Chapter Two: Lucien [Please Subscribe]

“You are Lucien, the leader of the Lycan tribe!”

Deep within the sewers, in a vast, empty air-raid shelter, a burly white man with wild eyes, long unkempt hair, and a full beard sat brooding in a chair, contemplating the life of a wolf. Suddenly, a voice echoed through the void.

“Who... is there... come out...”

At the sound, Lucien sprang up instantly, his nostrils flaring as he scanned the surroundings with a wary gaze.

“Do you seek revenge for your wife?”

“You know about me—who exactly are you?”

Faced with such a tantalizing question, Lucien fell silent, his eyes intensely tracking the source of the voice. Yet, the fire gradually rising in his gaze betrayed the calm exterior; his emotions were far from settled.

“Who I am is of no consequence. What matters is that if you desire vengeance for your wife, I can offer you the chance.”

“Hah... a little mouse who doesn’t even dare show his face, claiming he can help me avenge her? What a joke.”

Lucien scoffed at the words. Over six centuries, he had mastered the art of suppressing his primal instincts and thinking with cold logic. Mere words were insufficient to sway him.

“Very well, since you insist on meeting me, I suppose it won’t hurt to see you.”

As soon as he spoke, a gigantic toad gradually materialized from the void, with a figure perched atop its head.

“This…”

Compared to ordinary werewolves, Lucien’s senses were undoubtedly sharper. The moment the figure appeared, every cell in his body trembled as if under a mortal threat—a warning from his beastly instincts to keep far away from this perilous creature.

Looking at the scars that marked the figure’s body, he could scarcely imagine the fierce battles that must have inflicted such wounds. It was almost unimaginable that a being with this level of bodily destruction could still survive. In his worldview, such a human simply could not exist.

What was more alarming was that even in his battered state, this creature emanated a lethal threat. One could only imagine the terror it would inspire at full strength.

“Are you a god?”

Lucien had resolved that if the trickster who had toyed with him appeared, he would unleash the wrath of the Werewolf King upon him. But the instant this figure emerged, that thought vanished. He even had a premonition that if he dared to strike, he could not even contend with the toad beneath this mysterious being.

“If you prefer to think so, so be it. As you see, I have sustained injuries during a fierce battle with a formidable foe and require some special items to heal. Should you be willing to serve me as a vassal, I would not withhold certain necessary gifts—for instance, avenging your wife.”

The crimson aura surrounding him surged like smoke on the wind, illuminating the entire shelter. His voice boomed like thunder, and twin fiery suns blazed in his eyes, instantly dispelling the damp chill that lingered in the air.

“By your will, Your Majesty!”

Gazing into the flames that shone like suns in his eyes and the smoky aura enveloping him, Lucien felt as if Death itself had fixed its gaze upon him. His heart trembled deeply. Without hesitation, he dropped to one knee and bowed his head in submission.

He knew that before such unimaginable power, he had no right to refuse. He harbored no doubt that should he dare to decline, this mysterious being would reduce him to ashes in an instant.

“Good. I admire those who recognize the times. Arrange a quiet place for me—I need to heal.”

Lucien, still kneeling, received a nod of satisfaction. In truth, the figure before him was far weaker than he appeared, almost fragile—a fact that explained why he had sought out the Lycan tribe.

The battle over the Dragon Essence had brought him a sobering realization: he was not yet strong enough to roam recklessly. This world was far more complex than he had imagined. The Central Plains were home to many who had ascended to the Immortal Realm. The foreign tribes beyond were surely not simple either. Before reaching that level himself, he would need to keep a low profile and avoid attracting the attention of powerful factions.

“No, I do not require a closed environment. What I need is an open space.”

Looking at the enclosed chamber, he shook his head. Such a place was utterly unsuitable for kindling a fire to temper and purify his body fluids. Healing through mere cultivation would take an indeterminate amount of time for wounds such as his.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty! Since the rise of firearms, the Lycan tribe’s living space has been compressed to the utmost. At present, we cannot provide a suitable environment for your recuperation.”

