Midnight Ambush
The night was a wound in the sky. No moon. No stars. The void above pressed down on the cracked earth with a weight that was almost physical. In the silence between heartbeats, five pairs of feet slammed against broken asphalt, a frantic rhythm against the oppressive dark.
Cheng Wei's legs had stopped feeling like his own about half a mile back. Now they moved by instinct—piston-driven, relentless, slamming against the cracked road with each desperate stride.
Across his shoulders, Bai Jun hung limp, his chin bouncing against Cheng Wei's collarbone with every jarring step.
Blood—warm, then cooling, then warm again as fresh pulses pushed through the wound—seeped through Cheng Wei's shirt and plastered the fabric to his back. The smell of iron filled his nose, thick and copper-sweet.
"Don't," Cheng Wei panted, the word tearing out of his throat. His voice was cracked, raw, barely recognizable as his own.
"Don't you fucking die on me, Bai Jun. You hear me? Don't you fucking die."
Bai Jun's lips moved, but no sound came. Just a wet rattle. His eyelids fluttered, half-open, showing white. His hands, calloused from years of gripping a mechanic's wrench before the world ended, bounced uselessly against Cheng Wei's chest.
Behind them, the others stumbled through the darkness. Mei, Cheng Wei's wife, ran with one hand clamped over her belly, the other stretched back toward Song Na. Her face was the colour of old ash.
Tears had carved clean tracks through the grime on her cheeks, but she wasn't sobbing—she had passed that stage half an hour ago, when the first goblin knife had sliced through Bai Jun's back and the world had narrowed to a single command: run. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps, each one a prayer she didn't have the breath to speak.
Song Na kept her grip on Mei's hand, her nurse's bag slamming against her hip with every stride. The strap was digging into her shoulder, leaving a raw groove, but she didn't loosen it. She couldn't. Inside that worn leather bag were bandages, antiseptic, a suture kit—everything they would need if they survived. She kept looking back. Counting. Three. Still three. No, four. The yellow eyes flickered in the dark like blown coals, bobbing up and down as the goblins loped after them.
Feng brought up the rear, running backward in short, practiced bursts. He didn't look back. He didn't need to. He could hear them breathing—the wet, eager chittering, the scrape of claws on asphalt. His knuckles were white around the handle of his kitchen knife.
The goblins chittered. A language made of teeth and malice.
---
Two hours earlier, they had been sitting in the ruins of the town hall, listening to the wind drag itself through broken windows.
The building had been a courthouse once, or maybe a school. It was hard to tell now. The roof had collapsed in three places, and the walls were cracked like old pottery.
Rats scurried in the corners, bold from hunger. The five of them had huddled in the driest corner, using broken desks for firewood, eating the last of the bread the Zhangs had given them days ago.
Mei had been asleep against Cheng Wei's shoulder, her hand curled over the small mound of her belly. She dreamed of green fields, of rivers, of a world that still made sense. Her lips moved silently, forming words no one could hear.
Bai Jun had been watching the dark, his back pressed against a column that had once held a roof.
The old wound still ached—a gift from a goblin three days ago—but Song Na had stitched it clean, and he had learned to ignore pain. Pain was just another sensation, like cold or hunger. It didn't kill you. It just reminded you that you were still alive.
"We'll go at first light," Bai Jun said, not looking away from the window. His voice was low, steady. He had been the leader of their little group, not because he wanted to be, but because he was the one who stayed calm when others panicked.
Cheng Wei nodded, his pipe resting across his knees. He turned it over and over in his hands, feeling the smooth wood, the weight of it. "To the Zhangs' farm. See if Liu Wei is still alive."
"His son too." Song Na looked up from where she sat on a crate, her nurse's bag beside her. Her hands were folded in her lap, her fingers picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. "The boy was sick. Fever. If he made it, Liu Wei will stay there. He won't leave his son."
"Then we stay there too." Bai Jun's voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "If they'll have us."
Mei stirred, opening her eyes. They were red-rimmed, tired. "They gave us bread before. They didn't have to."
