They were forced to realize that the previous arrows were intended to warn them.
This is an ancient and scarred land. If it were this time over a hundred years ago, the land would have been covered with lush vegetation, waiting only for the spring breeze to blow for all things to revive.
Now, however, the surface is littered with all kinds of animal skeletons, and the soil has been soaked through with blood, taking on an eerie blackish-red hue. Looking as far as the eye can see, a thick, dark gray fog presses down heavily, as if wrapping the earth in an airtight body bag.
A loud crash suddenly erupts from deep within the dense fog, followed immediately by the piercing screams of an unrecognized creature echoing through the sky. A monster with a half-human, half-beast form steps out of the mist; its ears are already beastified, and a tail over a meter long drags behind it.
“Stupid thing, you couldn’t beat me yet you insisted on fighting me. You deserve to become my dinner today.”
Lying before him is a massive bird whose bristling feathers are longer than an adult’s arm. That scream from moments before came from its throat, but now it will never make a sound again. That is because there is a wound on its neck, deep enough to expose the bone, from which blood is gushing out.
Mu Lan steps forward and kicks it twice to confirm that it has breathed its last, then squats down to slice open its flesh and carve away the edible meat.
Recently, the nighttime temperature drops to around minus 10 degrees Celsius. Mu Lan originally intended to pull out the fine down from this big bird to keep warm, but as soon as he parted the feathers, he saw a few soybean-sized lice crawling about. Cursing under his breath, he quickly backed away.
Forget it. Once roasted, the meat will barely be edible. As for keeping warm, there is an old bearskin in the cave from last year; it might be a bit dated, but its advantage is that it is clean.
Giving up on the idea of plucking feathers, Mu Lan heads straight back.
Only, the meat of this unidentified bird is far too stringy. Mu Lan stares for two seconds at the sizzling, oil-dripping meat on the iron rod, but lacking the energy to go out and hunt new prey, he forces himself to swallow a few extra mouthfuls, getting through tonight in a sloppy manner.
As soon as he finishes dinner, the outside turns cold. There has long been no distinction between day and night here; it is forever dim and gloomy. Mu Lan stockpiled many old watches and batteries from the past, and by watching the movement of the clock hands, he can determine the time.
It is now eight o’clock in the evening. Lying on the black bearskin and staring at the pitch-black stones above, Mu Lan cannot help but think of when there used to be twinkling stars in the sky. He hasn’t seen starlight in a very long time, and recalling it all at once fills him with nostalgia.
A hundred years ago, the Blue Mother Planet suffered a drastic upheaval; the environment suddenly turned harsh, and all living organisms began to mutate. Humanity attempted several times to change this to no avail, and finally, forty-four years ago, humans who could no longer withstand the disaster chose to evacuate the Blue Mother Planet.
“It is actually been forty-four years.”
Mu Lan murmurs to himself, wrapping himself up in the bearskin blanket. So he has already lived alone in this ghost place for forty-four years. For all these years, no one has been able to talk to him or relieve his boredom, and his sole daily entertainment has been going outside to pick fights with powerful mutants.
There are no referees or rules; the loser becomes the victor’s meal. Mu Lan has never lost.
Today’s low-level mutant bird originally wasn’t qualified to serve as Mu Lan’s combat target, but it was too persistent, ambushing Mu Lan twice in a row. Patience has its limits, so during the third ambush, it paid the price for its rashness.
Having slept too much during the day, Mu Lan lacks any sense of sleepiness tonight. Wrapped in his bearskin blanket, he sits up to craft arrows. Dealing with those mutants outside doesn’t require superior tools; simply sharpening one end of a tree branch and adding fletching is enough to handle them.
As he finishes the twenty-third arrow, the candlelight flickers twice in the draft. Mu Lan’s beastified ears immediately perk up, and he snatches up his quiver and bow, looking toward the northwest.
About a hundred meters away from the cave, a heavily equipped human military squad is quietly approaching. They come from the new planet, and because they are insufficiently familiar with the current terrain of the Blue Mother Planet, they are proceeding at a snail’s pace in the extremely low-visibility fog.
“Damn, there is such a huge mutant dead right here!”
