing people—scan, release, scan, release.

At most, he would glance at Xie Chongyi, who was the farthest from him.

The two of them had argued that afternoon and then made up, but something felt different—ever since rest time, they hadn’t really spoken.

At that moment, a figure suddenly appeared at the back of the group. Upon landing, he strode quickly toward everyone—it was Wu Dian.

Even before he arrived, his voice carried ahead.

“The zombie tide is coming. Speed up. The base gates will close in three minutes.”

<< _ >>

The post Eaten Ch.100 first appeared on A Wandering Potato.

A phrase flashed through Qi He’s mind: third evolution.

But an ice-type ability mixed with poison… was that even possible?

Up ahead, Mo Jiayan squatted down and poked at Gong Lianyu’s motionless body.

“How can an ice-type ability contain poison? He’s probably just frozen numb. Huh…? You’re still warm.”

Everyone: “……”

Gong Lianyu wailed in grief, “I’m not dead yet!!!”

Xia Jiu pressed his chin thoughtfully and examined him for a few seconds.

“There’s indeed a trace of toxin, but it’s harmless to humans. More like… paralysis?”

All eyes immediately turned toward Yan Chuanbai—

Yan Chuanbai stood nearby with his hands in his pockets, silent for a few seconds before saying evenly, “It’s probably the result of a third evolution.”

“Third evolution!?”

A chorus of shocked voices followed.

Everyone who had been crowding around Gong Lianyu suddenly turned to him.

“So that means you’ve reached 4S-level!?”

“Why would an ice-type ability evolve to have a paralysis effect?”

“Brother Yan! Say something, Brother Yan!”

Meng Yan, startled, blurted out, “Is this also… one of your body’s mysteries?!”

The noise died instantly.

“?”

Qi He: “……”

System: [……]

The bizarre phrasing made Yan Chuanbai glance sharply at Qi He beside him. Then he said calmly, “I just evolved, so I’m not sure yet. Let’s deal with Gong Lianyu first.”

…Deal with?

Gong Lianyu’s eyes went wide with tears. He wriggled on the ground with a pat pat sound.

Everyone’s attention returned to him.

“How do we deal with him? Is there an antidote?”

“The paralysis will wear off on its own. Otherwise, just leave him.”

Gong Lianyu: “Wuwuwahhh!”

Yan Chuanbai stood leisurely to the side, offering no further comment.

In the end, it was Yu Tianxing who couldn’t stand watching any longer. He laughed awkwardly, “Ahaha,” and called out to Yu Jiang:

“He tried to sneak food for himself and got poisoned. Can your Purification ability detoxify him?”

Yu Jiang blinked, then seemed to understand. “Sneaking food… causes poisoning.”

She added, “I can.”

Then she picked up a cup of water and poured it into Gong Lianyu’s mouth. Amidst a series of gurgling, bubbling sounds, the toxin slowly dissolved away.

—

Over there, Yu Jiang was still pouring water.

Standing at the back of the circle, Qi He lowered his eyes in thought. Theoretically, this didn’t quite make sense. And Yan Chuanbai had said that his latest evolution was different…

As he thought about it, he turned to look at Yan Chuanbai.

Yan Chuanbai sensed his gaze and turned his head toward him: “?”

Qi He stepped closer, leaned in by his ear, and looked up at him quietly. “What else?” he asked in a low voice.

Yan Chuanbai turned slightly, their profiles almost overlapping. “What?”

“Your third evolution—it shouldn’t just be ice laced with poison.”

“Mhm.” The tail of his tone lifted slightly, as if he understood something. He leaned in a little closer, his voice softer, “After the dinner party’s over…”

His breath brushed against Qi He’s cheek, carrying an undertone that hinted at something deeper.

Qi He tilted slightly to the side.

His lashes lowered, and Yan Chuanbai’s turned face blocked the light from his eyes; from an outside view, it almost looked like the two were touching foreheads…

Suddenly, a loud glug-glug and a choking sound burst out:

“Wahlah! Stop—wah!”

Qi He turned his head and saw Yu Jiang jerking her gaze away from their direction, startled, then quickly looking back at the sprawled Gong Lianyu. The stream of water she’d been continuously pouring into his mouth finally stopped. Her cheeks flushed pink. “Sorry.”

Gong Lianyu finally regained movement and sat up as if resurrected.

Water was still dripping from Gong Lianyu’s chin as he looked at Yan Chuanbai with pitiful, wounded eyes.

“You really have nothing to say to me?”

Yan Chuanbai replied, “Get some rest.”

Gong Lianyu’s face softened a little.

Yan Chuanbai added, “And when you’re done, clean the floor.”

Gong Lianyu: “……”

Yan Chuanbai finished speaking, turned around, and went back to preparing food.

The people in the living room exchanged looks of admiration mixed with amusement. Some even let out a faint sigh of relief.

“Now that’s more like it—that’s our Brother Yan.”

“Him not talking like a normal person—it’s so much more righteous that way.”

Qi He withdrew his gaze and said to the system, “See? That’s how a reputation is built.”

[……]

—

Yan Chuanbai was still the same Yan Chuanbai.

That realization seemed to relax everyone except Gong Lianyu, and the atmosphere at the dinner became even lighter.

All the dishes were set on the table, and everyone began to eat.

Yan Chuanbai sat down beside Qi He.

Qi He had just taken two bites when he heard the man next to him ask, “The stew—today’s version is modified. Which one do you think is better?”

It took him two seconds to recall the late-night meal from before. “Each has its own charm.”

The people around the table sensed something and looked up: “?”

Yan Chuanbai turned slightly toward him. “Which one do you like more?”

Qi He looked down at the food before him.

“The one you redeveloped.”

Yan Chuanbai nodded once. “Alright.”

The others, now clearly noticing the exchange, fell silent for a second before resuming mismatched, awkward small talk—yet their eyes kept drifting toward the two of them, as if hoping to glean more information.

