The Heart of Compassion

### Chapter 33: A Stirring of Compassion

The twilight settled like coagulated blood, pressing heavily onto the scorched earth outside the small courtyard.

Chen An stood quietly within the courtyard gate, his figure shrouded by the shadow of the doorframe, as if merging seamlessly with his surroundings. His fingers unconsciously traced the rough stone frame, feeling the texture and grain of the surface.

The doorframe, weathered by the passage of time, showed signs of wear, yet remained sturdy and thick. As Chen An's fingers glided over it, he felt as if he could touch the history and memories it bore.

His gaze fell upon some faint marks on the frame—perhaps left by people from the past, or simply the scars of age. These marks reminded him of the stories and legends this courtyard had once witnessed, deepening his interest in its history and culture.

In that moment, Chen An seemed to forge a special connection with the courtyard. His thoughts drifted with the movement of his fingertips, immersing him in this ancient atmosphere.

The thunderous roar of the War of Witches and Demons had completely subsided, but the lingering scent of blood and scorched earth in the air clung like a stubborn parasite, a grim reminder of this land's brutality. His gaze pierced the gently rippling barrier of the Safe Zone, landing on the dark mass curled up by the thorny thicket—a large dog, pitch-black and covered in wounds.

It still maintained the same posture as when Chen An first saw it. Three deep lacerations on its back exposed bone, and the penetrating wound on its neck oozed pale pink, frothy blood with each weak breath. The claw marks on its abdomen glowed faintly in the twilight, like ink-splattered spiderwebs. Chen An crouched down, observing the dog through the barrier. The dog's ears twitched, and its eyelids lifted with difficulty, revealing brown-black pupils devoid of ferocity, only the dazedness and pain of approaching death. A barely audible whimper squeezed from its throat, and its tail swept a shallow mark across the scorched earth, as if using its last ounce of strength to prove it was harmless.

"Spell burns... claw tears... and a penetrating puncture..." Chen An murmured to himself, tracing the outlines of the wounds in the air with his fingertip.

Faint purple energy fragments lingered at the edges of the scorch marks on its back—traces of Witch Tribe curse magic. The cut on its neck was clean and cold, bearing the serrated tear characteristic of the Demon Race's claws.

The claw marks on its abdomen were dense and chaotic, clearly the result of being swarmed by low-level Demonic Beasts in the melee.

These wounds, interwoven, silently told the story of how it had become a casualty in the clash between the high-ranking existences of the Witches and Demons.

Though this black dog before him was on its last breath, its massive size and the residual, bloodline-deep pressure it exuded were far beyond that of an ordinary Demonic Beast. To have survived on the fringes of the Witch-Demon Tribulation battlefield, even struggling this far... it was highly likely a severely wounded Demon Commander, forced back into its original form.

The night wind picked up, carrying a biting chill. The large dog's body trembled violently, its breathing suddenly rapid, bloody foam gushing from the wound on its throat.

Chen An's heart clenched.

He recalled his days at the animal shelter before his transmigration—the stray dogs hit by cars, the cats abused until they were skin and bone. Their eyes had held the exact same look: pure will to survive, mixed with fear and a plea directed at humans.

"Save it, or not?" Reason warred in his mind. The Safe Zone was his absolute fortress; introducing an unknown entity, one possibly carrying the karmic threads of the Demon Race, was a risk of unpredictable magnitude.

Once caught in the vortex of the Witch-Demon Tribulation, there would be no return. But if he did nothing, once the night's dew fell, this black dog would surely die. Its eyes, that whimper—they pierced like needles into the softest part of his heart.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them again, his decision was made.

He turned and rushed into the stone house, rummaging for the toughest vine ropes, then grabbed a bundle of hemostatic mugwort and anti-inflammatory dandelion roots—supplies he had risked gathering near the Safe Zone's perimeter, originally intended as his own wound medicine.

Returning to the gate, he pushed one half open. The barrier rippled like water, and the stench of blood from outside rushed in. He walked to the black dog's side, crouched down, and softened his voice as much as possible: "Don't be afraid. I'm taking you inside."

The black dog's eyelids fluttered, and a vague gurgle came from its throat—whether a response or a groan of pain, he couldn't tell.

Chen An looped the vine rope around the dog's chest and hind legs, tying secure slipknots.

When the rope touched its wounds, the dog's body tensed abruptly, but it didn't resist, only letting out a suppressed whimper of pain.

Chen An gritted his teeth, hoisted the other end of the rope onto his shoulder, planted his feet, and engaged his core—

"Hnng!" The heavy drag nearly made him stumble and fall. The black dog's weight far exceeded his estimate; it was like pulling a waterlogged boulder. The scorched earth gouged a deep furrow beneath it, and gravel scraped against the fur and wounds, drawing fresh streaks of blood. Chen An's palms burned from the rough vine rope, sweat and dust stinging his eyes.

He could only take a step, then rest. Each exertion was accompanied by heavy gasps and the dog's suppressed whimpers.

A mere ten zhang distance felt like a thousand-mile trek. When he finally dragged the black dog across the threshold of the courtyard gate and the barrier silently sealed shut behind him, Chen An collapsed to his knees in exhaustion, his palms a bloody mess. Ignoring himself, he immediately checked on the dog's condition—the wounds had torn further during the drag, staining the grass beneath it red.

He moved quickly: using a stone knife to cut away the filthy fur matted to the wounds, then repeatedly flushing the injured areas with a paste made from well water and crushed dandelion roots.

Pus, blood, and charred, dead flesh washed away, revealing fresh, red muscle. He thickly applied the chewed mugwort to the deepest laceration on its back, then tightly bound it with clean, soft tree-bark fibers. When treating the penetrating wound on its neck, he was especially careful, avoiding the exposed trachea and gently covering it with a fine linen strip soaked in medicinal juice. For the shallower claw marks on its abdomen, he sprinkled dry plant ash to stop the bleeding.

Throughout the entire process, the black dog was unusually quiet, save for the uncontrollable trembling of its body when the medicine was applied and the low whimpers from its throat, proving it was still enduring immense pain.

When the last wound was bandaged, Chen An was nearly spent.

He leaned against the hearth, watching the black dog on the straw mat as its breathing gradually steadied. The firelight danced across its jet-black fur, reflecting off the white tree-bark fibers of the bandages.

"Live," he said softly, unsure if he was speaking to the dog or to himself.

The night deepened. The Safe Zone shut out the cold wind and beastly howls of the outside world. Chen An tended the fire, adding another log. In the leaping flames, the black dog's chest rose and fell rhythmically, its sleeping face revealing a strange, serene peace.

Chen An looked at it, a mix of emotions swirling within him—was today's stirring of compassion a blessing or a curse? And this mysterious "black dog," what changes would it bring to this small Safe Zone?

He only knew that on this cold night in the Primordial Wilderness, he had chosen to follow the faint, undying light still glowing in the depths of his heart.

(End of Chapter 33)