As the exclamation rings out, the scattered soldiers quickly converge on the source of the sound. This is not their first time coming to the Blue Mother Planet, but previously they had only operated in the low-risk Yellow Zone; this is their first time entering the moderately dangerous Orange Zone. The Orange Zone has more mutants with strong offensive and defensive capabilities, and the toxic fog is even denser. Coupled with their lack of understanding of the Orange Zone, whatever they might encounter in this unfamiliar and crisis-ridden place remains completely unknown.
Through his isolation mask, Lieutenant Amos frowns upon seeing the Alpha soldiers ahead grinding to a halt. He hurries forward and rebukes in a low voice, “What are you all doing? I warned you repeatedly before coming in that you must exercise the utmost caution. What will you do if you attract a mutant with such loud shouting?”
“Reporting, sir, an abnormality has been discovered.” The soldiers instinctively step aside to let Amos see the situation inside.
A bird-type mutant, looking larger than an elephant, lies dead in a mud pit. There is a lot of blood on its body, but the fatal wound is prominent, located right at the throat. All the wounds on its body have clean-cut edges, making it easy to deduce that they were caused by a sharp weapon. Judging by the color of the blood, this mutant hasn’t been dead long, most likely between three and four hours ago.
“Sir, Team W’s location has been sent. Requesting verification on whether any other squad is on a mission at this location.”
“Amos, location received. Currently, only Team W has been dispatched to explore this sector.”
After turning off his communicator, Amos casts his gaze once more toward the massive carcass.
That is not right. In this era, why would anyone in the military use cold weapons? Yet, apart from the military, absolutely no one else could possibly come to the Blue Mother Planet.
Every single one of them who came over went through rigorous screening and layer-upon-layer of vetting by the higher-ups before earning the qualification to board the starship.
Then, if it was not a human?
Because the wound was caused by a sharp blade, jumping to the conclusion that a human killed this mutant, is that not too one-sided?
However, if it was not a human, the conjecture that a mutant could use tools seems even more absurd. Or perhaps it is a certain type of mutant whose external structure can be as sharp as a knife or sword, thereby creating this illusion?
Amos falls into deep thought, failing to notice that two soldiers have quietly slipped away from the squad without anyone realizing it.
“Where is the Major? Why is he not here?” Taking two steps backward, he discovers that the superior officer who always loves to act alone has vanished once again.
Being like that in the Yellow Zone was one thing, but daring to wander off alone after entering the Orange Zone, he really does not know whether that is boldness or a disregard for one’s life!
“Reporting to the Major, an abnormal situation has been discovered here. Requesting your return to the team for investigation.”
Amos scans the surrounding circle and notices that several familiar faces are missing from the group. Finding it peculiar, he decides to tease the officer before a reply comes through: “I thought you had gone off alone on a solo mission again; I did not expect you to bring people this time.”
“I did not bring anyone.”
The other party’s brief words come through the communicator, sending a sudden chill down Amos’s spine. He abruptly realizes that among those currently missing from the group, there is one person he had clearly laid eyes on just moments ago.
“All personnel, take defensive positions!”
Whoosh.
Just as Amos shouts these words, an arrow hurtles straight toward his face. The fog obscures part of the arrow’s trajectory, so by the time he catches sight of the arrowhead, there is no longer any chance to dodge.
Fortunately, however, the quality of their isolation masks is top-notch. The branch-made arrow shatters into pieces the moment it makes contact with the mask’s surface, sliding away past Amos’s eyes.
It was a narrow escape, but Amos feels not a shred of relaxation. The mask is not completely undamaged; right where the arrowhead grazed it, a very small, shallow pit has been left behind.
In the current era, the military holds supreme dominance, possessing the most cutting-edge resources. All their equipment is crafted by the finest technicians using the highest-grade materials. Amos remembers testing them before departure: this isolation mask can withstand three rounds from a standard pistol without showing a single mark.
How could a crudely made branch arrow achieve such an effect?
Amos decisively fires two shots in the direction the arrow came from, but there is not the slightest movement over there; the bullets vanish into the void as if striking nothingness, leaving no echo behind.
A cold sweat breaks out instantly, soaking his clothes and causing them to cling damply to his body. Under such high tension, Amos has no time to care about this discomfort. He can state with certainty that the assailant is definitely not human.
Whoosh.
The arrow comes again from a different angle, and once again Amos has no opportunity to dodge. The soldiers beside him react quickly, firing toward the opposite side the instant they spot the arrow.