Behind her bowl, Yu Jiang’s bright eyes flickered—‘If you don’t eat now, it’ll go cold… Which one do you like? The one you once made for me…’

Her hands trembled slightly.

‘So! Why aren’t you two back together yet?!’

And so, the dinner—filled with unspoken thoughts—finally came to an end.

Everyone lingered for a while after dinner, then began to leave one after another.

Having “come back from the dead,” Gong Lianyu strode up to Qi He, snapped his fingers with a loud “pop!”, and said breezily:

“Heading off now~ Mind lending me your power again? Half an hour should be enough for me to sprint back to Base II.”

Qi He could only marvel at how quickly he forgot his lessons.

…

Once everyone was gone and the door clicked shut, Qi He remained standing in the entryway.

Night had fully fallen outside. The lights in the living room were off; only the row of lamps above the kitchen counter was still on, casting a soft glow.

Yan Chuanbai had just finished clearing the dishes and was drying his hands.

Qi He paused for two seconds, then walked up to him.

“Can you tell me now?”

The gentle overhead light shone down on them, their shadows overlapping across the narrow walkway behind the counter. Yan Chuanbai looked at him—and suddenly curved his lips into a faint smile.

“?”

Before Qi He could react, something tickled at his ankle. His eyes widened slightly—then, in the next instant, something tightened sharply around it. A quick pull—

He lost his balance for a split second but managed to catch himself, slapping a hand down on the counter!

At the same time, Yan Chuanbai moved in, closing the distance.

His hands came down on either side of Qi He with a bang. He lowered his gaze, smiling.

“Now you get it?”

Qi He followed his line of sight downward.

In the shadow between their bodies, several vines had wrapped themselves around his ankle, sending a faint numbing sensation through his leg. And while he’d glanced down, his wrist—resting on the counter—had also been quietly ensnared.

He was effectively trapped, caught between Yan Chuanbai and the counter.

Qi He lifted his eyes, meeting Yan Chuanbai’s gaze from only inches away.

The truth dawned on him—Yan Chuanbai’s third evolution wasn’t merely a deeper development of his ice-type ability.

It was—

“Dual abilities.”

Yan Chuanbai laughed, low and pleased. “Mm.”

Qi He tested his fingers—they could still move.

Then he released a burst of force! The vines binding him snapped apart, only for new ones to whip forward and coil around him again in an instant.

The sensation wasn’t unpleasant. On the contrary, it carried a strange sort of freshness, almost fascinating.

He had already grown familiar with most of Yan Chuanbai’s moves, but now—there was something new, something unknown waiting to be uncovered.

Yan Chuanbai seemed to catch the look in his eyes. “You like it?”

Qi He met his gaze—those dark eyes were as dangerous and alluring as the vines winding around his wrists.

His throat moved unconsciously. “Yeah.”

Yan Chuanbai’s eyes darkened, the vines tightening slightly…

But Qi He had already drifted into thought.

Yan Chuanbai’s ability had long been in a suppressed state, so it had never been entirely stable. It must have been earlier today that his second ability was triggered.

And as luck would have it, when Gong Lianyu stole from him at that exact moment, he ended up copying traits from both abilities.

As for why the vines carried a paralyzing effect—

It was likely because of the earlier infection from the mutant vines, combined with his near-death experience that led to his third evolution. The two events overlapped by coincidence, resulting in dual abilities.

——He knew it. For the “male lead,” having only an ice-type ability was way too simple.

While he was lost in thought, a faint constriction crept around his waist—

Qi He blinked back to the present, realizing more vines had silently coiled there. Yan Chuanbai stood in front of him, clearly testing—or teasing.

Qi He exhaled softly. “Too tight. Loosen it.”

Yan Chuanbai seemed to pause for a moment.

Then Qi He felt the trace of toxin on his skin being drawn away—the vines obediently relaxed their hold.

Qi He: “?”

The toxin could… be reabsorbed?

He glanced at Yan Chuanbai. “Then why didn’t you just suck the poison back out of Gong Lianyu?”

Yan Chuanbai straightened up, looking utterly unbothered.

“He deserved a little lesson. Besides, doesn’t he eat everything anyway?”

“……”

Qi He nodded, equally untroubled. “Fair point.”

The mystery behind the ability had been solved.

Seeing that it was getting late, he said a brief goodbye and left.

Outside, the elevator was rising toward his floor.

The system finally spoke, sounding dazed:

[…Yan Chuanbai actually has dual abilities? Doesn’t that make him even stronger? No, wait—but you’re a concept-type…]

Ding! The elevator doors slid open.

Qi He stepped inside and said simply, “A fight will tell.”

—

The next morning, daylight streamed in bright and clear.

Qi He sat up in bed, stared blankly for a few seconds, then reached for the Little Genius smartwatch beside him. With a click, he folded it back into its original spherical form and rolled it between his fingers.

The system was spun dizzy. [What are you doing? Have some respect—stop fidgeting with me!]

Qi He said, “Congratulations on defeating the main program. You’re completely free now.”

The system’s tone turned smug.

[Hmph, that is—]

“But since you’re disconnected from the main program, your remaining energy probably won’t last very long.”

Click. The system froze.

[Then what should I do!?]

“Don’t worry. I’ve got a solution.”

Qi He stroked its smooth surface.

“When I dissected that flying zombie’s brain and found a crystal core, I figured—since those serve as energy sources in this world, they should also be able to power you. Maybe even repair your interface.”

The system was silent for a beat—then furious:

[You—you knew all along! And you still made me stay broken!?]

Qi He replied, calm as ever, “If you were fixed, how else would I exploit the bugs?”

[……]

The system opened its mouth to curse him out—but after recalling the pile of dog-shit that was its main storyline, it changed tack instead:

[Hmph. Forget it.]

Qi He got out of bed and walked toward the desk. “Alright, alright. I’ll make it up to you with a new look. What kind do you want?”

The system, appeased almost instantly, answered with a proud little tone:

[Something cool. Handsome, even.]

He spread a sheet of paper across the desk.

