Apocalypse King: Recruiting S-Tier Beauties With My Ruler System
Chapter 72: Getting To Know Shen Yifei

Chapter 72: Getting To Know Shen Yifei

JOHN WANG — POV

March 17th, 2025 — 5:11 PM

Zone 3A-Δ — Ninth Floor Base

The door shut behind me with a clunk of steel teeth as I returned to the ninth floor.

I didn’t announce myself. This was my area, and there wasn’t any need for me to do so. So I moved towards the common room, with a steady pace, tapping across the tile floor still cold from morning cleanup. Past the side rooms and armour, past the mounted whiteboard, until the corridor opened into the common room.

And then I saw her.

Shen Yifei.

She was mid-stretch, ass raised, spine curved low in a predatory arch. Arms locked straight. Legs tense. Everything pulled taut like a bowstring seconds before it snapped. Her skin gleamed faintly under the overhead fluorescents—sweat-slick, alive, the kind of sheen earned in the fight, not faked in front of a mirror.

Leggings like a second skin.Tank top barely clinging to her chest—thin, damp, no bra. Every inhale outlined the shape of her ribs.

Every exhale rolled down the slope of her back, through the curve of her waist, and into the soft, firm swell of hips she probably didn’t even think about when she moved.

But I did.

She wasn’t doing this for me.

But I’d still thank her for it.

Then she shifted—slowly, deliberately.

One arm extended forward, the other sweeping back. A dancer’s control and the making of a wonderful maid.

Shen Yifei was a woman who didn’t need to try to be sexual—she just was.

But there was sway in her hips that didn’t belong in a sparring session. And that pause, just long enough between transitions, told me she knew exactly how she looked.

She wasn’t doing it for me.

But she’d wanted me to notice.

I didn’t say a word. Didn’t have to.

"...Tsk," she muffled her voice using her sleeve, and lowered her hips. "Pervert."

I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. Let her squirm without showing it.

"Not my fault you’re doing squats in the middle of the base dressed like that."

"It’s called working out," she snapped, still not looking at me. "You know, what people with discipline do."

"You’re sweating like a sinner in church."

"I didn’t know you were coming back," she shot, turning just enough for me to see the pink climbing her ears. "If I had, I’d have worn a hazmat suit."

"Shame," I muttered, stepping closer. "Would’ve missed the view."

Her fingers tightened around the towel near her mat.

She sat down fast—too fast—legs tucked, eyes studiously averted. Her ponytail was a mess, hair sticking to the curve of her cheek.

"You’re still staring."

"I don’t stare." I tilted my head. "I study."

"Don’t be a perv."

"Don’t be interesting."

That earned me a real glare this time. Eyes narrow. Lips pressed tight. But the red in her cheeks deepened, and her breath skipped once before catching up.

"...Didn’t think you’d be back yet," she said, quieter. "Thought you had another patrol shift."

"I came back early."

"Why?"

"Wanted to see someone."

Her eyes flicked up. Just once. Then back down.

"...You’re insufferable."

"And you’re glowing."

"I’m sweaty."

"I didn’t say it was a bad thing."

She looked away, muttering something under her breath that I didn’t catch. I grabbed her water bottle, deliberately brushing her arm. She flinched. Warm skin. Slight tremor. But no recoil. Not this time.

"You’re disgusting," she said, standing quickly, towel tossed over one shoulder. "You reek. Go shower. You’re ruining the oxygen."

"Then how about you join me?"

"W-What!?" Yifei’s face turned bright red, her twintails flopping around as she pointed at me.

"Who do you take me for?"

"Well okay then, but make sure you cook something good, there’s food in the freezer."

She hesitated. Her lips parted—closed. Then, flatly: "I’ll think about it..."

I didn’t understand why, but something about Yifei made me want to tease her, because her face looked a little upset, I stopped and turned back, calling out. "Hey, you looked beautiful... doing your thing... your yoga."

Shen Yifei.

Rough edges. Snapping voice.

A woman who wore her walls like armour and punched with her heart when no one looked.

But I was looking. And I saw it.

She wanted me there.

Even if she’d chew off her tongue before admitting it.

I watched her shocked little gaze, reminding me of a squirrel. Her hair was a mess, and my breath stank of whiskey. Neither of us had said what we meant. Not really.

When I grinned at her, she huffed and turned her back to me, but I caught the flicker of a smile she tried to hide in her shoulder.

