The few drops of glaring blood on the floor of the rented room acted like a bizarre switch, abruptly dragging Luke back to reality from his post-survival daze and the cold numbness following the slaughter.
He remained collapsed on the floor, motionless for several minutes.
Only his chest heaved violently.
His heavy breaths echoed in the silent room, and every inhalation aggravated his injuries, sending a searing pain through his entire body.
He had killed someone.
In Westeros, in a dark alleyway in King’s Landing, he had killed four people with a watermelon knife.
This fact repeatedly hammered his nerves, bringing waves of physical nausea and dizziness.
He could almost still smell the thick, cloying stench of blood, feel the strange resistance as the blade sliced into flesh and the splash of warm liquid, and see those four pairs of eyes transition from ferocity to shock, and finally to dead silence…
“Urgh—!”
Unable to hold it in any longer, he rolled over onto his stomach and began to dry heave.
His stomach was completely empty, with only stomach acid and bile rushing up his throat, burning his esophagus.
The violent retching pulled at his wounds, especially on his ribs and back.
The pain made his vision go dark, and cold sweat instantly drenched his clothes.
The set of black clothes was now covered in filthy blood and dust!
Who knew how much time passed before the dry heaving finally stopped.
Luke lay limply on the floor like a dehydrated fish, left with nothing but heavy, ragged breaths.
The intertwining of fear and physical agony left him almost unable to think.
But he knew he couldn’t just lie here.
Struggling, he pushed himself up with trembling arms and dragged himself, bit by bit, toward the cramped bathroom that now symbolized cleanliness and safety.
He switched on the light, and the harsh white glare made him squint.
The mirror reflected a face he barely recognized.
His left eye was swollen to a mere slit, bruised a deep purple.
His right cheek was highly puffed up, covered in scrapes and bloody gashes.
His nose was crooked to one side, still trickling blood.
His lips were split and swollen, and there was a gaping hole where one of his front teeth used to be, letting in drafts of air.
His entire face was a colorful, horrific mess.
His clothes were in an even worse state, ruined by bloodstains, dirt, and tears.
Clumsily stripping off the clothes covered in otherworldly blood and dust, he balled them up.
After a brief hesitation, instead of throwing them in the trash, he stuffed them into the cabinet beneath the sink for the time being.
He turned on the shower, and warm water cascaded down.
The moment the water hit his wounds, a sharp, stinging pain flared up, but he gritted his teeth and endured it.
Blood and grime mixed with the water, forming pale red streams on the tiled floor before swirling down the drain.
He scrubbed his body vigorously, as if trying to wash away all the fear, blood, and violence of the night.
Once clean, he changed into a fresh set of loungewear, which only made the pain throughout his body feel sharper and more defined.
With every breath, a dull ache throbbed in his ribs.
The slightest movement of his shoulders or arms felt as if countless tiny needles were pricking his muscles and joints.
His head was heavy and buzzing.
He carefully spat out a bit of saliva—it was still a light red, streaked with blood.
No, he had to go to the hospital.
The thought was crystal clear.
He was worried about internal bleeding, fractures, or lasting complications from a concussion.
On Blue Star, this was the only place he could seek medical help with peace of mind.
Without hesitation, he endured the pain to change into a non-descript set of dark sportswear, putting on a hat and a face mask.
He carefully wrapped the blood-stained clothes and the watermelon knife in several layers of plastic bags, then hid them in the deepest corner of his personal pocket dimension.
The streets of the urban village were dead silent in the middle of the night.
Bearing the pain, Luke limped step by step toward the nearby twenty-four-hour community people’s hospital.
With every step, he felt his bones grinding together and his muscles protesting.
He registered, his voice raspy and muffled as he described his condition.
“Doctor…
I was beaten…
I need an examination…”
The nurse on duty took one look at his swollen cheek and agonized expression and gasped.
“What happened?
Have you called the police?”
Luke’s mind raced, and he blurted out, “Yes, I already did.
The police told me to come get my injuries evaluated and treated first.”
He couldn’t tell the truth.
For a young man in China to be beaten like this by unknown assailants late at night, it wouldn’t make sense if he didn’t call the police.
Yet, his actual experience was absolutely unspeakable.
The nurse was somewhat skeptical, but seeing his wretched state, she quickly called the doctor on duty.
The doctor was a middle-aged man with plenty of experience.
Luke merely claimed that on his way home tonight, several strangers had bagged his head, beaten him up, and stolen his wallet and phone, leaving him unable to see their faces.
He carefully examined Luke’s external injuries and listened to his account, his expression turning solemn.
“These injuries are quite severe.
You need a comprehensive checkup.”
The doctor ordered a series of tests: a head CT, chest and abdominal X-rays, a routine blood panel, and a urinalysis…
Lying on the cold examination tables and listening to the hum of the machines, Luke felt incredibly anxious.
He was terrified they would detect some severe, irreversible damage, and even more afraid that the doctors or police would spot discrepancies in his injuries that didn’t align with a “simple mugging.”