After tapping the pen a few times, Qi He quickly sketched out a concept and folded the page neatly. “I’ll go to the lab later and ask Yu Tianxing to hook you up with an energy source—maybe tweak your appearance while we’re at it.”

The system’s view was blocked by his hand.

[What kind of ‘tweak’?]

Qi He stood up, answering with certainty:

“The most handsome one in the world.”

With that, he grabbed the system and headed to the research institute.

—

Third floor of the research institute, laboratory.

Yu Tianxing, dressed in a white lab uniform, was sitting inside, examining a new piece of equipment when someone knocked on the door.

Qi He walked in.

For a moment, Yu Tianxing’s thoughts blurred—the last time Qi He had entered this room was right after a devastating battle…

A few steps later, Qi He was standing before him.

Yu Tianxing pulled himself out of his reverie. “What’s up?”

Qi He plunked the spherical smartwatch onto the table with a clatter.

“My Little Genius watch ran out of power.”

“……”

S-rank researcher Yu Tianxing blinked. “What?”

Qi He continued calmly, “I’ve saved up a bunch of crystal cores from past missions. I want to use them all as its energy source.”

Across the tabletop, the glossy surface of the sphere shimmered faintly, like a ripple of light passing beneath it.

He pulled out the folded design sketch and handed it over.

“And while you’re at it, give it a new exterior. Shouldn’t take much material.”

Yu Tianxing stared for several seconds, processing this, then accepted the papers.

He turned the device over in his hands, confirming he’d never seen anything quite like it—curiosity sparking in his eyes.

“Ah—no problem. But it might take a little time. Want to leave it with me for now?”

The system was startled: [!]

Qi He noticed and said to it, “There are no missions now — you can detach from me for a while.”

[……]

“You can’t… or you won’t leave me?”

The system stiffened its voice: [A-as if! Of course I can!]

Qi He smiled in satisfaction. “Then there’s no problem.”

He handed the system to Yu Tianxing and was about to leave when the latter suddenly added,

“By the way, the training room is still under reconstruction. But we set up another one next door — just for you and Yan Chuanbai. No instruments or equipment inside; all the materials are made to take a beating.”

Yu Tianxing smiled. “You get what I mean, right?”

Qi He: “……”

He reassured him, “We won’t go break anything else.”

Yu Tianxing’s expression brightened again. “Good~ Take care.”

The lab door closed behind him.

Qi He stepped into the corridor. There were no classes today, and the system was off being upgraded. As he was wondering whether to pick up a mission, his communicator suddenly chimed.

He took it out and saw a message from Yan Chuanbai:

“Sixth floor training room.”

“Want to test my new ability at full power?”

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Author’s Note:

Qi He: Hit me with everything you’ve got!

Yan Chuanbai: cling cling cling cling cling… prprpr. [kisses]

Qi Qi is the strongest; Yan “Roast Chicken” is working hard to catch up!

Only the strong deserve to capture all of Qi Qi’s attention

<< _ >>

The post Run the Plot Ch.47 first appeared on A Wandering Potato.

However, the things these beastmen focused on left Song Wenlan both amused and helpless. Many of them fixated on details that would never pass review.

[The position the author wrote about, I’ve never tried before. I’ll give it a shot tonight.]

[Even though there are still misunderstandings between them, I can tell that Bai Ye really does love Hu Sanli.]

[It’s clearly just a simple bunny costume, so why does it feel so exciting to me?]

[I got hooked on this book because our young master recommended it. It’s really well-written. I’ll never say novels are boring again.]

Under this comment, there were a lot of people chiming in.

[Our young master is so innocent. I just saw his neck turning red.]

[Hey, the young master can see these comments too!]

As soon as that was said, the comments above immediately vanished.

Song Wenlan, who happened to see that comment: ……

So that’s what it was—turns out they all belonged to the same tribe. Song Wenlan could practically picture a little young master with a flushed neck, going around eagerly promoting her book.

It was actually kind of cute. Song Wenlan smiled quietly.

Of course, some readers also noticed the special footnotes Song Wenlan had added.

“Note 1: Gas stove, a kind of cooking appliance. Food is the god of the people; culinary culture is one of the most important aspects of human culture.”

“Note 2: White Snake, a traditional folk love story. White Snake is a white serpent who cultivated for a thousand years. To repay Xu Xian for saving her, she marries him. During the Dragon Boat Festival, White Snake drinks realgar wine and reveals her true form, frightening Xu Xian to death. To save him, White Snake steals the immortal herb lingzhi, and in the end, she successfully brings him back to life.”

As for the story of White Snake, Song Wenlan hadn’t written it out in full—she only chose a section that was related to her content.

After all, that drama had so many episodes. If she wrote the whole thing, would she even have time to write her own story?

Even so, those two footnotes still sparked heated discussion among the readers.

Some focused on food.

[“Food is the god of the people”—these words feel so weighty. Maybe the author will include more dishes later in the story. I’m really looking forward to it!]

[In our interstellar era, we don’t have any of those delicious, tempting dishes. It’s always just nutrient packs and more nutrient packs.]

[My friends, actually, the interstellar does have vegetables. Blue Star has always cultivated them. But vegetables are too rare and too expensive. My entire year’s salary is only enough to buy a single leaf. I’m so jealous of Hu Sanli and Bai Ye in the novel—vegetables are actually so cheap there.]

Seeing that comment, bitterness rose in Song Wenlan’s face as well.

She had searched the Blue Star cultivation base listings before: a lettuce the size of a palm cost one hundred thousand interstellar credits.

And she herself was penniless.

Who knew when she would ever achieve food freedom?

Of course, compared to food, the audience discussed White Snake even more.

[Why did White Snake have to marry Xu Xian just to repay him? Couldn’t she have chosen another way?]

[I think Xu Xian doesn’t deserve White Snake’s love at all. Just seeing her true form scared him to death.]

[What kind of place is the underworld? The worldview of this story seems fascinating too. Author, when will you write White Snake’s story?]

