213: Chapter 213: Gains and Hidden Dangers

He took a breath and pulled out a bandage from his breast pocket. Using his mouth and his left hand in coordination, he bound his right arm. The cloth strip tightened over his shoulder, making him break out in a cold sweat from the pain, but he gritted his teeth and persisted, fixing his arm in place bit by bit.

He leaned against the giant wolf's corpse, his right arm hanging limp; the bone was broken, and he couldn't move it. Supporting himself with his left hand on the ground, he slowly shifted his body to avoid the areas with heavy snow accumulation. The cold air crept up his trouser legs, and he could no longer feel the frostbitten parts of his right leg.

He glanced at the spear, then looked down at the copper gear pendant on his cuff. The pendant was stained with blood and filthy, but it was still there.

His faith points were still increasing. Adding 3 points every second, the numbers kept jumping. He did a mental calculation; in three minutes, he had gained over five hundred and forty points. It wasn't a small amount, but right now he couldn't buy medicine, nor could he call for help.

He looked up at the sky; it was filled with gray clouds, and the snow fell so thick that visibility was lost beyond ten meters. After that gust of wind stopped, the surroundings became exceptionally quiet—not even a wolf's howl could be heard.

He squinted at a protrusion in the snow in the distance. It was the remaining iron frame of the watchtower that had been blown up earlier, sticking diagonally out of the ice. When the wind had died down slightly just now, he thought he saw a flash of light from the iron frame.

He held his breath, waiting for the wind to die down a bit more.

A few seconds later, the wind weakened and the snow eased slightly. He immediately looked toward the iron frame—something was moving on the snowy slope to the southeast. It wasn't just one; there were several. They stayed close together, heads lowered and tails sweeping the snow as they moved forward slowly.

He looked toward the northwest corner again. Five wolves were gathered there as well; the one in the middle was the largest, and it was touching the necks of the other wolves with its nose as if greeting them.

Shen Xiaochuan's gaze changed.

These wolves were no longer acting alone. The one that died just now might have been a scout. Now that their companion was dead, they were starting to pack together, staying on guard against him.

He reached out to touch the Thermal Imager at his waist; its casing was iced over. He wiped the screen with his glove and pressed the power button, but there was no reaction. He pressed it again, and the screen flashed once, displaying "Low Temperature Lockout."

Frowning, he took a spare power source from his backpack. Just as he unscrewed the interface, a gust of wind blew, hitting his face with snow grit so hard he couldn't open his eyes. He instinctively raised his hand to shield himself, and the Thermal Imager fell into a snowdrift.

He didn't go to pick it up.

The wind was too strong, and visibility was less than five meters. He could only hear the sound of the wind whistling and the sound of his own exhaled white breath hitting his mask.

He sat down against the corpse, gripped the spear with his left hand, and tightened his fingers one by one. He knew he couldn't move now. His right arm was useless, and his right leg wouldn't obey him; he would collapse before walking a hundred meters. Those wolves outside were no longer prey, but hunters.

He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again.

The giant wolf's corpse was right beside him; it was a perfect grade exotic beast and would be worth a lot of faith points, but he couldn't take it with him. Never mind dragging it—even cutting off a piece of meat would be difficult. He had to wait: wait for the blizzard to die down, wait for communications to be restored, and wait for someone to come rescue him. But nobody knew he was here. Goudan and the others were on standby in the safe zone, Karl was busy with city affairs, and Anna was on duty at the Hospital. On this ice field, he was the only living person.

He looked down at the frostbite on the outside of his thigh. There was a tear in his clothes, and the skin was white with purple edges. If it wasn't treated soon, it would become necrotic by tomorrow. He pulled the last vial of treatment agent from a backpack compartment; the label read "Composite Tissue Repair Fluid." This was good stuff, originally saved to save his life, but now he had no choice but to use it. He bit off the needle cap, stabbed it into his arm with his left hand, and pushed it to the end. As the medicine entered his body, a warm current spread; the pain lessened, and his leg didn't feel as numb. But he knew this was only a temporary suppression of the symptoms; the underlying condition wasn't cured.

He put the empty syringe back in his bag and conveniently opened the Faith Mall. The interface was the same as always, with no new items and no update prompts. The +3 faith points per second ticked along as usual.

He suddenly remembered that the System hadn't prompted him about any harvest when he killed the wolf just now. Usually, when killing a creature of rare-grade or higher, a message like "Obtained Materials" or "Item Dropped" would pop up, but this perfect grade giant wolf had been dead for quite a while, and nothing had appeared.

