Apocalypse King: Recruiting S-Tier Beauties With My Ruler System
Chapter 71: The Wounded Veteran’s Curiousity

Chapter 71: The Wounded Veteran’s Curiousity

The door clicked shut, but the handsome boy carefully shut it...

I watched it for a few seconds longer than I should have, arms folded, pulse thick in my ears. That man had the kind of confidence you didn’t see anymore—not the fake kind. Not bravado. The quiet kind that came from doing things others wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

I’d faced worse than men who talk smooth and make bold promises. I’d buried friends in shit fields behind half-burned refugee camps. I’d dragged a broken girl out of a wrecked bus during the chaotic riots. I wasn’t green or soft.

But this?

That man dropped a miracle on my floor and walked away like it meant nothing.

I crouched again beside Auntie Lei and picked up the vial. It was real. No cloudy mix. No cut suspension. The metal cap still shone under the low light.

I held it in both hands like it might break if I breathed too hard.

"Still warm," I whispered. "Still breathing."

Her eyes moved, faint beneath the lids.

I looked toward the boys huddled in the back. One of them—Jin—watched me with half-lidded eyes. Not trusting. Not doubting.

Just waiting, because they’d seen it too.

A man came in with no gun, no demand, no shouting—and handed over something better than gold.

And food.

Actual food. Not bloated rice or scavenged noodles.

They were eating already. Jin shared the eggs in silence, breaking off soft white pieces like communion. No words. Just chewing.

I didn’t move for a while.

I didn’t trust him.

But I didn’t think he lied, either.

Not once.

I turned my gaze down to the two vials in my hand. Cold. Real. The labels were too clean, the seal too perfect. Even the medicine from the hospital could look this good. Neither scavenged nor stolen... No scratch marks. No expiry dates smudged.

And they were full.

One was for her.

The other—he didn’t say, but I knew.

He knew.

’How the hell does a stranger know I’m type-1?’

I swallowed the anger and crouched by the bed.

Auntie Lei’s breath came short, shallow. Her skin had a waxy sheen. Her hands twitched sometimes. We’d kept her on soup and hoped for the past four days. Her blood sugar had crashed this morning, then spiked again. The meter was dead. No batteries. No strips.

I uncapped the first vial with shaking fingers.

The needle slid in clean. Half a dose—just to stabilise. We weren’t idiots, even in an apocalypse. I still remember the drills. The dosages. The pressure of doing it wrong.

I injected it into the fleshy part of her outer arm, rubbing the site afterwards. Her eyelids fluttered. A soft sound escaped her lips. Not a word—just breath. But it was better than nothing.

"...You owe me," I muttered, brushing hair from her face. "Just once, let something I try actually work."

I placed the rest of the dose in the cool metal cup of our makeshift tray. Covered it. Then reached under my shirt and pressed the second vial against my side.

Still cold.

I felt it through my ribs.

I haven’t injected myself yet.

Didn’t need to—not yet. I’d stretched my body past limits before. I could go longer. But the soreness was there. The ache in my calves. That prickling under the skin that came before the shaking.

He saw it.

He smelled it.

That scared me more than the offer.

I stared down at my fingers—strong, calloused, steady, even now. I’d used these hands to hold rifles, to close wounds, to rebuild old engines. But somehow, one stranger who never once raised his voice made me feel...

Like I’d already said, yes, even though my mouth hadn’t moved.

"John Wang, huh..." I breathed out, then turned and sat down next to the old woman again. "You’re lucky he’s not a bastard, Auntie. Because if he was, I’d kill him for offering hope."

She didn’t respond. But her chest rose, just slightly deeper now.

And for a moment... just a moment... I let myself believe Aunt Lei would survive three more days.

——

I shut the bedroom door behind me and leaned against it for a moment.

Silence.

No crying. No breathing tubes. No arguing, kids or coughing fits.

Just me and this dim little space that still pretended to be mine.

The bed was unmade, sheets kicked half to the floor. My boots were still damp from the rain four days ago, drying crooked under the desk. The air inside was thick with old sweat and old memories—half-cleaned gun oil, mildew from the corner windowsill, faint shampoo that ran out last week.