Even when Song Wenlan went to find the Meng Xingchong, its first question was this very one.

“Author Zao Si, would you be interested in writing the story of White Snake? I could talk to the chief editor and apply for an A-level contract for you.”

Looking at the very first line sent from the other side, Song Wenlan felt a little helpless.

It seemed this editor really was a devoted reader of hers—her story hadn’t even been out for long, yet he had already finished reading it.

But on this matter, Song Wenlan made her stance very clear.

“White Snake isn’t my original story. I don’t have any intention of writing it out.”

Of course, if she really wanted to, she could write it. With the existing storyline already there, the money would be easy to earn.

But no matter how many stories she wrote, Song Wenlan firmly believed that original work was original work. No matter who else tried to write it, it would never capture the feeling of the true creator.

Besides, she wasn’t lacking stories of her own—so why should she go and write someone else’s?

This was Song Wenlan’s pride, and also her bottom line.

The Meng Xingchong quickly replied:

“Then… would you be able to recommend the original author? I was just asking casually. If I’ve offended you, I apologize.”

“The original author has already passed away,” Song Wenlan answered directly, cutting him off before he could keep asking. “That work is also lost. If I ever manage to find it, I’ll let you know.”

“That really is a pity.” The Meng Xingchong sounded regretful, but he also knew the real purpose of today’s conversation.

He quickly sent over a B-level contract to Song Wenlan:

“Author Zao Si, please take a look and see if there are any issues. If you have other requests, you can let me know as well.”

After receiving the contract, Song Wenlan carefully began to read through it.

The terms at Insect Literature Novel Website were extremely generous. Aside from the 70/30 revenue split between author and platform, there was also a full-attendance stipend of five thousand interstellar credits every month.

Most importantly, even after signing the contract, the copyright still belonged to the author. Later on, if the work was adapted into film, television, or animation, the platform would only take a small fee.

It was rare to see a contract where the author still held the copyright after signing, and this point struck right at Song Wenlan’s soft spot.

“No problem. It’s just that my current identity is a little special—I can’t appear in public. Can I sign the contract under my brother’s name instead?”

The Meng Xingchong hesitated for a moment.

But he also understood that if he refused, the other party might not sign at all.

Being quick on his feet, the Meng Xingchong immediately agreed:

“That’s fine, but you’ll need to sign a guarantee agreement yourself.”

“Alright.”

Soon, Song Wenlan received the guarantee agreement. In black and white it stated: the author must not write content inciting the masses or threatening interstellar peace, nor any remarks that smeared particular races, and so on.

Song Wenlan signed swiftly, then took the contract to Xisha for his signature.

Her timing was just right—Xisha hadn’t left for work yet.

When he saw the contract, he was a little surprised.

“You actually managed to get a contract?”

“Of course. If I wasn’t confident I could make money, how would I have dared to promise you?”

Song Wenlan said with a bright smile.

Xisha choked for a moment. “I hope you can keep up that confidence.”

He glanced down at the contract and happened to see the book title.

My Demon Hunter Arch-Nemesis.

Xisha thought the title of the book was very strange, but since he had no curiosity about such energy-wasting novels, he had no intention of reading it.

He quickly signed his name in the required places, patted Song Wenlan on the shoulder, told her to keep working hard, and then hurried off to the basement to work.

The Meng Xingchong, upon receiving the contract: It was signed just like that?

The surprise came so suddenly that the Meng Xingchong couldn’t help but pat his own face with his wings.

Feeling the faint sting of pain, he pursed his lips, glanced around, and secretly broke into a smile.

<< _ >>

The post Writer Ch.14 first appeared on A Wandering Potato.

Amid the eager anticipation of the unmarried youths of the snake clan, the clan leader finally emerged, holding his scepter.

Looking around, he saw that compared to last year, there were even more young people present, and he couldn’t help but show a satisfied expression—especially when he noticed Fengxing obediently sitting to the side, which reassured him even more.

“Today is our snake clan’s annual matchmaking gathering. Everyone knows what this gathering is for, so I won’t say much about that. Instead, I’ll explain the process for today.”

The clan leader’s voice rang out loud and clear.

The snake youths all perked up their ears.

“As in previous years, the first event is the hunting activity, where you’ll be ranked according to the amount of prey you catch.”

The female snakes nodded. No matter how the matchmaking process changed, they still needed to find a mate who could provide for them.

Of course, some female snakes were strong enough to support themselves, so they didn’t care much about a male’s hunting ability and instead relied on their sense of personal connection.

“This year, that activity will continue as usual. But before that, we’ll be holding a small event.”

At this point, the clan leader cast a meaningful glance at Fengxing.

Fengxing looked blank, not understanding why his father was staring at him like that while speaking.

Under his son’s innocent gaze, the clan leader smiled slightly—and sold him out completely.

“Everyone knows my son usually has no interest whatsoever in matters of romance. Yet today he has actually come to the matchmaking gathering. Aren’t you all curious about this?”

The moment he finished speaking, both male and female snakes shouted in unison:

“We are!”

“Clan Leader, what do you know?”

“Was it you who forced Fengxing to participate?”

The moment Fengxing heard his father mention his name, he had a bad feeling. Now, seeing how things were playing out, how could he not realize the old man was up to no good?

He might be simple, but he wasn’t stupid.

He also had the ability of perception—of course he knew just how heaven-defying this power was. As long as the old man wanted to know something, there was nothing that could escape him.

Thinking of this, Fengxing immediately lunged at his father, trying to cover his mouth.

“Father…”

But his speed was nowhere near enough to match his father’s.

The old man easily dodged his son’s sneak attack, then continued:

“I only found out today myself—my son changed his attitude and developed the desire to start a family because of a book he read.”

The clan leader’s words made everyone’s eyes widen.

No one had expected that answer.

In fact, everyone in the snake clan knew that Fengxing liked to read, but they had seen those romance books before too—nothing special.

