Chapter Thirty-Three: Indifference to Life Is the Norm

"Ahhh!" The old beggar let out a wail of agony so harrowing it seemed as if his very soul would be vomited forth from his gaping mouth.

His frail body was brutally impaled through the shoulder by a steel pipe, nailing him to the wall beside him. From the hollow shaft, scarlet liquid with a pungent scent continued to gush forth.

“Damn it... damn bastard...” After a bout of furious howling, the old beggar forced himself to suppress the urge to continue screaming his pain. His eyes widened, staring fixedly at the corner of the wall, terrified that Qi Chen would catch up with him at this moment.

If he were pressed into close combat now, he would have no chance of survival.

“Heart of the Beggar!” Gritting his teeth and enduring the pain, he summoned his anomaly. The pallid skeleton hovering in midair swayed as it floated to his side, bony hand gripping the steel pipe and exerting force!

“Ugh...” Biting down hard on his lip to stifle any cry, the old beggar broke out in a cold sweat as the pipe was drawn inch by inch from his shoulder, feeling as if half his life had been torn away at once.

This was no fleeting injury. The gaping wound in his shoulder continued to pour blood, and as his life ebbed with every drop, his consciousness grew more and more blurred. The side of him that belonged to the anomaly began to overshadow his reason—indeed, it was already starting to take control.

Turning to meet the skeleton’s hollow gaze, the old beggar rose unsteadily, his trembling form drawn upright. His eyes locked onto the nearest residence, and a slow, twisted smile crept across his lips.

The commotion just now seemed to have roused the residents within.

“Let’s... find some more kind souls to help us.”

...

“Don’t think you can get away from me!” Qi Chen hopped on one leg, sweat beading on his brow, his shirt soaked through at the back.

He had moved using the Tyrant’s Throw earlier; though it hadn’t killed him, the repeated impacts with the ground had left him bruised all over.

Supporting himself on the broken branch of the Tyrant as a makeshift cane, Qi Chen grimly made his way to the wall, only to find the old beggar gone.

“You won’t get far,” he growled, fury flickering in his eyes. He fixed his gaze on a smashed opening in the wall, fresh blood trailing down from the hole to the ground below, the uneven floor dotted with droplets that formed a clear path.

Even without formal tracking skills, it was obvious he should follow the bloody trail to hunt the beggar.

But as he saw where the blood led, some of the fire in his heart smoldered and died away. It was a private residence, a two-story house wedged between taller commercial buildings—a feature of cities in the post-mist era, where commercial and residential zones were no longer clearly separated.

Without another word, leaning heavily on his makeshift cane, Qi Chen set his jaw and hurried toward the house as fast as his injured body would allow.

He could only hope... he wasn’t too late.

...

He approached the house cautiously, fists clenching tight. The door stood ajar, and the beggar’s blood trail extended inside rather than stopping at the threshold.

Yet the house was as silent as the grave, though the living room light was inexplicably left burning in the dead of night.

In the era of the mist, what ordinary person could afford such extravagance—leaving lights on all night?

Treading lightly, Qi Chen stepped inside. His temples throbbed, veins bulging beneath the skin, betraying his inner turmoil.

He immediately noticed a family portrait set conspicuously on the living room table, now stained with a splatter of crimson, as if ink had been spilt across its surface.

Beside the table lay a man, utterly motionless.

Approaching with care, Qi Chen saw that the man’s shoulder had been entirely torn away, blood pouring from the gaping wound and pooling darkly across the floor.

A heavy, involuntary breath escaped his lips, as though a boulder had settled in his chest.

Judging by the number of people in the family portrait, there should be two others in the house.

His eyelids twitched uncontrollably as he slowly turned toward the wooden staircase leading upstairs, pale light from energy-saving bulbs spilling across the old steps. But the upper floor was as silent as the living room below.

He could guess what had happened—a surge of uncontainable rage erupted from his chest!

Thud, thud, thud!

The cane rapped sharply on the floor as Qi Chen, holding his breath, mustered surprising speed despite his near-useless leg, dashing up the wooden stairs.

As he reached the landing, a pallid skeleton burst from the shadows behind the stairs!

“Out of my way!”

The Tyrant roared, launching a heavy punch. At this height of fury, Qi Chen’s formidable mental strength seemed to further enhance his power. The blow landed on the skeleton’s chest with greater speed and force than before, shattering several ribs with a sickening crack.

From within the second-floor bedroom, an eerie, fluctuating presence emanated.

“Go get that bastard!” Qi Chen commanded. The Tyrant ignored the fleeing skeleton that vanished into the shadows and charged into the bedroom.

Two shrill screams erupted the instant Qi Chen burst in. Two boys, clutching each other tightly in the corner, stared in terror at this uninvited intruder.

Qi Chen froze, nostrils flaring as he caught the scent of blood.

On the bed lay a skeleton, picked clean of flesh—judging by its size, it could have been the old beggar or one of the two not-yet-grown boys.

In these lean times, malnutrition often left the bones of adolescents little different from those of the elderly.

Frowning, Qi Chen licked his dry lips and surveyed the bedroom, inching closer to the two boys.

The closer he got, the more frightened they became, faces ashen, on the verge of fainting from terror.

“Tyrant!” a thunderous roar suddenly rang out.

The Tyrant’s eyes flared, the mask of black and white twisting as it swung its fist at the two boys!

But in a flash, one boy pulled the other in front of him—only for the Tyrant’s fist to halt abruptly.

“Ordinary people can’t see anomalies,” Qi Chen said coldly, eyes fixed on the boy cowering behind the other.

“I underestimated you, kid. I didn’t think you’d realize so quickly I was using my anomaly.”

The boy—or rather, the old beggar, now inhabiting a new body thanks to his anomaly—lifted his head, staring intently at Qi Chen.

Begging for new bodies, taking on new identities—this had become his innate survival instinct.

Ordinary people lacked the mental strength of anomaly walkers. The Heart of the Beggar could forcibly seize a new body in the blink of an eye.

“None of these bodies satisfied me. Perhaps you’d like to be a kind soul and help?” Holding his hostage, the old beggar’s confidence grew. He eyed Qi Chen’s body with hunger, licking his lips.

Perhaps, if he took over this one, he could even infiltrate the Anomaly Bureau for his grander plans.

“Heh.

“So that... is your last wish?”

...