Reborn As A Doomsday Villainess
Chapter 227: On the run

Chapter 227: On the run

"Not much to look at. Half of the building is gone.."

[Stop walking.]

Qingran froze.

"What is it?"

[Fengya’s cultists — all of them. She’s sent them after you. One hundred strong.]

Qingran’s heart didn’t race, but her pulse deepened, coiling low like a storm held still beneath the skin. Calm wasn’t optional anymore — it was survival.

"How far?" she asked aloud, her voice a quiet rasp in the dim hallway.

[Thirty minutes. They were given direct coordinates. She told them where to look.]

Of course she did. Fengya wouldn’t come herself. Not yet. Not unless it was clean and guaranteed.

She was too clever for that.

And too greedy.

Qingran exhaled slowly and looked back down the narrow passage of the basement. Thirty minutes. That wasn’t enough time to run not with the collapsed floors and no clear exit.

She’d have to hide. Or fight. Or both.

"They won’t all fit in here at once," she murmured, already walking back to the basement. "It’ll bottleneck. They’ll have to send in small waves."

[Correct. The breach is narrow. Five, maybe six at a time.]

That was something.

She could handle six.

Maybe ten.

If she used the terrain well, the dark, the corners, the dust and debris and if she didn’t hesitate.

"Did she tell them to bring me back alive?"

Lingquan hesitated.

[She said she preferred you alive. But they’ve been promised your system. That’s all they care about.]

Qingran gave a slow, grim smile.

"Alright. Time to run again. Night time the creatures will come out and take out some of the numbers for me..."

Qingran moved swiftly, her long strides carrying her through the cracked foundation hallway toward the rear of the ruins.

She knew the layout well enough to anticipate the weakest structural points.

The basement air was heavy with dampness and mold, but she didn’t linger. Lingquan’s presence hummed softly in her mind, watchful.

[You’ll need to move fast. They’re coming in cars, not on foot.]

"That makes sense," Qingran replied. "Cultists prefer to conserve their energy for more... enthusiastic pursuits."

Her boots skidded slightly on the broken floor as she turned left. The hallway narrowed, the ceiling sagging. The second stairwell came into view, its handrail twisted like scrap metal.

She crouched low and squeezed past the rubble, her shoulders brushing against jagged plaster.

Concrete dust flaked into her hair as she descended half a level.

The shadows deepened, the air growing cooler and cleaner. She was nearing a breach.

[There’s a way out here, southeast corner. A wall collapse. But it opens into exposed street.]

"I’m counting on that," Qingran said. She didn’t need safety; she needed space. Enough space for the cultists to spread out, panic, and split up.

She slid between fallen beams and ducked through the opening, emerging into the night.

A fractured street stretched out before her, the broken shell of the city visible in every direction.

Craters pitted the road, half-sunk cars like rusted teeth scattered in uneven rows. And then... the sound. Low, distant, but unmistakable. Shrieking. Wet and high-pitched – inhuman.

Qingran exhaled slowly. "They’re already out."

[Nightfall triggers migration patterns. They’ll tear into anything warm-blooded that isn’t careful.]

Qingran moved faster, weaving between the burned husks of cars. The cultists were 30 minutes away. She needed to lure them into the path of the creatures and let chaos unfold.

[There’s a pharmacy building two blocks east. Top floor is intact.]

"Good," Qingran said. "Let’s get higher ground."

She made the turn at a ruined intersection, silent and swift. No light, no fire, nothing to announce her presence. But already, behind her, far off, headlights flickered.

She didn’t look back again. Every second counted. Her legs burned with effort, her breath controlled and steady not because she wasn’t afraid, but because panic was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

The pharmacy came into view ahead, its green cross sign dangling sideways, half torn from rusted anchors.

The lower floors were rubble, windows blown out, but the upper level still stood with jagged dignity.

A lucky collapse had created a slanted path of debris, almost like a ramp, angling upward to a side window.

Qingran took it in a sprint, her boots scraping against the stone. The loose chunks shifted dangerously under her weight, but she didn’t stop.

The window gaped wide, jagged with glass and ash. She launched herself through, rolling on landing, fast and tight. She came up low, gun out, breath sharp and empty.

The room was dimly lit, the only sound the creaking of old wooden shelves.

Rows of overturned shelves, looted pill bottles, and broken counters stretched out before her. Shadows pressed against the cracked ceiling like fingers.

Lingquan’s voice was calm and steady.

[No signs of movement. This floor’s clear.]

Qingran moved quickly to the far side, scanning the space. The broken window she’d entered through faced west, toward the cultists’ path. The east side overlooked the alley.

She crouched by a half-collapsed wall, her eyes narrowing. She’d make her stand here. She wouldn’t fight one hundred, that would be suicidal but she would make the first wave suffer.

Enough to send a message.

[Ten minutes.]

She inhaled deeply and reached into her storage. A handful of caltrops. A tripwire rig made from salvage. Three smoke flares. And... one fragmentation charge.

She began laying the traps quickly. The stairwell to the roof was blocked. One entrance, one funnel. She positioned the flares to release thick, choking clouds if triggered. Laid the caltrops at the window base.

Wired the charge to detonate on a simple pressure switch just outside the debris ramp.

She had just enough time to retreat to the far corner and crouch low, breathing steady. From this distance, she could see them now. Dozens of figures, spilling out from two dark transport trucks.

All in black. Some armored. Most wore masks, red-and-gold symbols painted across their faces – the cult’s grotesque sigil.

Her hands didn’t tremble. She watched them, counted silently. Ten moved first – a scouting squad. Armed with short blades and pistols.

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