Fengxing had been reading them for years, and yet he never showed up at past matchmaking gatherings.

“This particular book is newly published. Fengxing only read it recently. Its title is My Demon Hunter Arch-Nemesis.”

While dodging Fengxing’s attempts to attack him, the old man went on:

“So, the very first activity of our matchmaking gathering will be to read this book and hold a reading and discussion session.”

With the clan leader’s words, the matter was completely settled.

Chasing after his father was useless now. Fengxing could only stand there awkwardly, his whole face burning red with humiliation and anger.

Yumo glanced at his good brother with quiet sympathy. He wanted to help, but there was nothing he could do.

It was fortunate that Song Wenlan wasn’t here. If she were, and heard an old man publicly announce the title of her book and then demand the entire clan read it, she might have felt even more embarrassed than Fengxing. She could probably dig a castle into the ground with her toes.

As soon as the clan leader said the book’s title, one of the quick-acting female snakes had already searched it up.

“I’ve found it—huh? This book just updated?”

Her voice wasn’t loud, but the word updated was far too sensitive. Both Fengxing and Yumo immediately caught it.

Fengxing and Yumo: !!!

The author who had been missing for so many days had actually updated?!

Fengxing leapt up at once and turned to run toward his room.

“I need to read the new update!”

But his dear father casually waved a hand and clamped down on his neck.

When Fengxing turned his head, he saw his usually stern father wearing a kindly—no, sinisterly kindly—smile.

“Read it right here. Perfect—you can share your thoughts with everyone after.”

Fengxing thought back to where the author had left off: the rabbit disguise, the brutal interrogation…

He couldn’t stop himself from covering his face.

Father, do you really not want your son to survive in the Baimiao Star System?

Thankfully, Song Wenlan hadn’t written too much this time.

She had only briefly described Bai Ye, bound tightly with ropes, unable to move no matter how he struggled. In his helplessness, he could only agree to Hu Sanli’s request—that she spend the New Year with him, going back home together.

But this kind of half-veiled, teasing description, in Fengxing’s eyes, was even worse than if she had just written it all out in detail!

For the first time, Fengxing realized that leaving things vague could actually be even more exciting than spelling them out.

Just imagining it was enough to know how delicious Bai Ye must taste… No! He couldn’t even let himself think about it!

Fengxing instantly forced his brain to shut down and quietly glanced around at the clansmen nearby.

He saw them all absorbed in the book, their faces showing expressions of either worry or surprise. Some of the faster readers were even imitating the poses described in the story as they discussed them with others.

Gradually, more and more people joined in the exchange.

Fengxing: shocked.jpg!

Wait—are my clansmen really this open?

“Face reality. In our clan, someone like you who hasn’t had any nightlife is actually very rare.”

Yumo quietly came over to Fengxing’s side, reading his expression and offering “comfort.”

“You mean you’ve had it before?”

Fengxing’s question shut Yumo right up. He hadn’t either.

“I just haven’t found the right one yet, it’s not that I don’t want to,” Yumo muttered. Then he changed the subject: “Anyway, before, the author always updated one full chapter after another. But now she only released two thousand words before stopping. I think she’s about to sign a contract.”

“Sign a contract?” Fengxing’s eyes lit up. “Then there won’t be a lack of updates anymore?”

“There won’t,” Yumo confirmed, “but don’t get your hopes too high. On the days when she updates ten thousand words, do you really think that feels like a lot?”

Fengxing understood what Yumo meant. He was right. With the way the author wrote, unless she updated straight through to the ending, they would always feel it wasn’t enough.

Waiting for updates was sheer torment!

Fengxing let out a long sigh as he looked at his clansmen, his eyes full of envy.

They were so lucky—just opening the app and the author had updated!

But from now on, they would have to suffer through the agonizing wait for new chapters together with him!

Thinking of this, Fengxing actually felt a sense of balance in his heart.

Just as Yumo had guessed, after Song Wenlan updated those two thousand words and reached the signing threshold, she planned to contact Meng Xingchong to sign a contract.

But before leaving, she glanced at her book and noticed that her bookmarks had suddenly increased by nearly a hundred, and comments were also starting to rise. Judging from the content, it seemed they were from some kind of beast clan.

<< _ >>

The post Writer Ch.13 first appeared on A Wandering Potato.

Between the lines of Meng Xingchong’s words there was only one meaning: as long as Song Wenlan was willing to write, they could sign the contract even if her current word count wasn’t enough.

This was an editor willing to bend the rules for a good story.

That was Song Wenlan’s first impression of Meng Xingchong; her second was that he was clever.

She was only two thousand words short of the required count. Anyone who had seen her updates knew two thousand words was nothing to her — she could make it up in a day after signing.

So Meng Xingchong wasn’t handing out freebies; he was showing an attitude.

Song Wenlan smiled and exited the message.

She wouldn’t reply right now — she’d finish the remaining words first, then respond.

After leaving her private messages, Song Wenlan began reading the novel’s comments.

The moment she opened the novel page she was startled by the current stats.

There were over seven thousand bookmarks — nearly eight thousand!

How many had there been when she last stopped updating? It seemed like only a few dozen.

Song Wenlan felt a little baffled. How had the bookmark count exploded like this?

After studying it for a few minutes she pieced together what had happened, and when she understood she couldn’t help but laugh and cry at the same time.

Who would have thought?

All she’d done was miss one update, and because those readers couldn’t see new chapters they felt aggrieved and actually went to the forum to draw in more readers!

Now the comments under the book were all begging for updates.

[Author, I’m a “star thief” — if you don’t update soon I’ll come rob your drafts box.]

[Author, I can’t sleep. I want to see the next plot. Can you still sleep?]

[Got drawn over here by a forum post. Even though I now know it was a scheme by the old readers, I’m still glad I found this book. So… does that make me a shameless person?]

Of course, what made Song Wenlan happiest was realizing from these comments that readers seemed quite receptive to the concept of the demon race.