He tried to bring up the task bar; the entry for "Sacrifice Fifty perfect grade Exotic Beasts" was still there, with progress at 0/50, indicating the System hadn't counted this kill.

Where was the problem?

Looking at the wolf corpse, he suddenly thought—did he have to bring the corpse to a certain place for it to count? Like an altar? Or did he need to perform some kind of action?

He didn't dare to experiment blindly. He couldn't move now; even if he knew what to do, he had no way of doing it.

The wind grew stronger again, and the snow whipped across horizontally like needles pricking his face. He lowered his head and tucked his neck in, pulling his collar high to cover his mouth and nose.

A low growl came from the distance; it was very short, not sounding like an attack but rather like a signal. Then, another howl came from a different direction. Then a third, and a fourth.

He counted; there were at least four groups responding.

These wolves were communicating.

He gripped his spear tightly, his body leaning slightly forward. Although he couldn't move, he had to maintain a posture of vigilance. If even one of them rushed over, he would put up one last fight.

But those wolves didn't move. They surrounded him, neither too far nor too close, and they didn't disperse.

What were they waiting for?

Waiting for nightfall? Waiting for him to lose his strength? Or waiting for a even bigger blizzard?

He didn't know.

He only knew that he had become the prey. Just a moment ago he was the hunter, and in the blink of an eye, he was surrounded.

He leaned against the corpse, his body sliding down half an inch. He was too tired. Now that the adrenaline had faded, his entire body was in pain. Waves of throbbing pain came from the fracture, and the frostbitten area began to feel hot—a signal that necrosis was imminent.

He closed his eyes for a few seconds, then forced himself to open them again.

He couldn't sleep. If he fell asleep, he wouldn't wake up.

He touched the pendant; it was a bit warm. His parents had given this to him, and he had always worn it. When the machines in the factory were loud when he was a child, his father would say: "Sleep to the sound of the noise, and you won't be afraid of the dark later."

Now, he thought the same way. Listening to the sound of the wind, counting the growth of faith points—one second, two seconds, three seconds... keeping himself conscious.

Suddenly, there was movement in the snowdrift to the left.

He immediately opened his eyes, the spear tip rising.

A paw was exposed. It had gray fur and was half-buried in the snow, with ice crystals on the claws. It must have been blown away during the battle and was now being uncovered by the wind.

He breathed a sigh of relief but didn't lower his spear.

A few seconds later, the snow covered the paw again.

He stared at that spot, thinking: If I stand up and walk now, can I make it to the next cover?

The answer was no. There was a rock ridge three hundred meters away that could block the wind. But he couldn't even stand steadily now; walking over there would be suicide.

He leaned back again, his left hand on the spear and his right hand hanging, not daring to touch anything.

The wind and snow grew even heavier. The sky grew darker; though it was only afternoon, it felt like night was approaching. He looked up; the clouds were pressing very low, and the snow was so dense it formed a solid sheet.

It wasn't a wolf's howl, but the sound of metal friction. He jerked his head up; in the snow mist twenty meters directly ahead, a dark shadow appeared. Four legs, back arched, head lowered—it didn't charge or growl, just stood there watching him.

Then a second shadow appeared, then a third.

They formed an arc, about fifty meters away from him, all perfectly still.

Shen Xiaochuan didn't move. He knew this was a test. The moment he moved, the wolves would judge his condition and decide whether or not to attack.

His left hand moved slowly, holding the spear more steadily across his body.

The lead wolf slowly raised its head. Its eyes were pale blue, like an icy lake. It opened its mouth, exhaled a breath, and then gave a slight nod.

This wasn't an intended attack, but a confirmation. A confirmation that he was injured, couldn't escape, and was prey. Subsequently, it turned and walked into the snow mist, and the other wolves followed. They didn't run or scatter; they left in an orderly fashion.

Shen Xiaochuan sat where he was, neither chasing them nor making a sound.

He knew this wasn't a retreat, but the closing of the net.

They wouldn't come alone anymore. Next, they would take turns harassing him, wearing down his physical strength and waiting for him to break.

He looked down at his left hand; the glove was torn, and his palm was bleeding, mixed with the wound from the injection. He tore off a section of bandage with his teeth and wrapped it around.

Having done this, he looked toward the entrance of the ambush circle.

The snow was still falling, and the wind hadn't stopped. Before his eyes was only a vast expanse of white.

He leaned against the corpse, spear in his left hand and right hand resting on his knee, motionless.

In the distance, another low growl was heard.

This time he heard it clearly—it wasn't a warning, but a summons.