Liú Tiānyuè returned to the bed.
This body was insufficient.
It would not remain so.
She lay down and closed her eyes.
The transformation began instantly.
Power folded inward instead of exploding outward. Dark threads of energy wove through muscle and bone. Weakness burned away like impurities in a furnace.
Her bones realigned.
Her blood purified.
Her skin smoothed and strengthened.
Parasites shriveled into ash.
Her hair lengthened, thick and dark as ink.
Her nails sharpened then settled, capable of becoming claws at will.
Her teeth refined, fangs hidden but waiting.
Her heart beat steadily—strong, controlled.
She was no longer frail.
She was perfected.
And then—
The dreams began.
*****************************
She stood unseen in the courtyard of the main Zhào residence.
The household was not wealthy—but it was stable.
Zhào Dàjiàn, fifty years old, sat at the center like a minor king in a crumbling kingdom. His back still straight, his voice firm. He believed deeply in hierarchy—father above sons, sons above daughters, men above women.
Jìng Huā, forty-nine, managed the internal order of the house with sharp eyes and sharper judgment. She favored results. Productive children were praised. Useless ones were discarded quietly.
When Zhào Dàfēng was young and strong, he was praised.
Not warmly.
But approvingly.
"You are doing your duty," Zhào Dàjiàn would say.
Which meant: Continue.
From the age of fourteen, Dàfēng hunted.
From fifteen onward, he brought steady income.
By eighteen, he was the backbone of the household.
His older brother, Zhào Dàshān, handled grain trading and negotiations. He dressed slightly better. Spoke slightly louder. Took slightly more credit.
Lín Ānān, Dàshān's wife, was competent and calculating. She stretched supplies wisely and protected her daughters' futures fiercely.
Their three daughters:
Zhào Xiàlián, fourteen — quiet, observant, already burdened with adult responsibilities.
Zhào Xiàyún and Zhào Xiàfēn, twelve — bright-eyed twins, nimble with needlework, quick to understand household politics.
The girls worked hard.
But they were still girls.
Their value measured in future marriage alliances.
*****************************
Then there was the youngest son.
Zhào Dàhǎi.
Spoiled from childhood.
Excused from hardship.
Allowed to fail without consequence.
He gambled occasionally.
Lied easily.
Avoided work whenever possible.
His wife, Sù Sùyán, mirrored him perfectly.
She believed herself superior because she bore two sons:
Zhào Bōqīn, nine.
Zhào Bóhǎi, five.
Both boys loud, demanding, entitled.
They shoved their cousins.
Stole food.
Pulled braids.
Laughed when others cried.
Sù Sùyán would scoop them into her arms and say, "Boys must be bold."
Jìng Huā never corrected her.
Zhào Dàjiàn only grunted approval.
*****************************
Then the forest shifted.
The bear attack.
The snap of bone.
The scream.
The blood.
The weeks of fever.
The crude splints.
No money for a physician.
Because coin had always gone through Zhào Dàshān.
Because savings had never been kept for Dàfēng himself.
He had trusted his family.
That trust cost him his legs.
They healed wrong.
Twisted.
Permanent.
*****************************
The first time he tried to stand after the fever broke—
He collapsed.
Zhào Dàjiàn's face hardened.
Jìng Huā's expression turned calculating.
That night, the elders spoke quietly.
"We cannot feed useless mouths."
"The girls need dowries."
"Dàhǎi's sons must grow strong."
Dàshān remained silent.
Dàhǎi agreed too quickly.
Sù Sùyán smirked faintly.
The decision was made.
Separate him.
Give him the outer house.
Minimal grain.
No shared income.
No more hunting profits to distribute.
As if he had never fed them for fifteen years.
*****************************
The dream shifted again.
Pān Xiùlán.
Thirty years old.
Once pretty.
Once eager to marry the best hunter in Heze Village.
She had enjoyed meat twice a week.
New hairpins.
Occasional sweets.
Status.
After the accident—
Her smile vanished.
"You cannot even stand."
"You expect me to grind grain forever?"
"You expect me to starve?"
Dàfēng did not argue.
He apologized.
Apologized.
For being mauled by a bear.
For surviving.
For failing to remain useful.
One winter morning—
She packed quietly.
Zhào Mínghào, ten years old, clung to her sleeve.
"Mother?"
She pried his fingers away.
Zhào Míngyuán, two months old, cried from her mat.
Pān Xiùlán did not look back.
Not once.
She left without shame.
Without hesitation.
*****************************
The suffering began immediately.
Milk dried up.
The baby cried through the night.
Dàfēng, unable to walk properly, dragged himself across the floor to soothe her.
Zhào Mínguó, eight, tried to cook and burned his hand.
Zhào Míngyù and Zhào Míngxī, six years old, picked lice from each other's hair.
Zhào Míngyún, four, cried from hunger so often his voice grew hoarse.
Zhào Míngjié, two, learned quickly not to ask for second portions.
The lice spread.
The clothes tore.
Winter seeped into their bones.
Once, Zhào Bōqīn stole the last sweet potato from Míngjié's hands and pushed him into the mud.
When Mínghào protested, Dàhǎi struck him.
Sù Sùyán laughed.
Jìng Huā pretended not to see.
Zhào Dàjiàn said only, "Children must learn strength."
Strength.
While denying them food.
*****************************
Even Zhào Dàshān did nothing.
He watched from a distance.
He told himself:
It is unfortunate.
But necessary.
His daughters' marriages depended on stability.
He chose silence.
Again.
And again.
*****************************
In the dream, Liú Tiānyuè stood inside the outer house during a winter night.
Snow fell through cracks in the roof.
All seven children huddled together.
Dàfēng lay awake.
His hands calloused and trembling.
His legs twisted but still attached.
Still capable—if properly healed.
He whispered into the dark:
"I'm sorry."
Over and over.
Apologizing for hunger he did not create.
For cruelty he did not deserve.
For abandonment he did not choose.
*****************************
The dream dissolved slowly.
Liú Tiānyuè opened her eyes.
The transformation was complete.
Her body now radiated quiet, dangerous vitality. Her beauty no longer delicate—but commanding. Her strength restrained but immense.
Her claws extended slightly.
Then retracted.
She categorized them all.
Zhào Dàjiàn — patriarch who discards broken tools.
Jìng Huā — mother who measures worth in productivity.
Zhào Dàshān — coward of convenience.
Lín Ānān — protector only of her own.
Zhào Dàhǎi — parasite.
Sù Sùyán — breeder of arrogance.
The sons — already corrupted.
The daughters — shaped by fear.
And Zhào Dàfēng—
Used.
Discarded.
Still protecting what little remained.
Her gaze shifted toward the thin wall separating her from the children.
They were lice-ridden.
Malnourished.
Starving.
But they were quiet.
They endured.
Her territory now included eight souls.
The Zombie Queen did not tolerate suffering within her domain.
Outside, dawn began to break.
Liú Tiānyuè rose gracefully from the bed.
The dream had shown her everything.
Now—
The village would learn exactly what it meant to abandon something that belonged to her.