Some readers remarked that the demon race felt like a fantasy species but was interesting. Others said the book’s background felt rather ancient, with many elements like antiques, which made it fun to read. However, one of them admitted he didn’t quite understand what a gas stove was.

Seeing that, Song Wenlan once again felt that adding annotations was definitely necessary.

After reading through all the comments, she was full of motivation as she opened her author’s backend and began writing the continuation.

At that moment, within the net-insect community—

Meng Xingchong stared at the chat window with a tangled expression.

What did it mean that Great Zao Si had read his message but not replied? Did she not want to update? Or not want to sign the contract?

Or perhaps… she already had an editor she wanted to sign with?

Meng Xingchong glanced furtively at his colleagues. They were all connected to the light-brains with their silken threads, none showing any unusual reaction.

Great Zao Si probably hadn’t signed with any editor yet, Meng Xingchong thought. If she had signed with him, he’d definitely be so excited he’d be jumping around.

And so he fell into another round of inner turmoil.

The only good news for him was that Great Zao Si had finally shown up. Maybe, just maybe, he’d see an update soon!

Meng Xingchong knew Song Wenlan had logged in to her author account, but Fengxing and Yumo didn’t.

They were busy attending a matchmaking gathering in the Snake Clan.

Before the gathering began, all the unmarried men and women of the Snake Clan gathered at the chief’s house, waiting for the chief to announce the event.

When Yumo appeared, no one was surprised. Ever since he’d first felt the stirrings of springtime desire, he had attended the matchmaking gathering every single year.

His presence was something the tribe was already used to.

But what shocked them was that the chief’s son—Fengxing, who had always resisted marriage—had shown up as well!

The young snakefolk who came couldn’t help glancing at Fengxing.

Among the male youths of the tribe, Fengxing was a formidable rival.

Setting aside his status, even just his hunting ability alone was something few could surpass.

The young men looked at Fengxing, and a spark of competitiveness began to burn in their eyes.

The young women, on the other hand, were more focused on why Fengxing had come.

Could it be that he already had someone he liked?

The female snakefolk swarmed, but not toward Fengxing—they crowded around Yumo instead.

As for why not Fengxing, his cold face said it all: the words “keep your distance” were practically carved onto his features.

Yumo, on the other hand, looked much more approachable.

Still, Yumo had already promised to keep Fengxing’s secret. No matter who came asking, he wouldn’t say a word. All he would tell them was that Fengxing didn’t have anyone he fancied yet, so anyone interested could give it a try.

Not only the young women—even the tribe chief himself was curious about the change in his son.

And so, Yumo was directly summoned to the chief’s side.

The stern old man sat at the highest seat. His long blue-green hair was gathered into a small braid. His eyes were narrow and, when slightly arched, gave him the look of someone not to be trusted.

Yumo faced the chief’s pressuring gaze and spread his hands helplessly.

“Chief, I really can’t say. I promised Fengxing I’d keep it a secret. Why don’t you go ask your son yourself?”

“It’s fine, you don’t need to say.”

The old man moved swiftly to Yumo’s side, gave him a smile, and quickly grabbed his arm.

Yumo was startled, but immediately realized what the chief was doing.

This branch of the chief’s lineage had a special ability of perception.

No matter what they touched, they could sense past events—before the chief, no secret could remain hidden.

Fengxing had never used this ability on him, so Yumo had let his guard down.

Before Yumo could pull away from the chief’s grasp, the old man had already let go, his face curling into a smile.

Because of his features, even his smile looked sinister.

“So that’s how it is. Why be embarrassed about this? Mating and reproduction have always been major matters in the tribe.” The old man spoke unhurriedly. “We beastmen have never shied away from such things. It’s only humans who look at these instincts with strange eyes.”

Yumo curled his lips. He didn’t care about opinions on humans; he only cared about one thing.

“Chief, this is something you found out yourself—it wasn’t me who said it. If Fengxing comes asking, don’t pin it on me,” Yumo quickly clarified.

“I know, don’t worry. Do you really think I’m someone who doesn’t understand the rules?” the old man replied helplessly.

Yumo muttered under his breath, “You understand them, sure… but you never exactly follow them.”

“All right, enough muttering there. Go on back—those beautiful young ladies are waiting for you.”

The old man waved him off.

Once Yumo had left, the chief began to think.

It was just a novel, yet it had such great power—enough to awaken that slow-witted son of his. If he spread this novel throughout the whole tribe, could it perhaps bring about better results for the tribe’s reproduction?

<< _ >>

The post Writer Ch.12 first appeared on A Wandering Potato.

It was seven days later when Song Wenlan once again logged into her account.

During those seven days, she had done absolutely nothing, so idle she felt like weeds were about to start growing on her.

Go out and play? Impossible! The radiation outside wasn’t something a fragile human like her could resist—Song Wenlan had no desire to turn herself into some mutated creature.

Besides, on this whole junk planet, aside from Xisha, there wasn’t a single other living being who could breathe.

In Song Wenlan’s opinion, Xisha was even more extreme than people with social anxiety.

People with social anxiety just locked themselves in their rooms to avoid socializing, but Xisha? He went so far as to buy an entire planet to completely cut ties with society.

It wasn’t as if Song Wenlan hadn’t considered helping Xisha with work. But when it came to physical strength, she couldn’t compare with the robots; when it came to skill, she couldn’t compare with the robots; and when it came to precision, she was even further behind the robots.

In the end, with no other options, Song Wenlan could only ask Xisha for some harmless metal and start doing handicrafts.

Handicrafts were a hobby she had developed back in the modern world.

In the spare time she had left after writing, Song Wenlan would do crafts to pass the time.

Whenever she finished making something, she would take photos and post them on social media. Over time, she gained some fans and became a moderately popular craft blogger.

Of course, another reason she liked handicrafts was because she could think about her story while working on them.

And in fact, while she was making crafts, her story ideas always flowed more smoothly.

With the future developments of My Demon Hunter Arch-Nemesis running through her head, her hands absentmindedly shaped a metal rose.