Logically speaking, at that speed, the attacker should have had nowhere to hide either. Yet, those few bullets fly out without returning the sound of hitting a physical object.
A second shallow pit appears on Amos’s mask.
He starts retreating, but before he can take two steps, the relentless arrow catches up to him.
This time, more people open fire toward the direction of the arrow, and without exception, every shot misses. They have no visibility in the fog, while the adversary acts as if completely unaffected by this interference, every single arrow accurately striking Amos.
“Cease fire.” Faced with an enemy that cannot be fought, the wisest choice is to flee. Amos issues the command: “Everyone fall back with me, move quickly, do not fall behind.”
“Did your commanding officers teach you how to become deserters?”
A mocking voice echoes from within the fog. It is a human voice, sounding like a teenager of eighteen or nineteen.
Amos feels no relief upon hearing the voice of a fellow human. Back then, it was precisely because the Blue Mother Planet became severely polluted and all living organisms underwent uncontrollable mutations that the main force of humanity decided to leave this place. Most of the humans and animals left behind on the Blue Mother Planet have already perished; only an extremely tiny fraction managed to adapt to these extreme, harsh environments, continuously mutating to become mutants.
After so many years, it is absolutely impossible for there to be any humans left on this abandoned planet. If mutants are already capable of speaking and acting like humans, it means the Blue Mother Planet is a hundred times more perilous than they had imagined.
A creature possessing the massive size and hyper-aggressive power of a mutant, while simultaneously equipped with the intelligence and language ability of a human. There is no telling how many such terrifying creatures still exist on the Blue Mother Planet. Amos grips his gun tighter, attempting to draw a shred of mental reassurance from his weapon.
Amos calls a halt to the soldiers firing blindly into the fog, urging them onward: “Pick up the pace and retreat, no stopping.”
The voice speaks up again: “Running so fast, and you are just leaving your companions behind?”
A few muffled, weeping sounds drift out of the fog. Amos pauses for a fraction of a second before continuing his forward dash at full speed.
“You lot really are even more cowardly than I remember.”
The whole squad runs at a brisk pace, but the voice in the fog remains like a lingering ghost, always keeping a close distance, neither too far nor too near, dropping sarcastic remarks from time to time.
“Since you have all abandoned those few anyway, how about I kill them and eat them? Which do you say tastes better, this taller one or this shorter one?”
The speaker seems genuinely contemplative, the hesitant words interspersed with the despairing whimpers of their captured companions, grating on the nerves of everyone present.
Amos’s face turns ashen. He stops in his tracks and points his gun toward the source of the sound: “What do you want?”
Only silence answers him. He places his finger on the trigger, his eyes fixed dead ahead into the mist.
Unable to stomach such brazen insolence from the enemy, one soldier steps forward and requests, “Sir, please let me charge in and kill them.”
“Sir, I am not afraid to die, please let me go fight that monster!”
“Sir, I am willing too!”
Amidst a flurry of requests, Amos raises his left hand. Without a word, he gives hand signals to issue his orders.
Military commands are absolute; everyone immediately acts in accordance with Amos’s directions. They split into three separate paths, charging back from different directions.
They knew full well when they arrived that whatever they encountered on the Blue Mother Planet would be an unknown. Now, no matter how dangerous the road ahead, going into battle at least lets them see what the enemy looks like. Even if they are completely wiped out in the end, the recorders on their wrists have already turned on real-time feedback, and the military technical department will receive the video footage of the entire fight. This will provide invaluable reference value for the next military troop entering the Orange Zone of the Blue Mother Planet to explore.
Everyone pursues them back with a do-or-die mindset, expecting a life-or-death battle against a powerful mutant, only to find that as they turn back, the enemy is simultaneously retreating.
The adversary seems to have no intention of engaging in a direct clash with them, but whenever they see their pursuers slowing down, they send an arrow flying toward Amos’s head. It causes no physical injury, but the disrespect is off the charts.
Consequently, the entire squad is led around in circles inside the fog by the opponent like a pair of walking dogs.
A hot-tempered soldier begins cursing, launching into a furious tirade directed at where the arrow came from moments before.
Yet, halfway through his sentence, the adversary’s arrow forces him to swallow the rest of his foul language.
The arrows previously fired at Amos only left a shallow pit on his mask. But the arrow fired at this soldier has its tip deeply embedded in the mask, stopping a mere three millimeters short of piercing completely through. Should the isolation mask break, the surrounding toxic fog would pour in through the crack, leaving him with only two possible endings: death, or turning into a monster.
