Book 1

Those with blades howl, grass-eaters flee.

 

Women only scream when they are threatened or injured in a way that isn't life-threatening.
Because extreme terror and despair will cause a person to lose their voice.

An old man, hunched and in tattered clothes, curled up in a corner. One of his legs had been bitten off at the middle , and flesh and pus had mixed into a stinking puddle, releasing a foul, fishy odour—he might be about to die.

Yet his eyes were shockingly bright. Beneath wrinkled, pigment-spotted eyelids, his dark brown pupils shone with a strange, mad light. His gaze was fixed straight toward the sky.

That night’s sky was astonishingly clear, without a single trace of haze. The Milky Way stretched like a silk ribbon, quietly spanning the heavens, slowly flowing as always.

The old man split open his shrivelled lips and formed a chilling smile.

Less than ten steps away, a gigantic beast was sexually assaulting a woman.

Her chest had been torn open by the beast’s claws, leaving a deep wound that exposed bone. Half her body lay soaked in blood, her long black hair like a waterfall stuck to her naked skin.

But after her first scream—hoarse, like rusted metal scraping against rough beast hide—she made no sound again.

Perhaps she was already dead.

Who knows?

The old man slowly turned his head with a crazed, horrifying smile, his gaze landing on the beast.

The entire tribe had already fallen, and this was how they treated prisoners of war: killing all the men, chopping off their heads and carrying them like baskets of rotten fruit; piling children’s bodies on bonfires and roasting them; collecting corpse oil as spoils of war; and finally leaving women—even underage girls—to be violated at will.

The beast had a face covered in scars, bloodshot eyes, and a grotesque body moving rhythmically. Its clawed, hook-like talons tore fresh wounds into the woman again and again. Drool dripped from its mouth as it breathed out foul, panting gasps.

Its ugliness was fully exposed.

Tears suddenly flowed from the old man’s dry eyes, running along the deep wrinkles at the corners. He abruptly turned away, as if unable to bear the sight.

But then he saw something in a nearby bush—two eyes staring unblinkingly at him.

He froze, then realized it was a baby.

The child’s parents had, in their final moments, tried to protect him, hiding him deep within the dense bushes and covering him with their own bodies.

This child was somewhat born at the wrong time. His mother had once been a strong and beautiful woman, but she could not give him a healthy body. Born prematurely amid tribal war, he was frail from birth and struggled even to suckle milk—if he cried too loudly, his chest would turn bluish-purple from lack of breath.

What a pity. A child formed through long and difficult gestation was destined to have a short life.

Moreover, although he was male, he bore no beast markings—meaning he could not transform into a beast. Such people were called “sub-beastmen,” and their physical condition was no better than that of women. Even if he grew up, he would have no combat ability.

His parents had not even had time to give him a name.

The old man found it strange: such a small child seemed to understand survival instinctively. He curled himself quietly within the bushes, not making a sound, watching everything unfold. Without those bright eyes, even the old man would not have noticed him.

With difficulty, the old man reached into his torn clothing and pulled out a small bone token, throwing it toward the baby.

His movement attracted the beast’s attention. It glanced at him, but only disdain filled its blood-red eyes before it lost interest again.

Confirming he had not drawn attention, the old man lowered his head again.

The baby stretched out his tiny hands, barely distinguishable fingers, and grabbed the bone token. Perhaps because his gums were itchy from teething, he immediately instinctively tried to put it into his mouth.

‘What a clever child,’ the old man thought, his eyes flickering. ‘But… it would be better if he could survive.’

Then he forced himself to look away.

Suddenly, he laughed out loud with tears streaming down his face—a hoarse, aged, broken laugh. Like a mad old man at the end of his road, he began to sing an ancient, distorted tune:

“The true gods fell from the heavens, the natural order crumbled,
Alas cruel heavens, man may become beast.
Those with blades howl, grass-eaters flee.
Flee, flee, trembling and hiding…”

Claws tore through the night. The old man’s chilling song abruptly stopped. His head separated from his body, leaving a broken torso still standing stubbornly.