"Bread doesn't mean they'll take us in." Cheng Wei's voice was tired. He rubbed his face with his free hand. "But we don't have anywhere else to go."
No one argued. There was nothing to argue about. The Lins had abandoned them—thrown bread at their feet like they were dogs, laughed when Lin Tao had made his crude offer to Song Na, and walked away toward the city.
The Zhangs were the only ones who had shown them any kindness. A wall. A roof. A bowl of congee. It wasn't much, but it was more than anyone else had offered.
Feng stopped sharpening his knife. He looked up at the ceiling, at the stars visible through a hole in the roof. "We should take watches tonight. In case something comes."
"I'll take first," Bai Jun said.
Then the window shattered.
---
Suddenly a goblin came through like a cannonball, screeching, its knife already swinging. He looked at Bai Jun with yellow glowing eyes, with a creepy smile on its face.
Bai Jun moved before he thought. His hand went to his belt, found the hilt of his knife, and drew in one fluid motion.
He punched upward, driving the blade into the creature's throat—a hard, precise thrust. Black blood sprayed across his face. The goblin's eyes went wide, then empty. It fell, twitching, its legs kicking.
But it was never just one.
They came through the windows, through the doorway, through the cracks where the walls had given way. Small, green, their faces split by yellow grins. Their knives were sharpened stone bound with leather. Their eyes burned.
Seven of them. Maybe eight.
Cheng Wei swung his pipe. The first goblin's skull caved with a sound like a dropped melon—a wet, cracking noise that made his stomach turn. He swung again.
A second fell, its leg bending backward at a sick angle, but it kept crawling, dragging itself across the floor, until Feng's knife pinned its neck to the floorboards.
Song Na grabbed a broken chair leg and put herself between Mei and the door. A goblin lunged at her, teeth first. She swung. The wood cracked against its temple, and it crumpled, its body sliding sideways.
Mei tried to drag Bai Jun away from the fight. He was too heavy. His blood was warm on her hands, slick and dark. She couldn't get a grip. Her fingers slipped.
"Go," Bai Jun gasped. "Go!"
"Not without you."
A large goblin—scar across its face, a necklace of finger bones clicking against its chest—sprang at Bai Jun. Its eyes were a deep, burning orange, like embers from a dying fire.
Bai Jun rolled, came up on his knees, and drove his knife into its shoulder. The blade bit deep, but the goblin didn't fall.
It snarled, black blood pouring from the wound, and backhanded Bai Jun across the face. Bai Jun sprawled sideways, his knife still lodged in the creature's flesh.
The Scarred One—for that was the name the survivors would later give it—reached down and yanked the knife free. It examined the blade for a moment, then tossed it aside. Its orange eyes found Bai Jun's face. It smiled.
"Run," Bai Jun choked out. "Run!"
Cheng Wei grabbed Bai Jun's arm and hauled him to his feet. "Move! MOVE!"
They ran.
Behind them, the Scarred One watched them go. It did not chase immediately. It picked up Bai Jun's fallen knife, tested its edge, and tucked it into its belt. Then it let out a sharp, guttural bark, and the pack surged forward.
The hunt had begun.
---
Now they ran.
Cheng Wei's lungs were scrap metal. Each breath came with a sharp, burning ache, like inhaling broken glass. His arms screamed. Bai Jun was dead weight—maybe sixty kilos, maybe more—but he wouldn't drop him.
He couldn't. Every step sent a jolt of pain through his own wounded arm, where a goblin's knife had cut him earlier. The wound was bleeding again, soaking through the makeshift bandage, leaving a dark trail on the asphalt behind him.
He couldn't remember how long they had been running. Time had lost all meaning. There was only the next step, and the next, and the next.
A rock whistled past his ear. It struck the road ahead, skittered into darkness.
"Left!" Feng shouted from behind. His voice was tight, breathless. "The farm road. It's left."
Cheng Wei veered. His feet slipped on loose gravel, and for a terrifying moment he felt his balance give way.
