Chapter 12: The Demigod
Clutching his injured side, Chen Ning made his way to the infirmary.
Inside, only one man was on duty—a wizened old army doctor named Fang Zheng.
Fang Zheng was in his sixties, old enough to be Chen Ning’s grandfather. However, he looked anything but kind. He was somewhat short and scrawny, with a balding Mediterranean-style head where the few remaining strands of hair were thin, yellowish, and long. Combined with his high-cheekboned face and deep-set eyes, his appearance could rival that of a zombie. Running into him in the middle of the night would surely be a terrifying experience.
He was drinking a bottle of white liquor beside him—and his “snack” was a plate of live bamboo worms.
The fat, white grubs wriggled slowly on the dish. Just watching them made Chen Ning’s stomach churn—they looked far too much like maggots.
When Fang Zheng noticed Chen Ning step inside, his eyes flicked to the younger man’s left side. Then, without changing expression, he popped a live worm into his mouth, crushed it between his yellow teeth, took a leisurely sip of liquor, and said lazily,
“Kid, the medics are off duty. Get lost.”
“Sir,” Chen Ning said quickly, “I’m injured. Major Jian Qing ordered me to come here—to see Doctor Fang Zheng for treatment.”
At that, Fang Zheng’s drinking hand froze mid-air. He raised an eyebrow, studying Chen Ning in surprise.
“I’m Fang Zheng. Jian Qing told you to find me?”
Chen Ning nodded, trying to hide his unease. “Yes, Major Jian Qing specifically said I should come to you.”
Fang Zheng’s thin lips curled into a grin. He stood, threw on a white coat, and said meaningfully,
“Heh, boy… don’t tell me you somehow offended our dear Lady Jian Qing?”
Chen Ning’s heart skipped a beat. How did this old man guess that? He stayed silent, eyes wary.
Fang Zheng’s fingers pressed against Chen Ning’s ribs, feeling along the broken area. While examining, he gave a twisted smile.
“I’m the head of this infirmary, so naturally my skills are top-notch. But I’ve got one rule—whether it’s surgery or stitching, I never use anesthesia. That’s why, aside from a few lunatics like the Butcher, most people wouldn’t dare come to me. For you to do it… impressive courage.”
Chen Ning could only give a bitter smile. So Jian Qing was still holding a grudge.
All because he’d stolen a single glance at her—she’d kicked his ribs in and now sent him to this sadist for treatment.
What he didn’t know was that he had misjudged her.
In truth, all the top instructors went to Fang Zheng when injured. Not just because his skill was unmatched—but because anesthesia, used too often, dulled the nerves and weakened a warrior’s potential. Jian Qing had only wanted Chen Ning to recover without side effects.
Fang Zheng gestured for him to lie on the steel surgery table. He began to fasten straps to secure Chen Ning’s arms and legs—precaution against patients thrashing mid-operation.
But Chen Ning stiffened. The idea of being tied down like an animal awaiting slaughter made his stomach twist.
“Can we skip the restraints?” he asked.
Fang Zheng looked genuinely startled.
Was this rookie serious?
“You sure you won’t move?”
“I’m sure,” Chen Ning replied firmly.
Fang Zheng squinted at him for a few seconds, then nodded. “Fine. But if you start flailing from the pain, don’t blame me for what happens.”
Chen Ning exhaled slowly, lying shirtless on the cold steel. His hands gripped the table’s edges. “Do it.”
Normally, he wouldn’t have dared. But tonight, the bear blood and the Angel’s Kiss coursing through his veins had dulled his nerves. Pain was distant, almost unreal.
Fang Zheng took out a wooden box and opened it. Inside were layers of cloth.
When he unrolled them, a full arsenal gleamed back—scalpels, scissors, forceps, hooks. It looked less like medical equipment and more like a torture kit.
He picked up a scalpel. The blade flashed.
With a swift, precise motion, he sliced open Chen Ning’s side. Flesh parted cleanly, revealing white bone beneath. Blood gushed out in thick streams.
Chen Ning’s body tensed for an instant. Fang Zheng looked up—his patient’s lips were pressed white, sweat pouring down his face like rain, yet he didn’t utter a sound or twitch a muscle.
A faint glimmer of respect flickered in the old man’s eyes.
This kid’s got guts… reminds me of the Butcher in his younger days.
As blood welled up, Fang Zheng swiftly clamped two arteries, halting most of the bleeding. Then, calm and efficient, he set to work—cleaning clots, resetting bones, fixing them with steel pins, sewing muscle, stitching skin, and finally bandaging it all.
