The shrieks of Fiends ripped down the corridor—razor-sharp, carving through the dark, each cry stabbing straight at the heart.

  YiChen inhaled once, slow and deep. His axe rested sideways against his thigh, his eyes glacial, unflinching.

  He lifted a hand in signal.

  “Next room. We go together.”

  The burly man fell in step, strides heavy but sure, his fist clenched until the knuckles blanched white.

  YiChen’s voice cut low, even through the din:

  “When you threw your punch earlier—what did you feel?”

  The man scratched at his temple, brow furrowed. After two beats, he muttered,

  “Felt pissed. Wanted to smash ’em. That’s it.”

  “Exactly.” YiChen’s gaze sharpened.

  “Your spirit comes from anger. Crude—but effective.”

  “…What?” The man blinked. Confusion tangled with a flicker of realization.

  “Your left fist glowing red—that wasn’t illusion. That was spirit leaking out. You’ve been using it without knowing. As long as you don’t fear them, you can strike. Aim for the core. Break it—and they die.”

  The man’s eyes widened, then lit with reckless fire. “So I’ve been running in ultimate mode this whole time? Damn—that’s badass!”

  YiChen didn’t answer. Only a curt nod, his stride unbroken.

  They reached the next ward. The door sagged ajar. From inside came faint whimpers—

  and a wet, sucking sound, like marrow drawn through a straw.

  YiChen pushed the door open an inch. His gaze locked.

  On the bed, a woman lay pinned. A Fiend hunched over her chest, tendrils buried deep. Her skin was paper-white, her breath no more than a fraying thread.

  “Mine.”

  The burly man’s growl was feral.

  He charged.

  For all his bulk, he moved like a tiger loosed from chains. His left hook ripped the air, smashing square into the Fiend’s skull.

  Crack!

  The shadow convulsed. Black mist burst apart, spraying foul vapor like a bucket of rot dashed across stone.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  “Ugh—slimy,” he spat, driving his knee down to pin the body. Teeth bared, his roar shook the walls:

  “Die!!”

  Boom—boom—boom!

  Each punch landed like a war drum. The Fiend’s head splintered under the barrage, smoke ripping loose in jagged bursts. At last a gray-black core surfaced, pulsing like a diseased heart.

  Crack!

  His fist crushed it. The brittle sound rang sharp, like ice snapping underfoot.

  The Fiend caved inward, unraveling into smoke—gone.

  The man exhaled hard, chest heaving. Then his grin split wide, wild, bloodied, exultant.

  “That felt damn good!”

  He turned, flashing YiChen a fighter’s grin—raw, defiant.

  “Guess you were right.”

  YiChen’s eyes lingered on the faint crimson glow still curling around his fist. He gave a quiet grunt.

  —That punch had been strong enough.

  And for the first time, he thought:

  maybe he didn’t have to carry this war entirely alone.

  —————

  The fifth floor lay silent.

  The Fiends were gone, but their poison lingered. Black mist drifted down in thin spirals, like ashes falling after paper burned to nothing. The acrid stench clung sharp and bitter, seeping into skin, into breath, into bone.

  The burly man stomped into a ward, rummaged a moment, then emerged grinning. One hand held a grease-stained bundle; the other, a sweating can of cola.

  He thrust them into YiChen’s arms.

  “Here, brother. You look paler than the dead. Eat. It’s not much, but roast chicken’s still roast chicken.”

  YiChen lowered his eyes.

  The chicken was cold, the fat congealed, skin sticky and slick—but the smell was sharp, oily, real. His fingers trembled faintly as he tore the paper open. Even that small act felt heavy.

  Just then, Doctor Mark slid stiffly down from the young man’s back. His legs wavered, but he steadied himself, bracing a hand on YiChen’s shoulder.

  “Still holding on?”

  YiChen bit into the meat. Chewed slowly, mechanically. He didn’t answer—only gave a short nod.

  The weight of his father’s hand—warm, solid—pressed down through his shoulder. For the first time all night, the knot inside him loosened, just slightly.

  “I’m fine,” YiChen rasped at last. The words scraped like steel dragged across stone.

  Then—

  A man stumbled forward, collapsed to his knees. His forehead struck tile with a dull crack.

  “Please!” His sobs tore ragged through the corridor, snot and tears streaming. “Please, the fourth floor—my mother’s still there… her heart’s weak, she can’t run—”

  The burly man surged up, planting himself like a wall of iron between YiChen and the kneeling figure. His roar split the air:

  “Can’t you see he’s about to collapse?! Have you no shame? Stop piling guilt on him!”

  The man flinched back, choking on his words, eyes wide with regret.

  YiChen kept chewing. He never lifted his head.

  Condensation ran down the cola can in his hand. Beads of water traced cold lines across his palm.

  His heartbeat was slow. Steady.

  Each swallow whispered: you are still alive.

  Mark lowered himself to sit beside him. Quiet. His hand rose, patting his son’s back—gentle, steady, like a metronome in the chaos.

  Then YiChen spoke.

  His voice was barely more than a whisper—yet it cut the silence clean.

  “Ten minutes.”

  The corridor froze.

  He tipped the can back. Carbonation burned down his throat, sharp enough to strip the fog from his mind for a heartbeat. He leaned against the wall, eyes closing briefly.

  Again his voice came, quiet, steady, immovable:

  “Give me… ten more minutes.”

  Ten minutes, and he would stand.

  Ten minutes, and he would walk forward again.

  Even if ahead waited nothing but blood.

  Even if ahead waited nothing but fire.