He twisted his body, throwing his weight forward, and caught himself. Bai Jun's head snapped back, then lolled forward again. A fresh trickle of blood ran down his neck.
"How far?" Mei gasped. Her voice was a thread, barely audible over the pounding of his own heart.
"Not far," Feng said. "Maybe a mile. Maybe less."
"I can't." Mei's legs buckled. She went down on one knee, her hand still clutching Song Na's. "I can't run anymore."
Song Na hauled her up, wrapping an arm around her waist. "Yes, you can. For the baby. You have to." Her own face was grey with exhaustion, but she didn't stop. She couldn't.
Behind them, the goblins screamed. Cheng Wei risked a glance back. Four of them. No, five. Their yellow eyes glowed like floating embers, their bodies low to the ground, moving in that awful, fluid way—all fours, then two legs, then all fours again.
One of them was larger than the others. A necklace of something white—bones? teeth?—bounced against its chest. Its eyes were a deep, burning orange.
"Faster," Feng urged. He had fallen back to run beside Song Na and Mei, his knife still out, his head swiveling from side to side. "They're gaining."
Cheng Wei tried to run faster. His legs wouldn't obey. They were blocks of wood, numb and heavy. His vision was narrowing, the edges going dark. He was running on fumes, on terror, on the sheer refusal to let Bai Jun die.
A goblin threw another rock. This one struck Cheng Wei in the back—a sharp, stinging impact between his shoulder blades. He stumbled but didn't fall. The pain was distant, barely registering.
"Almost there," he heard himself say. He didn't know if he was lying.
The road curved. A broken signpost loomed out of the darkness, its letters bleached by sun and rain. Cheng Wei couldn't read it. He didn't need to. He knew this road. He had walked it before, days ago, when they first came seeking shelter.
The Zhangs' farm. The wall.
He pushed harder.
***
The wall rose out of the mist. Dark stone, thick as a man's arm span, covered in vines. Moss grew in thick patches, soft and green. The wall was easily twice the height of a man—tall enough to make anyone standing at its base feel small. The vines had woven themselves into a living lattice, and the stone beneath them was dark and solid.
A gate. Closed.
Cheng Wei's heart stopped. For one eternal, soul-crushing moment, he saw it all end here. Pinned against the wall like insects, torn apart while the people inside listened.
"Help!" he screamed. His voice was a ragged tear in the night. "Open the gate! GOBLINS! WE HAVE WOUNDED!"
Mei was crying openly now, the sounds raw and primal. Feng had stopped running. He turned, planting his feet in the dirt, holding his kitchen knife in a two-handed grip. His back was against the cold stone. He would not die running.
"Feng, don't—" Cheng Wei started.
"They're coming," Feng said quietly. His voice was calm now. He had made his peace. "I'll buy you time."
The Scarred One was thirty meters out. It had slowed to a walk, savoring the moment. Its orange eyes reflected the faint glow of the wall. Twenty meters. It raised a hand, and the chittering of the pack behind it fell silent. It was the only sound now—the soft pad of its bare, calloused feet on the dirt road.
Then the gate groaned.
It swung inward with a sound like the earth yawning, and a wave of warm, golden light spilled out into the cold dark. It smelled of woodsmoke and cooking herbs.
Wei's father stood in the gap. He was a silhouette at first, broad and immovable, with a heavy scythe held loosely in one hand. The blade gleamed in the lantern light. Behind him stood Wei, a hunting bow in his hands, an arrow nocked but not yet drawn. Hao was beside him, bow also raised. And beside Wei stood Hei.
The dog did not bark. He did not growl. He simply stepped forward, his massive paws silent on the stone. The fur along his spine bristled, and a low sound—a sound that was felt in the chest rather than heard in the ears—vibrated through the air. It was a sound that bypassed the brain and spoke directly to the ancient, lizard part of the soul that remembered being prey.
The Scarred One stopped.
It stared at Hei. Its orange eyes narrowed, calculating. It sniffed the air, tasting the scent of the dog. Its hand tightened on its blade. For a long, tense moment, the world held its breath.