An hour later, the operation was done.
Chen Ning was drenched in sweat, his face as pale as paper. He looked as though he’d just been dragged out of a river.
Fang Zheng gave him a tetanus shot, then an anti-inflammatory injection. “Come back tomorrow for another,” he said curtly. “No beds here, go back and rest.”
Chen Ning’s legs trembled as he climbed off the table.
“Thank you,” he murmured hoarsely, and staggered toward the door. He needed rest— Hawk wouldn’t show mercy tomorrow, surgery or not.
Once the door shut behind him, Fang Zheng’s murky eyes flickered with strange light.
He quickly locked the door, then picked up the small basin that had caught Chen Ning’s blood.
Inside—fresh, still-warm human blood.
A hungry gleam flashed in his gaze. He lifted the basin, took a delicate sip—like a connoisseur tasting fine wine.
Then, his eyes snapped open wide in shock.
“It can’t be…?” Surprised, Fang Zheng quickly took another sip.
“What…? This boy’s blood—it carries a zombie virus! Could it be… he’s like me? A Demigod?”
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The “Demi-Gods” are a legendary race.
Of course, “Demi-God” is the self-glorifying title this race gave themselves. In the eyes of the world, so-called Demi-Gods are actually half-corpses—beings with human bodies but blood tainted by the zombie virus, making them half-human, half-zombie.
Both the zombie and human factions reject the “Demi-Gods,” viewing them as aberrations that must be eradicated.
However, Demi-Gods are exceptionally rare. Perhaps not even one in ten million people possesses the unique constitution required. Only those with this specific “Demi-God constitution” who then become infected with the zombie virus have a chance for their genes to fuse with the virus and transform into a Demi-God.
As half-human, half-zombie hybrids, Demi-Gods possess the high intelligence of humans and the mutation/evolution traits of zombies. Therefore, the longer a Demi-God lives and the more opportunities they gain, the more powerfully they can mutate and evolve. There are even legends of a Demi-God so formidable that they single-handedly annihilated an entire human army.
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Fang Zheng was one such being.
He hid his true nature under the guise of an army doctor, living among humans. Performing surgeries by day, secretly drinking blood packs by night—a predator in plain sight.
He had kept his secret carefully guarded. Exposure meant death—either dissected for study or hunted as a monster.
But now… Jian Qing had sent this boy—a “little demigod”—straight to him.
Fang Zheng’s expression darkened, his murky eyes turning crimson, filling the room with murderous light.
Has his identity been exposed?
Was Jian Qing testing him?
If so—he’d strike first. Slaughter them all. Escape in blood and fire.
The thought surged up like wildfire—then reason doused it.
No, he realized. If Jian Qing knew, she would have already reported to the higher ups. They’d have sent elites to seize him quietly, not a lone half-blood boy.
“She’s too clever to do something that stupid,” he muttered.
Slowly, the crimson glow faded from his eyes. He sighed, convincing himself it was all coincidence.
But before he could pour another drink—
The base alarm erupted, screaming through the night.
Within minutes, over two thousand Azurebird soldiers were fully armed and assembled.
The alarm signaled the detection of a top-tier zombie—a full defense-level emergency.
A Tier-6 or higher threat like Frieza zombie or titan zombie. The kind of monster that could destroy cities.
The Butcher, along with Hawk, Jian Qing, and the other instructors, had already gathered.
The alarm had been triggered by the Butcher himself. His expression was grim as the others looked to him for explanation.
“Colonel Butcher,” Hawk asked quietly, “what’s going on?”
The Butcher’s voice was low and tense.
“This is strange… I could have sworn I felt an immense energy surge moments ago, laced with that unmistakable, lingering odor of decay from the undead. I was convinced a top-tier zombie was near. Yet, the sensation was fleeting—it vanished in an instant, and now… I can’t detect it at all.”
Hawk frowned. “Could it have just passed nearby?”
Jian Qing’s eyes narrowed. “Alternatively, a top-tier zombie might have been scouting our base for an attack. But after assessing our defenses and finding them formidable, it decided against a direct confrontation and has now withdrawn into hiding.”
The Butcher’s tone hardened.
“Either way, prepare for war. Double the guards. No one sleeps without a rifle in hand. And send word to the Imperial Legion nearby—warn them a high-tier zombie may be prowling this area.”
“Yes, sir!” all the instructors replied in unison.
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