By the time the rose took form, she also had many more ideas for how the plot would unfold next.

Song Wenlan instinctively wanted to take out her phone for a picture. She reached out—only to find nothing by her side.

She froze for a second before realizing—oh right, she had already transmigrated into the interstellar era.

Just as Song Wenlan was rebuilding her mindset, Xisha came walking over with a repaired optical computer in hand.

“Your luck’s not bad. I just happened to pick up a rare part today.”

With that villain-like face of his, Xisha handed the optical computer to Song Wenlan.

“Here, it’s fixed.”

As he spoke, his gaze unconsciously landed on the metal rose.

“You like this?” Song Wenlan caught his look.

She eagerly took the optical computer and said generously, “Then I’ll give it to you.”

Xisha’s brows lifted slightly, showing his good mood.

“You’re really giving it to me?”

“Mm. Just think of it as thanks for taking me in and saving my life.”

Back in the modern world, most of the things Song Wenlan crafted ended up being given away anyway, so she didn’t think much of it.

“But before that, let me take a picture first.”

She aimed the optical computer at the metal rose. It automatically adjusted the brightness and filter, even suggesting the best composition.

When the final image came out, even Song Wenlan was amazed.

On a white table, a pale golden rose bathed in sunlight looked as if it were glowing with its own radiance.

Almost on reflex, Song Wenlan uploaded the photo to the largest social network in the interstellar era, “Paipai.” Without checking the feedback, she closed the optical computer, satisfied.

Xisha had been waiting by her side the whole time. Only after Song Wenlan finished everything did he carefully pick up the metal rose from the table and ask,

“Do you mind if I take it apart to see how it’s made?”

Song Wenlan was stunned.

She had thought Xisha simply liked the design. She hadn’t expected his first reaction would be to dismantle it.

But then again, it wasn’t hard to understand—Xisha had always been passionate about taking things apart.

So Song Wenlan smiled and replied, “It doesn’t have much technical content. Go ahead and take it apart.”

Xisha nodded, then eagerly carried the rose away.

Once the room was left with only Song Wenlan, she finally opened her author dashboard.

She hadn’t realized it before, but the moment she did, she was shocked.

Song Wenlan had assumed that since she was just an unsigned author, going silent for a few days wouldn’t make much of a difference.

But the reality turned out completely opposite to what she expected.

The moment she opened the dashboard, she found 99+ new comments, and even private messages from editors.

She checked the private messages first.

There were three different editors from InsectLit reaching out to her.

On InsectLit, multiple editors contacting the same author was allowed. If it had been another site, only editors would get to choose authors—the authors themselves had no say and just had to wait to be bound to whichever editor picked them.

But InsectLit was different. They encouraged mutual choice between editors and authors.

If an editor liked an author’s novel, they could contact the author and make their offer, while the author could also choose to work with whichever editor they preferred.

Their goal was only one: to do everything they could to create the best stories.

Even if some editors lost out to others, they wouldn’t feel discouraged or jealous. After all, no matter which editor an author chose, it would still be the best match between author and editor—and would result in the best possible story.

When Song Wenlan first saw this, she was quite surprised.

Perhaps only a race like the net-insects, who treated stories as their very lifeblood, could create such a healthy competitive environment.

She opened the three editors’ messages one by one.

The first editor’s tone was very official—essentially just encouraging her to update more, and saying that once she hit twenty thousand words she could come to him to sign a contract.

The second editor was more lively, showering her with flattery and saying things like: “A story this good—if it doesn’t continue updating, it would be a loss for the entire interstellar world.” Later on, though, she also shared the performance of the authors under her care and promised to discuss plot with Song Wenlan in the future, even offering to help polish her writing.

The third was an editor named “Meng Xingchong.” During the time she’d been missing, he had sent over ten messages, off and on.

Most of them were his reflections after reading her novel—such as his guesses about the male lead’s identity, his curiosity about White Snake, and even his hope that she might add annotations for White Snake.

Inspired by him, Song Wenlan suddenly had an idea.

She had seen the annotations on those StarNet sites before—they were all very official and dry. But couldn’t she go the opposite route? Supplement the story with fun, engaging notes that explained the parts of Blue Star culture readers didn’t understand?

By the time she reached this point, her preference was already quite clear.

When it came to interstellar culture, she was actually lacking. Song Wenlan didn’t want to pick a laid-back editor; besides, she was already a mature author and still needed an editor who could give her useful guidance on her work.

And Meng Xingchong was able to point out the details in her text that she herself hadn’t noticed. Not to mention… Song Wenlan’s gaze fell on the very last line of his message:

“I’ve already applied to the chief editor for a B-level contract. If you’d like to continue updating, you can private message me to sign it.”

All the more so, this editor had already shown his sincerity.

<< _ >>

The post Writer Ch.11 first appeared on A Wandering Potato.

If there was one thing Meng Xingchong regretted the most, it was signing a contract with Ao Weiwei.

No doubt about it—Ao Weiwei was the author who gave him the biggest headache.

Few updates, frequent hiatuses, always pretending to play dead, and whenever asked, the excuse was always the same: “No inspiration.”

Once, she even tried livestreaming under the watch of netizens—yet after a whole day, she only managed to write two hundred words.

He wished more than anything that he could turn back time and stop his past self—who had thought Ao Weiwei’s novel had “potential” and eagerly signed the contract!

An editor’s schedule was fairly flexible, but Meng Xingchong had developed one fixed habit: every single workday, he urged Ao Weiwei to update.

His reminders had practically echoed across the farthest reaches of the Empire, but the other party just stayed silent, feigning death.

And now, what was this—had the King Insect descended today? She actually dared to message him first?!

Meng Xingchong was shocked. He was bewildered. He wanted to ask her just how thick her skin was—to actually turn the tables and urge him to do work?

But then he saw the familiar book title she had shared, and Meng Xingchong understood.

This book truly did have that kind of magic—the power to make even a “dead” author take the initiative to contact her editor.