Then the Scarred One took a step back. Then another. It let out a sharp, guttural bark, and the pack melted back into the darkness, their yellow eyes winking out one by one.
"Get inside," Wei's father said. His voice was not loud, but it carried absolute authority. "Now."
Cheng Wei staggered through the gate, his legs finally giving out. He fell to his knees on the soft earth of the courtyard. Bai Jun tumbled from his shoulders, groaning softly as he hit the ground.
Song Na pulled Mei inside. Feng backed in last, his knife still raised, his eyes fixed on the empty darkness.
The gate swung shut. The ironwood slammed against stone with a deep, final boom.
And the silence was replaced by the sound of five desperate people gasping for air, and one man bleeding out on the ground.
```
┌─────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ COMBAT LOG │
├─────────────────────────────────────────┤
│ Goblins defeated at the wall: 4 │
│ Credits earned: 8 (2 per goblin) │
│ Total credits: 628 │
│ Experience: 421/1000 toward Tier 3 │
└─────────────────────────────────────────┘
```
---
Wei's mother was already moving.
She knelt in the dirt beside Bai Jun, her hands—gnarled from years of working the fields, but steady—pressing against the wound in his back. The lantern light fell on the torn flesh, the white flash of a rib bone. Her face remained impassive, a mask of focused calm.
"More light," she said, her voice cutting through the chaos.
Wei brought the lantern close.
"The barn," Wei's mother said. "We move him now. The cold will kill him faster than the blade."
Song Na pushed forward, her nurse's bag already open. "I'm a nurse. Let me help."
Wei's mother looked at her, took in the blood-soaked clothes, the steady hands, the set of her jaw. She nodded once. "The barn. Now."
They carried him to the barn. Feng held his legs, Cheng Wei his shoulders, Song Na his head. Mei followed, her hand pressed against her belly, her face pale.
The barn was dim, lit only by a single lantern. Hay bales lined the walls. The floor was packed earth. There were no animals inside—just the five survivors and the Zhangs who helped them.
They laid Bai Jun on a clean pallet of straw. Wei's grandmother appeared from the shadows, her movements slow but deliberate. She carried a clay pot of steaming water infused with herbs that smelled sharply of antiseptic.
"We need to clean it," Song Na said, her voice trembling only slightly. She pulled out the suture kit, the curved needle gleaming in the light. "Then stitch. There's... there's a lot of damage."
Cheng Wei held Bai Jun's shoulders. Feng held his legs. Song Na poured the hot herbal water into the wound, washing away the blackened blood and debris. Bai Jun's body arched, a silent scream caught in his throat, but he didn't wake.
Song Na worked. Her hands, which had been shaking moments ago, were now as steady as a machine.
She stitched the deep muscle layer first, then the subcutaneous tissue, and finally pulled the torn edges of skin together with small, precise sutures. The thread was coarse, meant for leather, but it was strong. It would hold.
When she finished, she sat back on her heels. Her hands were covered in blood up to the elbows. She looked up at Wei's mother, who had been watching silently.
"That's all I can do," Song Na whispered. "The rest is up to him."
Wei's mother placed a cool, damp cloth on Bai Jun's forehead. "He is strong. His pulse is weak, but it is steady. He will fight." She looked at the group of ragged, terrified people huddled in her barn. "You are safe here. For now. Rest."
---
The rest of the survivors sat in a circle near the barn door.
Cheng Wei leaned against the wall, his arm wrapped, his face pale. Mei was curled against him, her eyes closed, her breathing shallow. Feng sat with his back straight, watching the door, his knife still in his hand.
Song Na didn't leave Bai Jun's side.
Wei's father stood at the entrance. His face was unreadable.
"You saved each other," he said. "Back there. You didn't run. You fought."
Cheng Wei looked up. "He's my friend. I wasn't going to leave him."
"And the others?"
"They stayed. They helped."
Wei's father nodded slowly. "You're not like the Lins."