The head, still refusing to close its eyes, finally fell into the muddy forest ground.

His final echo of song seemed to linger in the air like a lingering, haunting soul.

A tall man wiped blood from his hand. Beast-like claws still protruded unnaturally from his muscular arm. Bits of human flesh clung to the fur between the claws.

He kicked the corpse aside and said coldly: “Mu He, what are you still dawdling for?”

The beast whined, withdrew from the cold corpse of the woman, and slowly shrank. Its armoured fur retracted, bones shifting. In moments, it became a scarred man with slanted eyes. His pupils still held a trace of blood-red madness.

“When have the victors been denied even this… small pleasure?” he sneered.

The tall man cast a disgusted glance at the woman’s corpse. “You are disgusting. Hurry up. The chief is counting numbers. This isn’t the final target—we’re leaving.”

He turned away and roared like a beast, dropping to all fours mid-step and transforming into an even larger monster. Each step shook the earth.

“Dog of the Puya family,” the scarred man muttered after he left. He spat on the ground, eyes full of killing intent.

Then he turned back, as if regretful, and blew a mocking kiss toward the woman’s corpse. “Farewell, my little darling.”

The invaders left.

The clear night sky was suddenly covered by distant dark clouds. Stars vanished one by one. Heavy raindrops began falling, quickly forming a pool of diluted blood beside the broken corpses.

The rain intensified.

After an unknown time, a thin young man crawled out from the pile of corpses. He bore no beast markings—just an ordinary sub-beast who did manual labour.

He had lost one arm. His face was filled with terror as he trembled in the rain, surrounded by the bodies of his tribe.

He suddenly sprang up like a madman, shaking each corpse and calling their names. No one responded.

The wound on his shoulder exposed a faint white bone. He staggered, then fell hard again—landing face-to-face with the old man’s head in the mud.

Seeing the pale face, he finally collapsed and wailed.

He felt he too was about to die. The rain would bury him here with everyone else.

He was only a sub-beast, weak and cowardly. When the attack began, he hid to save his life. But the cold rain felt like the gaze of his dead kin, filled with contempt.

He began to vomit violently.

Just as he lay on the ground, on the verge of death, a faint baby’s cry suddenly came from the bushes.

The sound was so soft, like the mew of a kitten just waking up, yet it struck like a sudden clap of thunder, exploding in the man’s ears.

He froze for a moment, then, as if an unknown surge of strength had entered his body, he scrambled to his feet. With only one remaining arm, he desperately pushed aside the corpses near the bushes, parted the blood-soaked, overgrown branches, and there he found a small infant.

The child was not even as long as his forearm. In his hands, he weighed less than a puppy. Unlike other babies, he was not plump or cute—his face was sunken from malnutrition. His features had not yet fully formed, and only his eyes were strikingly large, standing out unnaturally on a face smaller than an adult’s palm.

It seemed the child had used up all his strength just to cry once. His face carried an abnormal bluish-purple hue, and his breathing was so weak it was almost imperceptible.

The man was shocked. Clumsily and in panic, he shoved the baby into his chest, using his narrow shoulder to shield him from the torrential rain, trying to preserve this fragile life with the faint warmth of his body.

At that moment, with a soft “plop,” something fell from the baby’s body—a small bone token.

On it were the words “Chang An” (NT: 长安, long lasting peace), carved with a knife. The edges had been worn smooth and pale from countless touches by its previous owner, clearly very old.

The man crouched down and laboriously picked up the token. Then, while still holding the baby, he took shelter beneath a large tree. Using his teeth, he bit through the cord attached to the token, retied it around the baby’s neck, and warmed the bone piece in his hand before carefully tucking it into the child’s chest.

He looked as though he had accomplished something extraordinary, his face showing a mix of bitterness and relief—foolishly believing that such a small, old bone token might possess some kind of magical power, able to make death spare this child.

Staggering to his feet, as if his near-dead will to survive had been reignited, the man clutched the baby tightly and quickly vanished into the dense forest.

 

Translator : DarNan