The Severely Wounded "Little Black"

# Chapter 32: Critically Injured "Little Black"

After the battle subsided, Chen An found a massive black dog lying outside the courtyard gate, covered in wounds, its breath faint.

Dusk pressed down like ink-soaked cotton, heavy and suffocating between the folds of the desolate mountain range.

Chen An leaned against the courtyard gate, his fingertips unconsciously tracing the fine cracks the energy shockwave had carved into the stone doorframe.

The roar of the War of Witches and Demons had faded three hours ago, yet a faint, lingering stench of blood still hung in the air, like a blood-soaked rag smothering every breath.

He looked up toward the southeast—a mountain hollow there had been torn open by spells and demonic power, leaving a hideous gash. Even now, thin purple smoke rose from it, and residual Spiritual Power twisted into serpentine glimmers, refusing to dissipate.

Chen An recalled the thunderous crash that had rattled the stone roof tiles that morning, remembered the urgent note in the Hide Notebook: "Chen hour, third quarter—peak energy collision." Now, staring at that scorched earth, he felt the exclamation mark in those words had taken on a tangible heat.

"Time to take a look," he muttered to himself, grabbing the Stone Axe hanging behind the door.

The handle was slick with sweat from his palm, but he gripped it tighter—not for battle, but to guard against any residual Demonic Beasts that might have survived the energy shockwave, lurking in the shadows.

The moment his fingers touched the courtyard gate, the warm barrier rippled like a pond struck by a stone. With a soft hum, he poked half his body through.

The grass outside was unrecognizable.

What had once been knee-high green blades was now plowed into uneven furrows by the energy impact. Charred soil held shattered beast bones, residual spell crystals, and a few strands of singed black fur—so fine, yet carrying a cold, metallic sheen that no ordinary beast possessed.

The air was thick with the acrid smell of spell burns, the stench of blood, and a faint, unmistakable musk of high-tier demonic creatures that stung his nose.

Chen An squinted, scanning carefully through the deepening dusk. No living creatures. No moving shadows. Only the wind moaning through broken branches and the distant murmur of a mountain stream.

He was about to turn back when a faint rustle came from the bushes on his right.

The sound was barely audible—like the suppressed gasps of a wounded beast, or the brittle snap of a twig breaking under weight.

Chen An tightened his grip on the Stone Axe and crept around on tiptoe. Pushing aside the waist-high thorny brush, the sight before him made his breath catch.

A massive black dog lay curled on the scorched earth.

It was astonishingly large—even curled up, its body was nearly two zhang long, its shoulder height almost matching Chen An's. Its fur, which should have been glossy as satin, was torn into tattered strips, revealing wounds so deep the bone showed through.

The fur along its spine was peeled back, exposing three parallel gashes. In the deepest, the stark white of its vertebrae was visible.

Its left forepaw was twisted at an unnatural angle, with exposed finger bones and glimpses of snapped tendons.

Most horrifying was its neck—a deep, long gash cut straight through the throat, the flesh turned outward like flower petals, revealing the outline of its trachea. With each weak breath, pale pink froth seeped from the wound's edges.

The dog's chest heaved violently, each breath accompanied by a bloody wheeze.

Its eyes were half-closed, lashes crusted with blood, yet still trembling faintly.

It seemed aware of its surroundings. Chen An noticed its pupils weren't the vertical slits typical of Demonic Beasts, but round, moist, brownish-black orbs—like two drops of ink soaked in blood.

"This..." Chen An stepped back half a pace, the Stone Axe clattering to the ground.

He had never seen a dog this massive, let alone in such a dying state.

Instinctively, he thought of the ferocious beasts in the Classic of Mountains and Seas—Qiongqi, Taotie—but those recorded monsters were always depicted as hideous and terrifying.

This dog, though covered in wounds, carried no trace of malevolence. Instead, its weakness lent it a pitiable, almost pathetic air.

A gust of wind swept a charred leaf past, and the dog's ears twitched.

It slowly opened its eyes, and Chen An finally saw the light in those pupils—not the brutality of a Demonic Beast, but the confusion and pain of a dying creature.