Yet the moment he understood, Meng Xingchong only felt more annoyed.

Was it that he didn’t want to sign a contract with that author?

He had already sent a barrage of messages to the author’s inbox, but up until now, the author hadn’t even opened them.

All his helplessness and frustration boiled down to one line:

“Great Weiwei, please—immediately! Right this instant! Go write! If you weren’t pestering me, maybe by now I’d already be in touch with the author!”

…

Song Wenlan had no idea that her novel had triggered such a chain reaction of chaos.

In truth, she hadn’t wanted to go on hiatus either.

But she had no choice—her light-brain had broken down.

Just yesterday, while writing the last chapter, Song Wenlan’s light-brain suddenly went black. No matter which button she pressed, it wouldn’t turn back on.

Helpless, Song Wenlan had no choice but to call Xisha out from his work again.

With a grim expression, Xisha dismantled the light-brain piece by piece, and soon found the cause.

“One of the rare components is broken.”

“Can it be fixed today? Or is there another light-brain?”

If it wasn’t for some irresistible factor, Song Wenlan would never have wanted to go on hiatus.

Unfortunately, her luck wasn’t so good.

“I don’t have any spare light-brains here.”

As he reassembled the parts, Xisha explained. He was using the room’s built-in communication device, which usually only connected with people from other star systems, and had no other functions.

“And your luck is especially bad—I just sold off that batch of rare components a couple of days ago.”

From what she had seen over the past two days, Song Wenlan realized that Xisha’s so-called “Garbage Star” really lived up to its name.

Every day, unmanned ships from waste-disposal companies dumped trash here. Xisha’s job was to scavenge for reusable energy or parts, process or modify them, and then resell them.

Much like how scrap collectors in the modern world could strike it rich, Xisha had also made quite a lot of money in this trade.

Watching his practiced movements, Song Wenlan couldn’t help but feel that if he had become a repair engineer, he would have done just as well.

“So when will new rare components show up?” Song Wenlan pressed.

Xisha shot her a glance and drawled, “That depends on your luck. Maybe tomorrow. Or maybe… not even a month from now.”

Song Wenlan’s heart sank completely.

She had never placed much hope in her own luck. The only comfort she had was that her book wasn’t under contract yet, and she didn’t have that many readers.

Surely… not too many people would curse her… right?

What Song Wenlan didn’t know was that her readers were already on the verge of going mad from her hiatus.

In the current interstellar era, authors hadn’t yet mastered the art of “writer’s block tricks.” Very few of them bothered to deliberately leave hooks or cliffhangers to keep readers hooked.

And yet here she was, dropping a hook at every critical moment, making it impossible to stop reading—while the wait for updates was ten times more agonizing than for other works.

One day passed, and the readers comforted themselves: the author would be back soon.

Two days passed, and they told themselves: just wait a little longer.

Three days passed—and the comment section exploded, the sheer resentment enough to feed a whole Evil Sword Immortal.

Finally, one reader couldn’t take it anymore. They charged into the reader forum and made a recommendation post for My Demon Hunter Arch-Nemesis.

They even sneakily egged on the others: go leave a comment, go bump the post.

[A story this addictive—don’t you want more people to know about it?]

In an instant, the remaining dozen or so readers caught his meaning.

Right! Such a good story couldn’t be known only to them—and the suffering of waiting for updates shouldn’t be borne by them alone.

Immediately, all the readers swarmed to that recommendation post, eagerly backing it up with their own proofs.

[I can vouch for it—this is truly the best book I’ve read in my entire life. After finishing it, I suddenly felt that every other book was unbearably dull.]

[I can vouch for it too. The fact that the site hasn’t signed a contract with the author is an enormous loss for the platform.]

[I swear on the dignity of our Snake King—if it’s not good, come find me.]

It didn’t take long for someone innocent to bite.

[Is it really that good?]

The readers had been watching the forum all along. The moment they saw this question, they pounced.

[It really is. Go read it, you won’t regret it.]

[Friend, if you miss this book, it will be the greatest regret of your life.]

[The author’s writing is truly excellent. Watching the protagonists interact is so sweet I couldn’t help but smile. And… let me tell you a secret—there are some benefits hidden in the text.]

Because the post’s activity was so high, it gradually climbed into the hot posts section. Many people saw the comments and became curious about this book.

They wanted to see for themselves—could it really be so good that missing it would become the regret of a lifetime?

Of course, some were drawn in purely for the sake of that so-called “secret.”

As everyone knows, the more secretive something is, the more people want to uncover it.

Whatever their reasons, once new readers opened the book, very few could pull themselves back out.

At first, they were only intrigued by Song Wenlan’s portrayal of the demon race. But soon, when they reached the part where the protagonists first met, their faces flushed red.

What kind of author was this?!

But they loved it. Write more!

Before long, they reached the final line: [You have finished all available chapters. Please bookmark the work before leaving.]

So then… what about the updates?

Why exactly didn’t Bai Ye bring Hu Sanli home? Did he really have a wife waiting back in his hometown?

And could Hu Sanli actually succeed in persuading Bai Ye to take her back with him?

These questions firmly lodged themselves in the minds of the new readers.

One after another, they flooded the comments section.

“Where’s the rest of the plot?”

“Author, hurry up and update!”

Seeing this, the old readers all smiled smugly, some even laughing out loud beneath the pleas for updates.

It didn’t take long for the newcomers to learn the truth—that the author had already gone three days without updating.

A bolt from the blue.

In a fit of fury, they fumed.

Unable to endure the lack of updates, the readers stormed back to the forum. But instead of exposing the old readers’ little scheme, they started making new posts of their own.

[After reading everyone’s recommendation of My Demon Hunter Arch-Nemesis, let me share my thoughts. First of all, I can confirm that everything they said is true—this novel is absolutely amazing. If anyone hasn’t read it yet, I’ll be very unhappy, okay?]

<< _ >>

The post Writer Ch.10 first appeared on A Wandering Potato.