—

The couch creaked under my weight, but not from age.

It was new.

Built by my hands. Crafted through my system.

Steel frame. Reinforced stitching. Dense memory-core padding was designed to take a full combat drop without warping.

Stupid luxury in a place like this.

But maybe that’s why I built it. Because when the world outside was nothing but ruins and rot, I needed one damn thing that didn’t break when you leaned on it.

Yifei’s eyes flicked to it the second I sat down — quick, sharp — then away like it didn’t matter.

I dropped onto the sofa like a bomb, leaning against the soft and comfortable cushioning and backrest, lying on my side while gazing at Yifei. My eyes felt heavy, and the stress that made everything so difficult started fading the moment I did.

A shower would’ve been smart. If Jiang Roulan and Mu Qinglan were here to cover the base, I would’ve gone already.

Instead, I stretched and enjoyed the lewd sight of Yifei’s movements, even though she complained, I couldn’t help but wonder why she moved... and started again right in front of me without a care.

So I tried to avoid letting her distract me. Neck rolls. Shoulder circles. Breathing exercises to keep the blood moving.

Across the room, Yifei was still pretending to perform her positions. Still pretending she wasn’t glancing at me between forms.

Every time the muscles in my arms flexed, every slow stretch of my back, her eyes twitched toward me, just for a second too long.

I decided to make it worse.

Dropped off the couch, palms flat against the clean tiles, and started slow pushups. Controlled. Grounded. Letting every line of effort show.

Not to show off.

Not really.

Just because some parts of surviving meant proving you were still alive.

"You’re unbelievable," she muttered finally.

I pushed up, held it. Glanced sideways.

"Stretching," I said.

"You could stretch without flexing like you’re posing for a porno."

"Could," I agreed. "But where’s the fun in that?"

Her cheeks burned red, not rage, not shame. Something in between. Something she didn’t have a name for yet.

She crossed her arms. Stayed standing.Right near the arm of the new couch.Right near me.

"You know," I said, shifting into slow squats, "you’re welcome to sit."

She stiffened immediately. Gave the couch a look like it might bite her.

"I’m fine."

"Suit yourself," I said easily. "It’s just... handmade. First one in this base that doesn’t reek of old sweat and regret."

Her mouth twitched.

"You mean you made it."

"Who knows?"

She hesitated.

Just long enough that I could see the thought of fighting in her head, Pride said to stay standing. Curiosity said Maybe just sit for a second.

Finally, with an aggravated noise in her throat, she dropped onto the farthest edge of the couch, stiff as a rifle barrel, arms still crossed.

Not close. But closer than Yifei ever dared before.

"I’m not sitting here because you asked," she snapped.

"Wouldn’t dream of thinking it."

"This is just... practical. Tactical resting."

"Very tactical," I said, deadpan. "Textbook strategy."

She glared. I smiled — slow and lazy — and went back to stretching.

The couch didn’t creak under her weight.

Because it was built for more.

Because it was built to last.

Just like me.

And maybe—maybe—someday she’d realise she could lean into it without breaking.

Palms against the cold steel-reinforced floor.

Breath steady. My Body locked into a slow, brutal rhythm of Handstand push-ups.

Each rise dragged strength up my arms, into my back, my chest, my core.Each controlled descent was a reminder of the weight I carried — and the weight I refused to drop.

I heard her shift behind me.

The faint creak of the leather couch.The barest scuff of her sock against the tile.

She wasn’t leaving.

Wasn’t mocking.

When she spoke, her voice barely lifted above a whisper.Soft.Unsteady at the edges.

"...How long have you been fighting like this?"

The question wasn’t sharp.

It wasn’t meant to wound.

It sounded almost... genuinely curious.

Genuinely careful.

"Four days... since the end, before that... I never trained so... seriously." My breath became harsh when reaching double digits, the burning in my biceps and shoulders growing like a wildfire.

Pushed up. Held it. Muscles trembling slightly now — not from weakness, but from the steady demand.

I didn’t look at her, nor did I need to, because I could feel her watching me. Not like before — not with that prickly defensiveness or wary distrust.

This was different.

A passionate look...

Her gaze tracked every line of tension stretched across my frame — my arms straining, my chest bare under the rising hem of my shirt, my abdomen tight with control.

Lower.

Lower.

She didn’t even bother hiding her perverted gaze now.

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