"We're not like anyone," Cheng Wei said. "We're just trying to survive."
Wei's father was silent for a long moment. The lantern light flickered, casting shadows on the walls.
Then he said, "You can stay. Until he heals."
Cheng Wei's eyes widened. "We can't—"
"You can stay," Wei's father repeated. "In the barn. We'll bring you food. Water. Bandages."
"We'll work," Cheng Wei said quickly. "Anything. We'll work in the fields. We'll help with the wall. We'll do whatever you need."
"We'll be your servants," Feng said quietly. "If that's what it takes. We'll hunt rats for our own food. We'll sleep in the dirt. Just let us stay. A few days. A week. However long he needs."
Wei's father shook his head. "No servants. Just people helping people."
Mei opened her eyes. Tears ran down her cheeks. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you."
Song Na looked up from Bai Jun. Her face was wet. "I thought he was going to die. I thought—" She stopped. Swallowed. "Thank you."
Wei's mother put a hand on her shoulder. "Rest now. We'll watch over him."
---
Dawn came grey and cold.
Wei walked to the tree. The fruits were larger now, their skins deep crimson, almost purple, threaded with veins of gold that pulsed like slow heartbeats. The air around them was warm, thick with a sweet, heavy scent.
He placed his hand on the trunk. A panel appeared.
```
┌─────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ TREE OF LIFE │
├─────────────────────────────────────────┤
│ Tier 2 | Legendary │
│ Growth: 18% to next tier │
│ │
│ Daily credit absorption: +20 │
│ Credits: 628 → 648 │
│ │
│ Fruits ripening: 30 │
│ Time remaining: 8 hours, 42 minutes │
└─────────────────────────────────────────┘
```
Eight hours. By evening, they would be ripe.
Another panel appeared, smaller, pulsing with gold light.
```
┌─────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ NEW SKILL UNLOCKED: OATH OF THE HEARTH │
├─────────────────────────────────────────┤
│ Those who swear loyalty to you gain │
│ minor blessings (+0.5 to all stats). │
│ The oath is for life. Once sworn, │
│ they cannot harm you, your family, │
│ or the farm. Consent is required. │
└─────────────────────────────────────────┘
```
Wei stared at the panel. Oath of the Hearth. The tree had given him this because he had brought people in. Because he was building something more than a farm.
He dismissed the panel and walked back to the house.
---
After breakfast, Wei went to the orchard.
The harvesting was slow, meditative. He moved from tree to tree, plucking common fruits, filling his inventory. The credits trickled in.
```
Credits: 648 → 653 → 658 → 663 → 668
Experience: 421 → 423 → 425 → 427 → 429
```
He found a cluster of amber pears—uncommon low, ten credits each.
```
Credits: 668 → 678 → 688 → 698
Experience: 429 → 433 → 437 → 441
```
He found a sunstone persimmon—common high, eight credits.
```
Credits: 698 → 706
Experience: 441 → 444
```
He picked more common fruits, working steadily until his basket was full.
```
Credits: 706 → 711 → 716 → 721 → 726 → 731 → 736 → 741 → 746 → 751
Experience: 444 → 446 → 448 → 450 → 452 → 454 → 456 → 458 → 460 → 462
```
He stopped when his arms ached. The morning's work had brought his credits to seven hundred fifty-one and his experience to four hundred sixty-two.
He sat down at the base of the oldest apple tree and ate a common peach. The flesh was sweet, the juice warm. He closed his eyes and listened to the wind in the leaves.
---
Cheng Wei found him there.
"You've been out here all morning," he said, sitting down on the grass beside Wei. His wounded arm was still wrapped, but he moved it more freely now. The bandages were clean, and he didn't wince as much as he had yesterday.
"Harvesting," Wei said, not looking up.
Cheng Wei looked at the trees, at the fruit still hanging heavy on the branches. He was quiet for a long moment, just watching the leaves move in the breeze. Then he said, "You have a lot."
"We do."
"You're not worried about sharing?"
Wei turned to look at him. "Should I be?"
