Chapter Sixty-Three: An Unjust Death

After seeing the Burmese python slowly moving away, Lu Chen immediately realized that this was his chance.

Without a moment’s hesitation, his limbs propelled him across the grass, his body charging forward like a runaway off-road vehicle. In a few leaps, he had covered more than twenty meters in the blink of an eye.

His two powerful, razor-sharp forepaws crashed down upon the python’s tail with a thunderous force.

The python hissed, twisting its body rapidly, attempting to turn and launch an attack.

But to Lu Chen, this attack was far too slow.

Snakes rely on the friction between their bodies and the ground to move forward, so their crawling speed on land is not particularly fast. Even the swiftest green mamba only reaches speeds of about eleven kilometers an hour—roughly three meters per second—and that can be sustained for only a short time.

Of course, things are very different in water. Buoyed by the water, their speed can multiply.

The reason snakes often seem quick is because their attacks are launched with astonishing speed. They compress and coil their bodies, storing energy, then release it in a burst—less than the blink of an eye, about two hundred milliseconds. Prey within range has almost no time to react.

This several-meter-long Burmese python was no exception, employing the same tactics against its foe.

But Lu Chen gave it no opportunity. Before the creature could even turn, his forelimbs, carrying hundreds of pounds of force, crashed down mercilessly.

A dull thud followed by a tearing sound. The sharp claws pierced through the snake’s scales, ripping away large patches and revealing dark red muscle beneath.

Blood began to gush forth.

The python hissed in pain, struggling fiercely, its head darting forward, jaws agape to bite.

But Lu Chen had already leaped four or five meters away, watching calmly as the python snapped at nothing but air.

Its attack failed, and the Burmese python seemed to realize the danger it was in, turning once more to flee into the distance.

Only then did it notice something—it could no longer feel its tail.

During the attack, Lu Chen had left deep, bone-revealing gashes along the python’s body and had shattered the vertebrae near its tail.

Now, as it tried to escape, it could only drag its broken tail across the ground, leaving a trail of blood.

Lu Chen sprang forward again. A crunching, muffled sound echoed from within the snake’s body.

Two more sections of spine were smashed to pieces, and the python’s rear half went completely numb. Not only could it no longer aid its escape, but it had become a heavy burden. It could only remain in place, hissing, utterly reduced to a lamb awaiting slaughter.

Taking advantage, Lu Chen bit down on the python’s neck. With one swift, decisive death roll, he ended the battle cleanly.

Looking at the still convulsing body of the Burmese python, a sense of disbelief flickered in his beastly eyes. Had he really just killed a Burmese python weighing over a hundred kilograms so easily?

From start to finish, the creature had posed no threat to him at all.

Its resistance was even less than that of the five-meter reticulated python he’d fought before.

Of course, Lu Chen was now far stronger than he had been then.

But the other reason was that this python... was simply weak!

The scent of blood spread through the air, likely to attract other carnivores soon.

With his current size, Lu Chen had no fear of other predators coming to steal his food. But to avoid unnecessary trouble, he decided to drag the python’s remains into the water.

As soon as he swam to the lakebed, a chill seeped into his limbs, and he shivered.

Temperature!

Lu Chen suddenly understood.

In truth, the Burmese python had met a rather unjust end.

Snakes need to hibernate, and pythons are no exception. When the temperature drops low enough, they seek out dry, sunlit caves, tree hollows, or crevices in rocks to enter hibernation.

But this was a subtropical jungle, and the midday temperature was quite high... The Burmese python had briefly left its den to bask in the sun out in the open.

Yet its brief exposure to external warmth hadn’t fully restored its blood circulation, and its nerves were sluggish in responding to commands.

So, having ventured out in good condition, it simply couldn’t return.

If it had been a warmer season, the outcome might have been very different.

Of course, understanding the reason didn’t stop him from dismembering the python completely.

Swans, Burmese pythons, musk deer, wild goats... Lu Chen had spent nearly ten days at the lake, living in abundance, consuming seven or eight hundred pounds of food.

If not for his concern for the three young saltwater crocodiles, he might have chosen to settle here permanently.

When he left, Lu Chen didn’t plan to return to the valley via the waterway, but intended to explore a new path.

With the magnetic sensing ability in his brain, he could easily locate the valley. Given his strength, he could now roam the jungle without fear.

After passing through two valleys, he stopped again, gazing at the reddish-brown hillside before him, which emitted a faint, unpleasant odor.

Cinnabar?

Because of his experience with painting in his previous life, Lu Chen was familiar with cinnabar.

Natural cinnabar ore is not a striking bright red. When freshly mined, its color varies depending on the associated minerals, usually resembling pig liver red.

Cinnabar’s main component is mercuric sulfide, known in ancient times as “dragon sand,” believed to ward off evil and used in traditional medicine to treat ailments like hemorrhoids. If heated above three hundred degrees in air and the vapor condensed, it yields metallic mercury.

Mercury is highly toxic; many ancient emperors were buried with it to prevent decay.

Mercuric sulfide is also poisonous. Once inside the body, it can damage the nervous system and, in severe cases, cause circulatory failure and death.

Lu Chen remembered seeing many adults in his previous life have their children wear cinnabar ornaments to ward off evil... The thought always made him uneasy.

Children, after all, like to chew things indiscriminately.

Of course, Lu Chen understood that “talking about toxicity without considering dosage is irresponsible,” but knowingly wearing something dangerous was still foolish.

This cinnabar deposit seemed undiscovered by humans; there were no signs of mining nearby. Lu Chen broke off a large chunk, wrapped it in leaves, and carried it away.

As long as he didn’t swallow it, he was safe.

His interest in the cinnabar mine was mainly to color the rock paintings he had carved days before.

He returned safely to the valley.

As expected, when the crocodiles saw Lu Chen, they rushed over, letting out excited hisses.

After comforting each of them, he finally noticed a small bird perched on the head of the youngest crocodile.

It was the half-dead little thing from before, which the young crocodile had managed to nurse back to health. Most of its down had fallen out, flight feathers now grew on its wings, and it fluttered them incessantly.

Perhaps due to its prolonged exposure to the young crocodile, the fledgling had grown accustomed to the shape of a saltwater crocodile. It wasn’t afraid of Lu Chen, instead opening its beak and chirping noisily at him.