I crossed the room and flicked the lantern on.

The warm light caught the glint of the medals still strung loosely on the cracked wooden wall. I hadn’t taken them down, but I couldn’t bring myself to polish them either.

It meant less now.

Not worthless, just... lighter.

I tossed the vial onto the desk beside my disassembled sidearm.

It clinked once. Rolled. Stopped.

I stared at it for a second, then peeled off the tank top clinging to my back. Sweat ran down the curve of my spine in thin lines, soaked into the waistband of my cargos. My sports bra stuck, too. I tugged it off, grabbed a clean towel from the back of the chair and wiped the moisture from my chest and underarms.

"Maybe he wanted my body?"

"No way..." I scoffed, doubting myself... though firm and well-shaped, my breasts weren’t big, only perky with puffy nipples. "Something I was once bullied for..."

Not like there was anyone to see.

My reflection in the cracked mirror caught my eye.

Hair tied back tight, but messy now. One pin had slipped—my braid hung over my collarbone like rope. The salt on my skin shimmered faintly in the orange light from the curtained window. Collarbone, shoulder, line of my neck—all thinner than they used to be. But still there. Still strong.

I traced my fingers across the scars on my lower belly—old surgical, but not recent... scars from countless wounds.

I grabbed the muscle just above my thigh—fingers digging in, hard. The ache was dull, but real. Still strong. Still mine.

Still enough.

The room smelled like sweat and old antiseptic. Dust filtered in through a busted vent, drifting across the floor in lazy spirals. My boots were by the wall. Cracked. Dry. Still held together by tape from the last run.

I moved to the desk. Shoved aside a coil of paracord, an empty tin, the stripped remains of my sidearm. The drawer stuck before it opened. Swollen wood. Cheap construction. Same as everything else in this building.

I crouched and pulled the pack from under the bed.

Olive green. Standard issue. Military before the world went to shit.

I didn’t unzip it right away.

Just sat there for a second, knuckles white against the strap. Then I opened it. Slow. Past the ration bars. The old flares. My spare shirt with a torn collar.

At the bottom—wrapped in a folded tank top—I found the medals.

One silver star.

Two commendations.

And the red ribbon. Curled at the edges. Faint yellow stain near the middle.

I set them down on the desk, next to the insulin vial. Let them sit there under the orange light bleeding in from the window like they belonged to someone else.

Then I sat on the edge of the bed, the foam sagging like it always did.

I stared at the door.

Didn’t hear footsteps.

Didn’t hear the others talking.

Just... stillness.

"John Wang," I said under my breath.

It wasn’t a curse. Wasn’t admiration either.

More like a question, I hadn’t figured out how to ask yet. He wasn’t like the street thugs who bartered bullets and bodies. Not like the Gu thugs who smiled too wide and thought canned food was currency.

He wasn’t kind. But he didn’t flinch, either. The way he handed me this vial like it meant nothing.

Like he already knew what it meant to me.

And maybe that was the part I hated most.

I tore the foil.

No shaking.

No breath held.

Just habit.

Drew the dose.

Pushed the needle in through the muscle like I’d done it a thousand times. I no longer winced or twitched. No longer that little girl afraid of needles. Just warmth spreading under my skin. A little spark behind the knees. That faint hum behind my ears, like my blood remembered how to move again.

Outside the room, my cousins argued over dry noodles. The old man in the living room coughed, then went quiet.

But I only heard one thing.

That voice.

You’re a top-tier human.

The words sat in my ribs like a weight. I couldn’t remember an evaluation like that, it made my stomach feel strange... like someone stirring the insides... something fluttering.

I stood.

Pulled the tank top over my ribs, my chest no longer bound and free, adjusting the loose edge near the shoulder. Walked to the window and leaned against the sill with both hands.

The city looked dead.

The orange-red sky bled across the rooftops like paint watered down too thin. Far off, clouds gathered low and heavy. Thunder without sound.

Longwan had always smelled like salt, metal, and old fuel.

Now it smelled like a memory.

I stood there, watching the wind tug at a plastic bag tangled in a wire.

And I found myself waiting...

Not for help.

Just... to meet John Wang again, to see what he would do next.