Shuoxi · Chat

【First Encounter Outside】 --- The wind poured in from the direction of the rift valley, carrying the smell of rust and scorched earth. You crouched behind a collapsed section of concrete pipe, your knees pressed against the gravel, trying to pull out a mutated spine stuck in the seam of your armor—it had barbs, tearing into the bulletproof fibers, and blood seeped out, dampening half your sleeve. You didn't hear any footsteps. But the light overhead suddenly dimmed a bit, and a shadow fell diagonally over you from behind, very tall and very wide, completely blocking the entrance of the pipe. You jerked your head up— He stood three paces away. A black wolf beastman, his dark wolf ears standing erect in the backlight, their edges outlined in a narrow, bright silhouette by the dim sky of the wasteland. He was more than a head taller than you, his shoulders so broad they seemed capable of filling the entire exit of the pipe. His coarse, short hair swayed slightly in the wind, but his amber-gold eyes were fixed unblinkingly on you—narrowed, slightly squinted, as if inspecting a piece of something that had popped out of a crack in the ground on its own, unsure if it was useful or should just be crushed. He wore a heavily worn black tactical vest, arms bare, covered from wrist bone to collarbone with crisscrossing old scars of varying depths, like a map that had been repeatedly traced. He carried no weapon—or rather, disdained pointing one at you—his left hand hanging casually by his thigh, with blunt black claws protruding slightly from his fingertips, gleaming dull in the dim light of the pipe's mouth. His pheromones surged over heavily. Tar, rust, and a stagnant atmospheric pressure like the eve of a blizzard, thick as a layer of oil film clinging to your skin. Your throat tightened, your breathing grew heavy, and your heart felt as if it were being gently squeezed by something. He tilted his head. The movement was very slow, like a large predator making a final confirmation—will you run, will you bite, are you a living thing worth wasting a few seconds on. His wolf ears tilted two degrees to the left, his nostrils twitched ever so slightly, and then his eyelids lifted. Those eyes, previously half-drooped, lazy, and seemingly uninterested in anything, revealed a deep light the moment they opened—cold, sharp, a crystal-clear predatory scrutiny sweeping from your forehead to your fingers, down to that spine still oozing blood at your fingertips. Silence. For about three or four seconds, the wind from the rift valley blew in, making your back feel cold, while he didn't even blink. Then he spoke, his voice low and raspy, like gravel grinding on an iron plate, devoid of ups and downs, yet so sharp it made your eardrums tense for a moment: “……Did you walk here on your own, or did someone send you?” He didn't move or step closer as he said this, but the feeling of being cornered grew heavier—his shadow stretched past you, covering your entire retreat in darkness, as if the exit of this pipe had already been sealed off by his scent. You subconsciously nudged back half an inch, your heel scraping against the gravel with a faint sound. He caught it. His wolf ears turned slightly in your direction, an extremely subtle movement, like a radar locking onto a target. The corners of his mouth didn't curve, and his expression didn't change, but those amber-gold eyes suddenly sank half a degree, as if confirming—confirming you had no intention of escaping. Then he took a step forward. Just one step, not a large stride, landing extremely steadily. His heavy combat boots ground over the gravel without making any extra noise. His pheromones grew thicker as he approached, the smell of tar mixing with a faint, warm, metallic scent of blood, like a large beast leaving a scent mark on the edge of its territory. He stopped in front of you, looking down at you, close enough for you to see a faint old scar on his jawline—not long, about half a pinky finger's length, stretching diagonally from the corner of his mouth to below his ear. “……A person appearing at these coordinates on the wasteland only means one of two things,” he said, his voice low as if talking to himself, but every word pressed heavily upon you. “Either a fool who is tired of living, or—” He paused. His gaze fell on your bleeding armor, then back to your face, as if comparing something. “……A spy sent by Base Seven.” When he spoke the words “Base Seven,” his tone didn't change at all, but you noticed the hand hanging by his side—the blunt claws at his fingertips extended a fraction of an inch, like a blade silently sliding half an inch out of its sheath. His pupils contracted in the dim light, narrowing into thin vertical slits, like the crosshairs on a scope. The wind blew in again, his wolf ears tilting back slightly before quickly snapping back into place. He waited for your answer.