Cheng Wei picked up a fallen peach, turned it over in his hands. It was soft, almost too ripe. "The Lins. They had food too. Not much. But they hid it. Hoarded it. When we asked for help, they threw bread at our feet. Like we were dogs." He set the peach down. "I'm not saying you're like them. I'm just saying... it's hard to trust anyone now."
"I'm not the Lins."
"I know." Cheng Wei rubbed his face with his good hand. He looked tired. "That's why we stayed. That's why we want to stay. You opened the gate. You didn't have to."
Wei nodded. "You were bleeding. Your friend was dying. There was no choice."
"There's always a choice." Cheng Wei's voice was quiet. "You could have pretended not to hear us. Could have left us out there. No one would have blamed you. Goblins are dangerous. You have your own family to protect."
Wei didn't answer. He couldn't argue with that, because it was true. He had thought about it, for just a moment, before his father said open the gate. He had thought about the risk.
Cheng Wei seemed to sense it. "But you didn't," he said. "So here we are."
"Here we are."
"We'll work," Cheng Wei said. "We'll pull our weight. We're not charity cases."
"I know."
"But you're still not sure about us."
Wei looked at him. "It's not about being sure. It's about trust. Trust takes time."
Cheng Wei nodded slowly. "Fair enough."
They sat in silence for a while, watching the leaves move in the breeze. A bird sang somewhere in the distance—a small, hopeful sound.
---
That afternoon, Wei found Liu Wei in the courtyard.
Liu Wei was sitting on a bench near the well, Jun asleep in his arms. The boy's cheeks had color now. His breathing was steady, and his small fists were curled against his chest.
"He's getting stronger," Wei said, sitting down beside him.
Liu Wei nodded. "He's been eating. Sleeping. The fever hasn't come back." He looked at Wei. "Your family saved his life."
"We helped. You did the rest."
Liu Wei was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "The others. They want to stay."
"I know."
"They'll work. They'll help. They're good people."
Wei nodded slowly. "I know."
Liu Wei looked at him. "But you're not sure."
"It's not about being sure." Wei paused. He had been thinking about the new skill all morning. Oath of the Hearth. It was a way to bind people to the farm, to make them part of the family. But it required consent. And trust.
"There's something I can do," Wei said. "A bond. An oath. If you swear loyalty to this place, you'll get stronger. Healthier. But you can never betray the farm or the family."
Liu Wei studied him. "What kind of oath?"
"The kind you can't break. It's for life."
Liu Wei was silent for a long moment. He looked down at his son, then back at Wei. "You're asking me to trust you."
"I'm asking you to stay."
Liu Wei looked at the tree. It looked like any other tree—tall, leafy, unremarkable. But he had felt something when he first came through the gate. A warmth. A safety. He had thought it was just relief, but now he wasn't so sure.
"I've already decided," he said. "I'm staying."
Wei held out his hand.
The moment their palms touched, Wei felt the tree pulse behind him. A warmth flowed from his chest, down his arm, into Liu Wei. The other man gasped, his eyes widening.
"I feel..." Liu Wei flexed his free hand. "Stronger. Lighter. Like there's a fire inside me, but it's not burning. It's just... there."
"That's the bond," Wei said. "It's for life."
Liu Wei looked at his hands. "I can feel the farm. The earth." He looked up at Wei. "I can feel you."
Wei nodded. "Welcome to the family."
A panel appeared only to Wei.
```
Liu Wei swears the Oath of the Hearth.
Stats increased by 0.5.
Loyalty bound for life.
```
Wei dismissed it.
---
That evening, the dog came back.
Hei had been gone all day—roaming the perimeter, hunting, Wei assumed. A full day and night had passed since the goblin attack, and the dog had been restless, pacing the wall, sniffing the wind.
When he returned, he was not the same.
Hao was the first to see him. He was sitting on the porch, cleaning his bow, when a shadow detached itself from the darkness near the barn and padded silently toward him.
"What the hell?" Hao whispered.