They are forced to realize that the previous arrows were playful teasing, whereas this single arrow signifies a warning.
A warning that they possess no right to discontent or resistance, and can only play along with this game of cat and mouse.
“You all look quite tired.”
A familiar figure walks out of the fog, and upon seeing him, the crowd finally feels as though they have found their backbone.
“Major, you are finally back.” The soldier who took an arrow to the mask casts etiquette aside, wearing a tearful, miserable expression.
“That look of yours is quite unique,” Major Leng Lie evaluates.
Seeing that his own Major remains completely unfazed, the soldier grows anxious and blursts out, “You are still in the mood to joke? You do not know about this!”
“I know.” Leng Lie interrupts the soldier, shifting his gaze deep into the fog. “An ability-wielding mutant, that is something I have truly never encountered before.”
With that, leaving no time for anyone to react, he leaps forward with a speed so fast they fail to catch a clear look, disappearing back into the mist.
Right where Leng Lie was standing just moments ago, an arrow is firmly planted in the ground.
Amos freezes for two seconds, snaps out of it, and hurriedly shouts: “Keep up! Do not let the Major take risks alone!”
Author’s Note:
Feel free to check out the upcoming story next door if you are interested.
Synopsis: Xian Yu transmigrated into a vernacular storybook. According to the laws of this world, the young master of the Duke’s estate is the protagonist.
As for him, his only role is that of a heartless tool whose mission is to drive the plot forward, making the angsty protagonist go through all the suffering points and shed enough reader tears before meeting a miserable end.
The Bliss Banquet, humiliation, multi-party abuse.
Frowning as he reads through it all, Xian Yu inexplicably feels that anyone who could survive that is simply a miracle.
“Having been through all this without dying, is he even a normal person?”
The system logic gives its answer: “He is the protagonist.”
Xian Yu: ……
The protagonist is meant to suffer, right? Who would enjoy reading this kind of frustrating nonsense? Xian Yu feels utterly speechless toward this book.
At the start of the plot, the system logic repeatedly pours advice into Xian Yu’s ear:
“You must follow the plot, otherwise there will be punishments.”
Xian Yu agrees on the surface, but looking at the protagonist kneeling on the ground below, he thinks to himself: I am not some obedient puppet either.
Thus, Xian Yu embarks on a daily routine of rebelling against the system logic.
When the system logic tells Xian Yu to humiliate the protagonist, Xian Yu summons imperial physicians to treat the protagonist’s injuries.
When the system logic tells Xian Yu to torture and beat the protagonist, Xian Yu personally feeds the protagonist his medicinal decoction.
When the system logic tells Xian Yu to bully the protagonist, Xian Yu instead stands up for the protagonist, retaliating against those who gave him a hard time.
The system logic flies into a powerless rage: “You need to manufacture suffering points in his life so this story can continue!”
“What if I don’t?”
System logic: ……
The young master of the Duke’s estate is as elegant as jade and exceptionally clever. When a sudden disaster strikes, Wei’s entire family falls into dire straits. He plummets from a lofty, pampered young aristocrat to a plaything for the nobility.
Before the calamity occurred, the Wei and Xian families had always been at bitter daggers drawn in the imperial court. Everyone, including Wei Ran himself, assumed Xian Yu would inevitably come to kick him while he was down.
And indeed, that is how it appeared; Xian Yu brought Wei Ran back to his own estate for slow torture.
The imperial court of the Miu dynasty was licentious and dissolute, and the nobles held back even less. Wei Ran had long since anticipated that life inside the Xian residence would not be easy.
Yet, when a swarm of ruffians and scoundrels closed in around him, his heart still inevitably clenched with panic.
A fish on a cutting board is futile no matter how it struggles. Countless filthy hands reach out to tear at Wei Ran’s clothes, and he despairingly closes his eyes.
Who would have thought that the scene suddenly shifts, and Wei Ran finds himself already inside a magnificently decorated grand hall?
Bowing respectfully before him, the steward of the Xian residence says, “My lord, it is time for your meal.”
In a trance, Wei Ran’s voice trembles slightly: “Who am I?”
The steward is completely baffled: “Prime Minister.”
The current Prime Minister is Xian Yu.