Chapter 51

Chapter 51: Do You Want to Die?

The fishman floated with its eyes shut, ruined body bobbing like a corpse as it rose toward the surface.

Feng Ling watched, silent.

So this was how they were—no grief, no hesitation. Two dead, and the survivor ran without looking back.

Then the fishman’s blue-gray eyes snapped open.

Its massive tail lashed out like a whip.

In water, that strike could knock a person unconscious in an instant.

Feng Ling moved first.

Her fang claws lunged and bit down hard, straight through flesh. She tore away four thick chunks in a spray of dark blood.

The fishman twisted and thrashed, trying to scream.

The scream broke off mid-note.

A bone blade swept through, and its head separated cleanly.

The severed head rolled up to the surface, rocking with the waves—face locked in terror and regret. If it hadn’t tried that last trick, it might have drifted past her and lived a few more minutes.

Feng Ling surfaced for air.

She watched the head drift away and smiled, faint and pleased.

She liked prey that fought.

But the thrill burned out fast—brief as a bird brushing her heart—gone almost before she could savor it.

The smile faded. She turned to the west, where the sky had deepened into a heavy, dirty black.

She was so close. So close to cracking the whole riddle.

Anger sat in her like an undertow—calm, steady, pulling her down into something cold.

Feng Ling closed her eyes and reached for the red mist she’d been chasing.

It was there—ribbon-thin, twisted and frantic. It sank, surged up, sank again, unable to hold a clean line through the water.

She followed it.

The fishman that had fled—missing both arms—staggered through the river toward the bank, wobbling and overcorrecting, swimming like something half-broken. It aimed for an unremarkable fishing boat moored near shore.

It was fishing ban season. Most boats sat tied up for tourists to pose with, or got rented out to hobby photographers.

This one had a tripod set up like a prop, and a man stood on deck in a long sun-protection coat.

He noticed the disturbance and leaned down, grabbing the fishman by the shoulder to haul it up.

His grip met empty space where an arm should have been.

“What happened?!” he blurted.

The fishman flopped onto the deck and shifted back into human form. Below its shoulders was only raw absence. The arms weren’t coming back.

It lay there gasping like a fish left on dry land, mouth working, lungs heaving, no words coming out.

“Only you made it back?” the man snapped. “I didn’t get any point rewards. You failed?”

As long as they stayed in party mode, teammates shared points from kills, no matter the distance.

The fishman swallowed hard, found its voice, and croaked, “Run…”

“Run?” The man’s face tightened in disgust. “So you really failed.”

“The intel was wrong,” the fishman rasped. “The hidden Boss has Body Transparency. We couldn’t see it.”

The man scoffed. “Even if you couldn’t see it, could it see you? You were the one bragging to my face about fishmen being lightning-fast underwater—about those dark gray scales letting you vanish in the river like ghosts. I paid points for three of you. Now there’s only one left. The Boss isn’t dead. My points are gone.”

The fishman’s lips pulled back in a bitter sneer. “Two of my teammates died, and you’re whining about points? If your intel hadn’t been garbage, they wouldn’t be dead.”

The man looked down at it with contempt. “Buying intel off the forum is always a gamble. Nobody can predict every ability an ability card might have. Bottom line is, you were useless. I should’ve done it myself.”

The fishman’s laugh was thin and sharp. “Then do it yourself. Try.”

The boat rocked.

The man’s expression changed. He grabbed the rail hard. “What now?”

The thick rope securing the boat had snapped at some point. The waves pushed it off position, and the current began to drag it toward the river’s center.

The fishman’s stomach dropped.

Water should have been his advantage. But armless, he was meat on a board.

“Hey!” the man barked. “Do something!”

The fishman almost warned him—then didn’t bother. What was the point?

He kept smiling, ugly with spite. “Scared already? Isn’t this perfect? The Boss is coming. Go on. Do it yourself.”

The man stared at him, face rigid with fury.

In the distance, a helicopter’s rotors drummed the air. If they delayed much longer, even if the hidden Boss didn’t kill them, the Inspection Bureau would. Those bullets weren’t guaranteed death—but “not guaranteed” wasn’t the same as “safe.”

The fishman’s gaze flicked toward the dark water. After a beat, it said, “We can’t get away. Logout.”

“Are you kidding?” the man snapped. “Every time you re-login, the point cost doubles. I’m not logging out until the last second. Don’t lump me in with a coward like you—”

Cold touched his neck.

His words froze.

Two fang claws hooked under his throat, pressing into soft skin—one more twitch and they’d puncture.

A chill crawled up his spine, hollowing his mind out.

“D—” he tried.

The fang claws drove in.

They pierced skin, caught the jawbone, and ripped his lower jaw clean off.

Blood poured from his face in a brutal sheet. His tongue was gone. His throat sprayed red with each ragged, useless attempt to breathe.

He toppled and convulsed, fingers scraping the deck, body jerking and trembling until it finally went slack. His pupils widened into nothing.

At the stern, a woman climbed onto the boat—transparent as water, quiet as a thought.

Feng Ling watched him die without expression.

A silver ability card separated from the corpse.

She didn’t touch it. Her corruption level was already too high to digest another, and the man had been weak—his card was probably worthless anyway.

“So if you can’t say the word, you can’t logout,” she murmured, thoughtful.

Her gaze slid to the fishman.

It stared back at her in pure, wordless horror.

Feng Ling glanced aside and noticed a transparent waterproof bag on deck. Inside were three sets of men’s clothes—prepared for after the plan, for when the fishmen turned human again.

She pulled out a set and dressed right in front of it, unhurried.

There was nothing to be embarrassed about. Her body was still half-clear, like water catching light. And to her, the fishman was already dead—just a fish that hadn’t stopped twitching yet.

She tucked the oversized hem into her waistband and rolled the sleeves up.

Then she looked at it again and asked, calm as ever, “What are you waiting for? Why haven’t you logged out?”