Hei was larger. His shoulders were broader, his chest deeper. His fur had darkened to a deep charcoal, and when he moved through the shadows near the barn, he seemed to disappear—his body blending into the darkness as if he were made of it. His eyes, once warm brown, were now a pale amber that reflected the dying light.
Wei came out of the house. Hei turned and padded toward him. His movements were silent, fluid. When he passed under the eaves of the house, he vanished into the darkness—then reappeared on the other side, as if he had walked through the wall itself.
A panel appeared in Wei's vision.
```
┌─────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ SHADOWFANG (Evolved) - Tier 2 │
├─────────────────────────────────────────┤
│ Strength: 6.8 │
│ Agility: 8.4 │
│ Physical Resilience: 7.2 │
│ Intelligence: 5.5 │
│ │
│ Special: Shadow Blend - Can merge │
│ with darkness, becoming nearly │
│ invisible at night. │
│ Silent Step - Makes no sound │
│ when moving. │
│ Loyal to the death. │
└─────────────────────────────────────────┘
```
Wei stared at the panel. Shadowfang. The name suited him.
"He's different," Hao said, walking closer. "He's bigger. And his eyes..."
"He's still Hei," Wei said. "He just... changed. Some animals mutate into monsters. Some keep their sanity. He kept his."
Hao shook his head. "I've seen dogs go feral. They attack anything that moves. He's not like that."
"No. He's not."
Cheng Wei had come out of the barn. He stood at the door, watching. His face was pale.
"That dog," he said. "He wasn't that big yesterday."
"He mutated," Wei said. "But he didn't go berserk. He's still Hei."
Cheng Wei stared at the dog. "I've seen animals change. The Lins' pigs turned into something else. They attacked anyone who came near."
"These didn't."
"How do you know?"
"Because they haven't."
Cheng Wei was silent for a long moment. Then he said, "This place. It's different."
"Yes."
Song Na came to the door. She looked at Hei, at his size, at his glowing eyes. "Is it safe?"
"He's safer than most people," Wei said.
Feng said nothing. He just stared at the dog from his post by the barn door, his hand tightening on his knife. Then, slowly, he relaxed. Hei was not attacking. Hei was watching the gate.
As if to prove it, Hei padded over to Song Na and pressed his head against her hand. She flinched, then relaxed. Her fingers touched his fur.
"He's warm," she said.
"He's a dog," Wei said. "That's all."
---
That night, the survivors ate in the barn.
Wei's mother had sent out food—enough for everyone. Cheng Wei ate with his good hand, his wounded arm wrapped in clean bandages. Mei sat beside him, eating slowly, her free hand resting on her belly. Feng ate in silence, his eyes moving from face to face.
Bai Jun was still too weak to sit up, so Song Na brought him a bowl of congee, spoon-fed him like a child, wiped his chin with a cloth.
Cheng Wei set down his chopsticks. "We need to talk about the goblins."
Wei leaned against the doorframe. "What about them?"
"After the Lins left, we saw them. Groups. Moving through the ruins. Not just scouts. Whole packs." Cheng Wei's voice was low. "There's a settlement somewhere. East of the town, maybe. We saw torches at night."
"How many?"
"Hard to say. Dozens. Maybe more."
Feng spoke. "They're organized. They have leaders—bigger ones, with bone necklaces. They're not just animals."
Wei's father appeared behind Wei. "How do you know?"
"Because they didn't attack all at once," Feng said. "They sent scouts first. Then the group that hit us was larger. They're testing."
Wei's father nodded slowly. "Testing for what?"
"For weakness," Bai Jun said. His voice was weak but steady. "For a way in."
No one spoke.
Then Cheng Wei cursed. A long, low stream of words that painted the Lins in colors no painter would use. "They left us. Threw bread at our feet like we were dogs. Walked away without looking back."
"Lin Tao said we were dead weight," Feng added. "Said we'd slow them down."
Song Na's hands tightened around her bowl. "He looked at me and said—" She stopped. Swallowed. "He said if I stayed with him, he'd give me food. Not share. Give. Like I was something to be bought."
