The Savior-Actress

Chapter 8 Night Raid

Bao Hao’s smile was still pinned in place, but under it his pulse drummed so loudly he was sure the girl could hear it. Titan-Boa flesh—raw, fresh, still twitching—was worth more per gram than refined gold. Fortune had galloped across the horizon, and if he played this right, the rest of his life would be spent in silk robes and hot baths.

He forced his voice to stay casual. “Yunmei-meimei, where exactly did you find the carcass? Lead us there, would you? With so many brothers, we could haul the whole snake out.”

Shen Yunshu let her eyes wander up the dark tree-line, as if measuring distance and danger. Inside, she weighed the same two factors in reverse. Ten days had passed since the Titan-Boa had swallowed Dou’erdun’s mother and then tried to swallow her. By now the body would be rancid soup in the humid ravine, or stripped to vertebrae by scavengers. Better to kill the fantasy cleanly.

“It’s deep in the forest,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “And it’s gone. I’d barely cut off a few steaks when a roc dove down and carried the rest away. No idea where it nested.”

The lie slid out smooth as soap. Bao Hao’s face twitched once, then froze into an expression of polite disappointment. The men behind him deflated like punctured wineskins. The wind carried a collective, inaudible groan.

Bao Hao stared at the strip of roasted meat in his hand—the meat he had just refused out of courtesy. A gram of Titan-Boa was worth a hundred gold. Cooked, it was worth nothing. His fingers trembled as if the strip had turned into molten lead. With the exaggerated care of a man disarming a bomb, he handed it back.

“Little sister, you keep it. Wouldn’t dream of taking your share.”

Shen Yunshu hid her smile behind a sleeve. “It’ll spoil soon anyway. Waste not, want not.”

The veins on Bao Hao’s temples did a little dance. He inhaled through his teeth, held it, exhaled. Not yet. She was still their best hope of safe passage. He could not afford to scream. Instead he manufactured a grin so brittle it might c***k, spun on his heel, and barked, “I’ll check the wounded!” Then he fled before the scream clawed its way out.

Shen Yunshu tucked the jerky back into her pack. Let them salivate. Hunger sharpened blades.

Her gaze drifted to the boy—Mu Ming, she would learn—still trussed like a festival goose. His eyes, black and liquid, flicked toward her, flicked away, flicked back again, frantic Morse code: help. Around the orbit of the camp fire the mercenaries laughed too loudly, sharpening knives that didn’t need sharpening. The boy’s wrists were raw where the rope had gnawed.

To intervene now would split the fragile truce. But to do nothing—that was not the story she wanted to carry home.

Twilight bled into night. They camped under a stand of iron-bamboo whose leaves clattered like sabers in the wind. Shen Yunshu’s tent—pre-Calamity rip-stop nylon the color of storm clouds—drew a constellation of envious stares.

Bao Hao ran reverent fingers over the fabric. “Little sister, this is old-world craftsmanship. The weave… flawless.” He hesitated—he had been about to ask price, but her next sentence slammed the door.

“My father left it to me before he died.”

The words were soft, final. Bao Hao swallowed his greed and nodded solemnly. “A treasure, then. Sleep well. Tomorrow the ridge tests us again.”

The camp settled. Two sentries took the first watch, leaning on spears, eyelids already sagging. Shen Yunshu lay fully clothed inside the tent, ears tuned to the night’s orchestra: cicadas sawing, bamboo creaking, the wet huff of someone’s nightmare. She waited for the deep, uneven breathing that meant REM sleep, the moment masks slipped.

A shout cracked the dark.

She rolled out, boots finding the ground without sound. The fire had shrunk to a ruby core; beyond it shapes writhed. A silhouette the size of a pickup truck reared against the stars. Green moonlight slid across iridescent scales—car-sized caterpillar—astride its back a fist-sized spiderling waving forelegs like a child on a carnival ride.

Her heart stuttered. “Dou’erdun, you ridiculous little—”

The mercenaries had no such fondness.

“Ghost-face spiderling!” A voice cracked with greed. “We hit the jackpot!”

Adult ghost-face: nightmare. Juvenile: manageable, priceless. The equation flashed across every face like neon. Bao Hao’s earlier disappointment burned off in a surge of adrenaline.

“Circle formation! Nets first, tranquilizers second! Don’t kill the spider, cripple the mount!”

Spears glinted. Ropes hissed through air.

A tug at Shen Yunshu’s sleeve. Mu Ming—freed somehow—pressed close, eyes wide but lucid. His whisper barely stirred her hair.

“I saw you earlier. You… know them.”

The boy’s finger pointed not at the mercenaries but at the caterpillar and its rider.

Shen Yunshu’s pulse slowed, cold and clear. The moment balanced on a knife’s edge: deny, attack, flee.

Mu Ming spoke faster. “I’m Mu Ming. Phoenix City peddler. They dragged me here—no pay, no consent. I can guide you back. Every alley, every black-market gate. Let’s leave now.”

Across the clearing Dou’erdun bounced on Big Green’s thorax, squeaking with delight as a net missed him by inches. The caterpillar executed a barrel roll that scattered three mercenaries into the dirt—playful, not lethal. They were stalling, buying time for her.

Decision crystallized. “Wait here.”

She ducked back into the tent, collapsed poles with a flick, stuffed fabric like a thief packing silk. Thirty seconds later she re-emerged, pack on shoulders. Mu Ming’s grin was sunrise and relief combined.

They ghosted through the bamboo fringe, feet finding the game trail used earlier by the rats. When the firelight shrank to a coin behind them, Mu Ming stopped.

“You go,” he said. “I’ll wait. Bring your… friends.”

Shen Yunshu circled wide, using the ridge’s slope for cover. Ahead, torches winked like angry fireflies around Dou’erdun’s impromptu circus. She scooped a fist-sized chunk of rotten log, judged wind, lobbed it underhand.

The log arced—lazy, almost comical—until it clipped Bao Hao square on the temple. He dropped mid-command, arms still flung wide in rhetorical flourish.

Silence lasted half a heartbeat, then dissolved into chaos. Dou’erdun’s triumphant giggle pierced the night. Big Green wheeled, legs drumming the earth like kettle-drums, and bolted straight toward the tree line where Shen Yunshu crouched.

She vaulted aboard as they passed. The caterpillar’s hide was warm velvet under her palms; Dou’erdun scampered up her sleeve and perched on her shoulder, tiny legs tickling her ear in conspiratorial greeting.

Behind them someone howled curses that could strip paint.

She leaned low over Big Green’s neck. “Time to go, boys.”

The forest swallowed them whole.