Seeing the dissatisfaction on his face, Lucien immediately knelt, shamefully explaining.

“I require an open place where I can light a fire.”

Glancing at Lucien on the ground, the figure rubbed his temples. Communicating with these Westerners was truly difficult. If he didn’t clarify his words, they would twist his meaning. Perhaps to them, healing was synonymous with rest.

Lucien was considered wise after living over six centuries. Had it been someone less intelligent, the cultural differences alone would likely have driven the figure to frustration.

“As you command, Your Majesty.”

Sensing the figure’s impatience, Lucien spoke no more and led him to a courtyard within the sewers.

“Good. Bring me some dry wood and summon someone with some medical knowledge. I have matters to attend to.”

Lucien’s wolves hastily set up a rudimentary hearth beneath the courtyard. With a thought, the golden toad opened its massive mouth, exhaling a huge cauldron nearly the height of a man.

“You should recognize these herbs, yes?”

Ignoring the astonished gazes of the Lycan pack, the figure withdrew various herbs from the void and turned to an elderly werewolf scientist wearing glasses and a white coat beside him.

“Yes, Your Majesty, I recognize most of these!”

Enke was a Lycan scientist skilled in genetics, medicine, and chemistry. Before the figure’s arrival, Lucien had solemnly instructed him that the being he served was, without question, a genuine god and the tribe’s cornerstone. No mistakes were to be made.

Currently, the Lycan tribe was weak and downtrodden. To bolster their morale, Lucien had openly declared the figure their divine patron during the recent gathering.

The figure accepted this willingly. Though he did not rely on faith for power, the Celestial Angry Rooster—a divine beast—could grow stronger through belief, and in turn, it helped him win the loyalty of the Lycan tribe. Why would he not embrace this?

“Excellent. Record all these herbs and have Lucien dispatch others to gather them for me.”

He glanced at the trembling Lycan scientist but did not scold him. After all, the Lycan tribe was little more than a band of beggars, barely surviving in the sewers like rats scurrying beneath the streets. Given their resilience, having even a mediocre scientist was a rare asset. He dared not demand too much.

Lucien breathed a sigh of relief at the figure’s calmness and resolved to cultivate more scientifically skilled tribesmen for future service.

“You may leave now.”

As the scientist carefully recorded the herbs’ appearances and properties, the figure placed them one by one into the bronze cauldron, instructing his wolves to fill it with clean water before dismissing them.

“Pfft...”

He exhaled a burst of flame to ignite the firewood, then patiently crouched beside the cauldron, monitoring his internal condition while waiting.

For now, his most severe injury was the loss of his lower body. Regrowing severed limbs was impossible without ascending to the Immortal Realm. The rest were mere surface wounds.

More troubling was the scarlet seal on his forehead—a mark hastily imposed by the Daoist Qingxu but suffused with divine power from the Golden Pardon. This divine force merged with the Judge’s Pen’s laws, beyond his current ability to dispel.

Only two ways remained to erase the seal: either elevate his cultivation or patiently wear it down over a decade or more. He was confident he could eventually remove it.

“Whew... gurgle, gurgle...”

Watching the boiling medicinal liquid, he leapt from the golden toad and plunged into the seething brew.

“Hiss... hissss...”

Due to the skin on his body being torn by spatial storms, the moment the liquid touched his wounds, searing pain erupted. Without legs, he was submerged entirely in the bath.

Enduring the torment, he assumed the posture of his body-tempering technique and began practicing the moves. Soon, however, a frown crossed his brow as he stopped.

Losing his lower half meant he had to adjust many movements; some were altogether impossible. This presented a significant challenge.

“Breathe... breathe...”

Surfacing, he regulated his breathing, feeling the rhythm of his muscles. The primary purpose of this technique was to mobilize every tissue in unison, exerting collective force.

Having practiced it so long, the rhythm was ingrained in his mind. Even without accompanying movements, just through breathing, he quickly entered a meditative state, his mind serene and focused.