32. Rebirth and Transformation (Part Two)

Ye Feng woke up. “Am I still alive?” he wondered as he pushed himself upright, but something unexpected happened—his palms sank into the stone slab beneath him with hardly any effort. “Hm? What’s going on? Could it be…?”

Excitement surged in Ye Feng. Had he really succeeded? In his haste to stand, he plunged his hands into the stone wall three times and his feet into the slab twice before he gradually grew accustomed to the changes in his body.

Staggering, he carefully made his way out of the passage, treading with the utmost caution on the concrete floor—he didn’t want to accidentally punch any more holes in the ground; those would be hard to fix.

He felt a sticky, uncomfortable sensation all over his body and hurried into the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, he saw that gray and dark red stains, viscous and oil-like, had seeped from his own pores and clung to his skin.

With a resigned shake of his head, he took a shower, scrubbing away the sticky remnants. Dawn was already breaking outside, so he brushed his teeth, washed his face, and began to dress. As he pulled on his clothes, however, he frowned—today they felt just a bit snug. Had they shrunk?

Examining himself in the mirror, Ye Feng noticed the truth: he really had grown taller, which explained the tightness. It seemed the medicine had worked after all.

“Hey, Badbad, come out! I did it!” he called out joyfully.

But no one answered. Ye Feng found this odd. He called out twice more, but was met with silence—no sign of Badbad’s voice.

Panic began to set in. Over the past few days, Ye Feng had grown used to Badbad’s presence. For him, Badbad wasn’t just a helper, but a companion.

After several fruitless attempts, Ye Feng finally gave up. He didn’t know what had happened to Badbad, but he believed his companion was still near, just facing some kind of trouble.

He tidied up the house quickly, only to be struck by a ravenous hunger.

A glance at the clock showed it was almost seven. The hunger was so intense he didn’t even want to cook; he hoped some breakfast places were already open.

Roaming the streets for over half an hour, Ye Feng finally, nearly too weak to walk, stumbled upon a nationwide breakfast chain. Under the astonished gaze of the server, he ordered three helpings of soy milk and fried dough sticks and devoured them at a speed that even surprised himself. Was he truly this hungry?

But what shocked him even more was that, although three servings would normally leave him stuffed, he still felt hungry—almost as if he’d eaten nothing at all.

So, under the increasingly alarmed gaze of the staff, Ye Feng ordered five more servings. Only after consuming all five did he feel about as full as he would have after a normal breakfast.

What was going on? Ye Feng wondered if it was the effect of yesterday’s serum. For now, there was nothing to be done. At least he was regaining his strength. He didn’t dare eat more in the shop, lest the staff start thinking he was some kind of human pig.

He packed up twenty servings to go and left, watched by the staff with a mix of awe and fear.

…

Over the following week, Ye Feng’s appetite remained enormous. Though he worried about gaining weight, the moment he discovered he could punch clean through several layers of marble, he stopped caring. He chalked it up to fueling his new abilities, though he still wondered when Badbad would reappear.

Then, one morning, a deep voice echoed inside him: “Biological energy charge complete. System booting up.”

A week of peaceful life had allowed Ye Feng to adapt to his new abilities. So far, he’d discovered that his limbs were far stronger; he estimated that even a boxing champion wouldn’t last three moves against him. His skin had thickened as well; once, while cooking, he accidentally cut his hand, but the wound barely broke the skin—there wasn’t even a drop of blood. He was no longer bothered by the cold, either; even in the dead of winter, he could stand in the snow wearing only a long-sleeved T-shirt and feel perfectly comfortable, like a martial arts hero.

That morning, Ye Feng went out for breakfast as usual. His appetite had finally returned to normal, which was a relief—at least he didn’t have to worry about becoming obese.

After eating, he hummed a tune as he returned to the ancestral house, planning to contact Ye Tianhua and check on his progress. If all went smoothly, he could move on to the next phase.

He had just closed the door when a furious shout came from outside: “Ye Feng, get your ass out here!”

Sang Biao?

Ye Feng wasn’t sure if he recognized the voice. Without Badbad, things were more troublesome; if Badbad were here, he’d have known immediately.

After a moment’s thought, Ye Feng casually grabbed a wooden stick and headed outside.

At the entrance, he found nearly twenty fierce-looking thugs gathered, all sporting yellow-dyed hair and tattoos, armed with iron rods and machetes—a truly menacing sight. Fortunately, it was early, and the streets were still quiet, but the few passersby gave the group a wide berth, not daring to look their way for fear of attracting violence.

In the past, Ye Feng would have been terrified by such a scene—his legs might even have given out. But now, he felt nothing but confidence, even a sense of pride. Up front, Sang Biao stood with an air of arrogance.

“Well, well, look who it is. What are you Ais after this time? I’ve told you before, this isn’t the place for your nonsense.”

“Spare me! You’re nothing now, just an over-the-hill little princeling, a stray dog. Think you can act big just because you’re clinging to the Luo family? If I don’t teach you a lesson today, my name isn’t Sang Biao!”

Ye Feng didn’t get angry. Instead, he offered a cold smile. “Sang Biao, you brought this on yourself. If I end up crippling you all, don’t blame me—it’s self-defense. If you spend the rest of your life bedridden, your family line ends with you.”

Facing a wall of machetes and iron rods, Ye Feng’s casual banter might have seemed like bravado, but Sang Biao wasn’t fooled. He thought Ye Feng was putting on an act—a fatherless, motherless brat couldn’t possibly have such presence.

“We’ll see who ends up bedridden!” Sang Biao didn’t answer, but a red-haired, crew-cut man at his side stepped forward. This one looked friendly enough, almost harmless, but everyone knew he was far more dangerous than the rest.

“You really think this bunch of trash can lay a finger on me?” Ye Feng sneered. “Confidence is admirable, but arrogance is dangerous—and the consequences can be severe!”

“Right back at you!” the red-haired man retorted, signaling with a finger. Instantly, a dozen or so thugs surged forward, their weapons raised.

A group of twenty men swinging blades and rods at your head—most people would have panicked. But Ye Feng remained perfectly calm; he knew that fear would only get him hurt.

Bang!

Ye Feng’s wooden stick swept through the wall of weapons, smashing at just the right angle into the head of the leading thug. Blood sprayed, and the man collapsed instantly, out of the fight.

With one down, the attackers’ formation faltered. Ye Feng seized the opening, advancing with blinding speed. His stick flashed, and in less than a minute, the tattooed thugs lay sprawled across the ground, faces contorted in pain and rage.

Even now, their expressions were twisted—not with menace, but with agony.