Wei's mother's face went cold. "He said that?"
"He said worse."
Cheng Wei's hands were shaking. "If I ever see him again—"
"You won't," Wei's father said. "Not here. The Lins are gone."
"They'll come back," Bai Jun said. "When they run out of food. When they get desperate. They'll come back."
Wei's father looked at him. "Then we'll be ready."
---
Late that night, Hei proved his worth.
Wei was on the wall, the second watch. The moon had set, and the darkness was absolute. He couldn't see ten feet beyond the wall.
He heard it before he saw it—a soft scrape, like stone on stone. Then a chitter.
Hei was beside him in an instant, silent, his amber eyes glowing in the dark. The dog didn't bark. He simply slipped over the edge of the wall and disappeared into the darkness below.
Wei heard a screech. A wet, crunching sound. Then silence.
A moment later, Hei climbed back up the wall, his muzzle dark with black blood. He dropped something at Wei's feet—a goblin's hand, still clutching a stone knife.
A panel appeared.
```
┌─────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ COMBAT LOG │
├─────────────────────────────────────────┤
│ Shadowfang defeated a goblin scout. │
│ Credits earned: 2 │
│ Total credits: 753 │
│ Experience: 464/1000 toward Tier 3 │
└─────────────────────────────────────────┘
```
Wei looked out into the darkness. The scout was dead. The others, if there were any, had fled.
Hei sat down, his shoulder pressing against Wei's leg, and stared out into the night.
Wei put a hand on his head. "Good boy."
Hei's tail thumped once against the stone.
---
Deep in the ruins of Hengyang, the Scarred One sat on a pile of rubble.
It was larger than the other goblins—nearly five and a half feet tall, with shoulders that hunched and arms that hung low to the ground. Its skin was the color of old bruises, crisscrossed with scars from countless fights. Its eyes were a deep, burning orange, like embers from a dying fire.
Around its neck hung a necklace of human finger bones, each one cleaned and polished. In its hand, it held a blade made from a car's leaf spring, jagged and heavy.
The pack chittered around it, squabbling over a rat they had caught. The Scarred One ignored them. It was thinking. That was the dangerous part.
The scout had not returned. The one with the fastest feet, the one it had sent to circle the stone wall and find a way in. It should have been back by now.
The Scarred One tossed the bone aside and stood. It barked an order—short, sharp, commanding. Two of the smaller goblins, the ones with the sharpest ears, scurried off into the dark. They would find the scout. They would find out what had happened.
The Scarred One sat back down. It would wait. It was good at waiting.
The stone wall was strong. The dog was strong. But nothing lasted forever. Walls crumbled. Dogs grew old. And the Scarred One had patience.
It picked up another bone and began to pick its teeth.
---
That night, Wei sat under the tree and watched the stars.
The fruits were nearly ripe now—their skins deep crimson, almost purple, the gold veins pulsing faster. The air around them was warm, almost hot, like standing near a fire.
He placed his hand on the trunk.
```
┌─────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ TREE OF LIFE │
├─────────────────────────────────────────┤
│ Tier 2 | Legendary │
│ Growth: 22% to next tier │
│ │
│ Fruits ripening: 30 │
│ Time remaining: 2 hours, 15 minutes │
└─────────────────────────────────────────┘
```
Tonight. They would be ripe tonight.
His mother came out and sat beside him.
"Six more people," she said.
"Seven," Wei said. "Including the baby."
She was quiet for a moment. "We'll need more food."
"I'll harvest more."
She put her hand on his. "You're doing good work, Wei."
"I'm just trying to keep everyone alive."
"That's the same thing."
---
The tree's leaves rustled. The gold light pulsed.
Wei closed his eyes and listened to the night.
The dogs were quiet. The animals were calm. The family was together.
And now, there were others. Scared, grateful, desperate. People who would work. People who would fight.
The world outside was still burning.
But here, inside the wall, there was peace.
For now.
---
End of Chapter Eight