The wait for the results felt agonizingly long.
With every passing minute, the pain wracking his body served as a grim reminder of what he had just gone through.
Finally, the doctor returned with the reports, his expression slightly softer than before.
“You’re in luck, young man.”
Pointing at the scans, the doctor explained, “The brain CT shows a mild concussion; you’ll need rest and observation.
You’ve lost a tooth, which you should have looked at by a dentist once the swelling goes down.
The soft tissue contusions on your face and body are quite severe, with extensive subcutaneous bleeding.
It looks horrific, but the good news is that no bones are broken, your ribs are fine, and our scans didn’t show any obvious signs of damage to your internal organs.”
Half of Luke’s racing heart finally settled back into his chest with a heavy thud.
At least his life wasn’t in danger, and there was no threat of permanent disability.
A wave of immense relief washed over him, leaving him feeling almost limp.
Seeing that he was still pale and visibly shaken, the doctor sighed.
“Terrified, aren’t you?
Going through something like this…
aside from the physical trauma, the psychological impact must be massive.
I suggest you get a more detailed full-body CT scan during the day when it’s convenient, just to rule out any hidden injuries completely.”
“Since you’ve already called the police, you should be fine.
There are surveillance cameras everywhere nowadays; those thugs won’t get away!”
“We’ll clean and dress your wounds first, apply some ointment, and prescribe some anti-inflammatory painkillers and recovery meds.
Make sure to get plenty of rest when you go home.
If you experience severe headaches, vomiting, or sudden sharp pains anywhere, come back immediately.”
Luke nodded repeatedly, croaking out his thanks.
Armed with the prescriptions, he headed to the pharmacy and picked up a large pile of oral and topical medications.
By the time he stepped out of the hospital, the sky was starting to pale with the first light of dawn.
The city was waking up, but Luke felt as if a thick sheet of frosted glass separated him from this familiar world.
Last night’s ordeal had been too horrific and bloody, a waking nightmare branded into both his body and soul.
Instead of heading straight home, he stopped by an early-opening convenience store near the hospital to buy some bottled water, bread, and instant food before slowly limping his way back to his rented room.
For the next three days, Luke lived like a wounded beast, completely sealing himself inside his cramped rental.
He took his medicine on schedule, iced his face, and forced himself to eat.
Under the effects of the medication, his physical pain gradually subsided, but the psychological aftershocks were far from over.
Every time he closed his eyes, he was back in that dark alleyway.
He saw the blinding beam of the flashlight, the cold gleam of the watermelon knife as it swung, the warm spray of blood, and heard the dull thuds of bodies hitting the ground…
And the terror in those four men’s eyes just before they died.
Every detail was agonizingly vivid, repeatedly torturing his nerves.
The footsteps of his upstairs neighbors, the passing of cars outside his window, even the sound of water flowing through the pipes…
He became hypersensitive.
The slightest noise made his hair stand on end and his heart race.
He checked the door lock repeatedly, barricaded the entrance with a table and chairs, and didn’t dare to turn off the lights at night.
Nor did he dare to attempt crossing over again.
To him, Westeros was no longer a gold mine of opportunities; it had instantly transformed into a treacherous jungle that devoured lives.
The wild ecstasy brought by those three thousand-plus Gold Dragons had long been washed away by lingering fear and dread.
Most of the time, he just sat dazed on his bed or stood by the window, staring blankly at the unchanging streetscape outside.
He was processing, adapting, and struggling.
Killing…
was for self-defense, to survive.
It was to hide his golden finger!
He kept telling himself this, trying to convince himself that it was a justified instinctual reaction to an extreme situation.
Yet the sheer weight of having taken four lives still pressed heavily on his chest, making it hard to breathe.
Three days later, the swelling on his face had gone down slightly, the dark bruises beginning to yellow, and his physical pain had eased significantly.
Though his face in the mirror still looked battered, its original contours were finally visible.
His physical recovery seemed to bring a touch of mental resilience.
After the extreme fear and numbness, something deeper and colder began to settle in his heart.
He was still alive.
He had preserved his life in that savage world through the most brutal means.
In Westeros, there was no law to deliver justice for him, and no police to investigate the crimes of those four thugs.
There, only the law of the jungle prevailed, where swords and coins did the talking.
Bloodily and passively, he had been taught his first lesson.
Slumped in his chair, Luke slowly clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms.
He couldn’t keep hiding forever.
Those three thousand-odd Gold Dragons were still in his pocket dimension.
He had traded his life for them, and they were his security for the future.
The dangers of Westeros wouldn’t vanish just because he hid away.
On the contrary, the people or factions searching for him were undoubtedly still active.
He needed strength.
He needed the ability to protect himself, and he needed a more thorough plan.
He slowly raised his head and looked out the window.
The sunlight was pleasant, and the order of Blue Star remained stable.
But some things had changed forever.