Chapter 109: This Is Honor

When I first came in, the sunlight was intense, but now it had turned dark.

The forest, already dark from excessive lushness, had grown pitch-black; Thomas cursed Britain’s fickle weather, looked up at the sky through the gaps, and a drop of rain landed on his face, followed by a torrential downpour soaking him head to toe.

He had followed the trail for three hours; even if he turned back now, he’d be soaked anyway—better to keep pursuing.

She’s just a young, slender girl; her stamina must be worse than mine—maybe I’ll catch up any moment now.

Besides, considering sunk costs, I’ve already chased this long; giving up now would be a waste. Could I just watch this girl get devoured by beasts?

Thomas pulled out his phone and checked the time—it was past three in the afternoon.

Suddenly, amid the roaring rain, a beast’s roar echoed from somewhere.

A chill ran down Thomas’s spine; he quickly drew his gun, pressed his back against a tree, and scanned the surroundings warily.

Leaves thrashed wildly under the heavy rain—nothing was there.

Thomas suddenly remembered something, his face filled with panic. “Frisa!” he shouted.

His voice dissolved into the downpour.

He gritted his teeth, ignored his soaked body, and sprinted toward the direction of the sound.

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Yang Yi stood in the heavy rain; the drumming sound blocked her perception—sound, scent, air currents—all shattered by this storm.

She did not give up. She chose a relatively open clearing, closed her eyes, spread her arms, and relied on instinct and feeling to sense the black panther’s presence from every direction.

Closer, closer—it’s nearby…

On a high, dense branch of a beech tree far away, a black shadow lay perfectly still.

Its yellow-irised eyes had contracted pupils into tiny black holes; this forest hunter had already locked onto its prey, ready to strike with lethal precision…

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Thomas ran through the forest for another dozen minutes; his entire body was soaked, his black shirt and trousers clinging tightly to his skin like a straitjacket.

The rain hadn’t stopped—it pounded his head and face, blurring his vision, leaving him unable to see anything.

By the time he realized he’d run the wrong way, he was lost.

He tried retracing his steps, but the torrent had erased all traces—not just the girl’s footprints, but even his own path was gone.

His heart pounded with fear. Had the girl already been eaten by beasts?

It was pointless to hide her disappearance now. He pulled out his phone to call for help, pressed a few buttons—the screen didn’t light up.

He panicked completely, fumbling for the power button; the black screen mocked him.

His phone had taken in water—it wouldn’t turn on.

He trembled as he shoved the phone into his pant pocket, picked up his gun again, and carefully scanned the surroundings for signs of his path.

The rain had lessened slightly, but he was drenched; the forest was colder than anywhere else, chill seeping through his clothes straight into his organs—he shivered.

A distant beast howled; he froze, nervously scanning his surroundings.

His leg burned with pain; he looked down—somehow his pant leg had been torn by thorns, and several jagged wounds on his calf were oozing blood.

Though not severe, under these conditions, infection was highly likely.

He forced himself to stay calm, carefully studied his path, and began walking back.

After more than ten minutes, he had to admit—he was truly lost.

The rain intensified again; his body grew colder, and he shuddered involuntarily.

He couldn’t keep walking like this—he needed shelter from the rain.

Hypothermia: when the body loses heat faster than it can produce it, causing core temperature to drop, triggering shivering, confusion, and failure of heart and lung function—severe cases lead to death. He recalled a random science article he’d seen.

News stories surfaced in his mind: explorers in forests devoured by beasts; others lost in the woods, dying in despair from malnutrition, hunger, cold, and untreated illness.

He felt regret—he’d been too reckless and impulsive. He should’ve prepared better, or asked for help—even grabbing a lighter or raincoat from his car would’ve helped.

Now, all regret was too late. He looked around, searching for a place to take shelter.

But he was disappointed.

The trees stood thick and tall, the shrubs dense and lush—Britain’s deciduous trees were so coldly indifferent.

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The sky darkened—it was already evening.

In a clearing in the forest, everything was in chaos: grass and muddy water mixed, shrubs crushed flat, thick tree trunks splattered with blood.

The rain still fell; black mud mixed with crimson blood, turning murky, washed away by streams carved by the downpour.

In the center of the clearing, Yang Yi lay on the ground, letting the rain pour over her. Her teeth and lips were stained with blood; her white knit sweater was drenched in mud, blood, and plant sap, unrecognizable—like a ragged cloth hanging on her body. Every inch of her was wounded.

Beside her lay a black panther, its size similar to hers—slender, muscular, elegantly streamlined—with a fatal wound at its throat, torn open by brute force.

Every part of Yang Yi ached, but this excruciating pain filled her with exhilaration. She lay in the mud, her bloodied lips splitting into a grin, revealing teeth caked with blood and shredded flesh—she laughed with pure joy.

She had never felt this free—not even on the day she gained her psychic power, not even after defeating the Fire Demon, slaying the Brain-Eaters, killing the Reproductive Abominations, or toppling the altar—none of those victories gave her even one percent of this joy.

She felt she had gained everything. She had proven to herself: she was not cowardly.

Only now could she proudly say: I am not a coward. I am brave. I am not strong because I have psychic power—I am strong because I am inherently strong.

Though every wound burned with agony, she felt utterly refreshed. She took a long, deep breath, shifted her body, and rested her head on the still-warm corpse of the panther, gently stroking its head with her right hand.

“Sorry, little one,” she murmured, “you just happened to run into my hands. This is proof of courage… this is honor… this is my self-respect… I’m truly sorry…”

Night arrived, and the forest grew darker still. Through gaps in the branches, the sky showed only a faintly luminous overcast.

The rain lessened to a drizzle, cold and sticky drops pattering against her skin.

Yang Yi lay still, unwilling to move. She waited for her wounds to heal. She had proven herself—she had the right to live in this forest.

When dawn comes tomorrow, I’ll find a stream and build a small wooden cabin, planting wildflowers all around. She thought.

Suddenly, a gunshot echoed from afar, followed by a piercing wolf howl.

Yang Yi sat up abruptly, turned her head toward the sound, hesitated a moment, then rose and sprinted toward it.

Cold darkness, damp forest, light rain drizzling.