A weak whimper escaped its throat. Its tail feebly scraped a shallow trench in the dirt, kicking up a few strands of blackened grass.

That whimper shattered Chen An's last shred of caution. He remembered his days volunteering at a pet hospital before crossing over, remembered the abandoned, mangy stray dogs. This giant "black dog" was nothing more than a life struggling to survive in the aftermath of war.

He crouched down and tentatively reached out a hand.

The dog didn't attack. It only shrank its neck slightly, letting his fingertips touch the wound on its throat. Blood and tissue fluid clung to Chen An's fingers, startlingly warm.

"Don't be afraid..." he found himself saying, his voice hoarse enough to startle even himself.

Chen An began to examine the wounds closely.

The gashes along its spine had charred edges, as if burned by spells.

The gash on its neck, however, bore the clean cut of a blade—more like a direct puncture from a claw or weapon.

The claw marks on its abdomen were shallower but numerous, as if inflicted by a swarm biting and tearing.

"Both spell damage and close-quarters tearing..." he murmured to himself.

"This isn't like ordinary Demonic Beast fights. It's more like collateral damage from high-level beings clashing."

He recalled the Dragon's Roar he'd heard that morning—a mournful, anguished cry. Now, thinking back, it seemed to match this black dog's injuries. Ancient texts recorded that when high-ranking members of the Demon Race revealed their true forms, they often took on "dragon" or "qilin" aspects. Could this black dog's true form be some kind of canine-based Demon Commander?

"Demon Commander..." Chen An sucked in a sharp breath. How could such an existence end up like this?

He noticed that despite the dog's weak breath, a faint, intangible pressure still emanated from it.

It wasn't the oppressive force of released Spiritual Power, but a bloodline-borne majesty, accumulated over long years—like a bronze ritual vessel displayed in a museum, still carrying a sense of solemn dignity even under dust.

"To survive a battle like this..." Chen An stared at the claw marks on its belly. Though numerous, none struck vital points. "How strong must its recovery ability be?"

Night deepened, but Chen An didn't notice.

He crouched on the scorched earth, locking eyes with the dying black dog.

The dog's breathing gradually steadied, as if his presence had put it somewhat at ease.

Chen An suddenly recalled a line from the Tao Te Ching: "Heaven and earth are ruthless, treating all things as straw dogs." But at this moment, the "straw dog" before him was clearly using its last shred of life force to struggle against this cruel world.

"Who are you, really?" he asked softly, as if speaking to the dog, or to this Primordial World itself.

A Night Owl's cry rang out in the distance, startling the large dog's ears into a slight twitch.

Chen An only then realized he had been crouching outside the yard for half an hour. He stood up, brushed the scorched earth from his pant legs, lingered a moment longer on the dog, then finally turned and walked toward the gate.

He didn't drag it back into the Safe Zone—though the Black Dog was weak now, it still carried the instincts of a Demonic Beast, and approaching rashly might provoke it.

He simply stood at the gate, gazing at the dark shape curled up in the night, a thousand thoughts churning in his mind: the brutality of the War of Witches and Demons, the mystery of this black dog's identity, and... the tenacity of every living thing in this Primordial World, fighting with all its might to survive.

The wind carried away some of the bloody stench. Chen An pulled out the Hide Notebook and wrote on the latest page: "Fifteenth of November, post-battle. Found a severely injured black dog outside the yard, suspected to be of Demon Commander rank. Wounds mixed from spells and claw strikes, likely caught in the war. Not yet brought in. Under observation."

The ink was still wet as he looked up at the night sky. Stars flickered faintly behind thin clouds, like countless silent eyes.

Chen An suddenly felt that this black dog's appearance might not be mere coincidence—in this Primordial World, thick with deadly tribulations, some encounters were destined to rewrite certain people's fates.

He turned and went back inside, leaning the Stone Axe against the door. The charcoal in the fire pit crackled, casting a warm glow over the Clay Jar in the corner.

Chen An poured himself a cup of Polygonum multiflorum tea. The warmth slid down his throat, soothing some of his tension.

"Tomorrow," he murmured into the night, "I should go to the stream and gather more Hemostatic Herb."

(Chapter 32 End)