Chapter Thirty-Two: High Risk Comes with High Reward

Just as Lu Chen was about to escape with a few baby saltwater crocodiles, he suddenly stopped. It felt as though he was overlooking something... The Burmese python was indeed formidable, but not invincible.

The entrance to the saltwater crocodile’s den was narrow. While the python could squeeze its way in, its range of movement was severely restricted. One must remember, snakes are limbless creatures. They rely on the coordination of their bones, muscles, and scales, along with the undulating motion of their bodies, to propel themselves forward.

Before attacking, a snake needs to coil and compress its body to better gather energy. Its tail exerts force, the muscles contract from back to front, and then it springs forward in a sudden burst. In this peculiar environment, however, the python had no room to gather strength for a leaping attack, nor could it bend its body to perform its constricting technique.

It was akin to a tiger stripped of its claws—no matter how imposing, it was nothing more than prey to be slaughtered, hardly worth worrying about.

What was there to fear?

Lu Chen silently ridiculed himself for his earlier cowardice. Thankfully, he came to his senses in time; otherwise, he would have let such prime prey slip away for nothing. Opportunities like this were rare—especially when he was in dire need of food.

As for the little monkey, trembling in the corner, it would serve well enough as bait.

One word: perfect.

At this moment, the Burmese python also realized there were other animals in the cave.

Hissing sounds filled the air as it opened its maw, its tongue flickering, issuing sharp threats.

Lu Chen responded in a low, guttural rumble, his body slowly retreating. This maneuver was twofold: he wanted to lure the python further into the den and, at the same time, feign weakness.

Most snakes have poor eyesight, and pythons are no exception. They rely primarily on their nasal cavity and tongue to gather information about their surroundings. The surface of a snake’s tongue is covered with countless chemical receptors, enabling them to perceive scents in three dimensions, easily locking onto the “scent particles” lingering in the air. Through this, they can discern the environment’s specifics, as well as the size and shape of potential prey.

They can even gauge the prey’s “emotional state.”

Just like now—Lu Chen kept darting backward. To the Burmese python, the prey in the cave appeared terrified.

Emboldened, it slithered another half meter inside, its smooth, thick scales rasping audibly against the ground.

Its massive body completely blocked the entrance, plunging the cave into total darkness. The python had forgotten that while it could easily enter with its bulk, leaving after swallowing prey would be a different matter entirely.

The macaque was petrified, sensing the presence of death. It huddled in the corner, motionless.

The Burmese python opened its jaws wide, its body lunging forward to seize its prey.

A shrill screech echoed as the monkey, in pain, let out another miserable cry.

Seeing its prey trapped, Lu Chen stopped retreating.

Now was the perfect moment!

Half of the python’s body was inside the den, the other half still outside. It couldn’t perform its constricting death grip, nor could it capitalize on its speed.

In the next instant, Lu Chen’s powerful limbs dug into the earth, launching his body forward over two meters in a flash. His jaws opened wide, then snapped shut around the python’s neck with razor-sharp teeth.

The sudden, explosive speed was a stark contrast to his earlier, deliberate movements. The python had no time to react; its neck was caught in a vicious bite. Instinctively, it tried to coil and constrict, only to realize its body was wedged by the cave walls.

Its tail thrashed violently outside the den, striking the ground with resounding cracks, and it spat out the prey from its mouth.

The strength of a python’s constriction is immense. Zoologists once conducted experiments: a seven-meter-long python’s constriction force could exceed 1,500 kilograms and last for fifteen minutes. Once prey was caught in its coils, survival was virtually impossible.

But in this peculiar terrain, all that power was useless—a wasted force without room to be unleashed.

Contrary to popular belief, snakes’ scales point backward, preventing them from retreating easily. Hence the saying, “A snake can’t be pulled out of a hole.” However, snakes can use the ventral scales on their bellies to twist and retreat if needed. If threatened, they can indeed back out of a burrow, though it is much harder than moving forward.

But now, the python was locked tightly in Lu Chen's jaws—like a human with their head stuck in a desk hole, escape was out of the question.

Without hesitation, Lu Chen unleashed a death roll.

With a sickening crunch, he tore away a large chunk of flesh from the python’s neck, even crushing bone, leaving the head attached by only a slender strip.

Even so, the serpent’s body continued to writhe and twist violently, its tongue flickering with a persistent hiss.

Lu Chen was not surprised.

Snakes are peculiar reptiles; many of their reflexive nerves are not concentrated solely in the brain but are distributed throughout the body. Because of this, even after decapitation, both the head and body can continue moving for a time. Such scenes were common in his previous life: chefs, careless after beheading a snake, would be bitten by the severed head and die of poisoning.

Nevertheless, “a snake is nothing without its head.” Deprived of its brain, the python’s actions were nothing more than instinctive neural reflexes, posing no real threat.

Soon, all movement ceased.

Lu Chen bit into the python’s neck again, straining to drag it further into the den.

The three young saltwater crocodiles, who had been hiding deep within, crept out to help. They looked at their third brother with renewed awe.

Such a massive prey—only their own brother could handle it!

They had truly struck it rich this time.

After dragging the python’s body into the cave, Lu Chen felt like a wealthy landlord surveying his domain. Nearly five meters long, the python would provide close to forty pounds of flesh.

For the foreseeable future, they would not go hungry.

Lu Chen was the first to tear a large chunk of meat from the python’s body, swallowing it down to digest in silence.

Once he was done, the eldest and the others scrambled forward to feast in turn.

“Burmese Python, genus Python, subspecies Burmese Python, provides 12 energy points.”

The system panel clearly displayed the energy produced by the food. He had just devoured roughly three pounds of meat; by calculation, each pound yielded four energy points—twice as much as that from the king ratsnake. Of all the food he’d consumed so far, this brought the greatest energy yield.

Indeed, high risk comes with high reward.

In his previous life, countless people had risked their fortunes and pensions on the stock market for that same reason—to make a big score.

As the python’s flesh was digested, Lu Chen could feel a subtle heat stirring in his internal organs, an almost uncontrollable urge to release that energy.

This surprised him; cold-blooded animals do not need to generate or dissipate heat using their own energy. Their body temperature is more influenced by the environment, and energy from food is mainly used for growth.