Strongest Scammer: Scamming The World, One Death At A Time
Chapter 226: Recovering And Slight Respite

Chapter 226: Recovering And Slight Respite

The first was a Basic Healing Spirit Pill—glassy green, infused with restorative qi.

The second was a Skin Mending Pill, a crimson-red medicine Li Mei had sworn was "excellent for superficial trauma."

The third was a pale golden Vitality Restoration Pill, more expensive than the others, meant to replenish the Vital energy of the body. He had hoarded these, knowing they were priceless.

They were gifts from Li Mei, which meant they either worked spectacularly—or had a chance to grow extra limbs.

Han Yu laughed bitterly. "If I grow a tail, I’ll just pretend it’s a spiritual treasure or effect of some hidden bloodline."

He swallowed the pills all at once, grimacing at the bitter taste.

A few seconds later, warmth blossomed in his chest, flowing through his veins like melted sunlight. His skin began to tighten as burns began to mend slowly. The internal shaking in his muscles began to still. He could feel vitality trickling back into him—a thimble of strength in a drained ocean.

Not enough to fight.

Enough to survive.

After forcing himself to sit upright, Han Yu looked around and spotted a narrow crevice just a few paces away. It wasn’t ideal—just a crack between volcanic outcroppings—but it was narrow enough to hide his body and deep enough to shield him from beastly eyes.

He crawled into it with a grunt, curling into himself like a child hiding from a storm. The stone was warm, but not scalding.

For now, it would do. And then, the moment he stopped moving, sleep claimed him like a falling curtain. The exhaustion, the pain, and the pills overwhelmed his system, dragging him into unconsciousness.

He didn’t even dream.

Time passed. How much, Han Yu couldn’t say.

His eyes cracked open to darkness.

Not the suffocating dark of caves, but the tranquil shade of night. The magma’s glow still lit the caldera, painting everything in hues of orange and crimson. The plumes of flame danced far in the distance, rising from the lava pools like ghostly serpents. It was quiet, save for the occasional hissing of steam and distant beastly howls.

Han Yu groaned and shifted in the cramped crevice. His body felt better—raw and sore, but no longer seared to the bone. His skin had mended somewhat, his qi was flowing again, and his mind was clearer than it had been in hours or so he thought.

For a moment, he thought everything might be fine... until he sat up too quickly and slammed his forehead against the crevice roof.

THUNK.

"AHHH—! FUCK!" he cried, clutching his head. "I’m an idiot."

He rubbed the fresh bump, muttering curses under his breath, and slowly wriggled out of the crevice like a toasted worm. As he emerged, the hot air kissed his face again, but compared to before, it was almost refreshing.

His gaze turned upward. The sky above the caldera was dark, a thick curtain of volcanic ash and cloud blotting out stars. But the light from the magma flows bathed the landscape in an eerie, perpetual twilight. He could still see faint shapes moving in the distance—fireborn beasts drifting through the lava like spirits of flame, plumes of heat rising behind them like tails.

Han Yu exhaled.

He reached into his robe’s inner lining—now more hole than cloth—and felt for the oilskin packet.

Still there.

He pulled it out and unwrapped it carefully.

Inside, the red-tinged ashes of the Fireborn beasts shimmered faintly with residual energy. Nearly twenty kills, gathered with painstaking risk. They were warm to the touch, but no longer scalding. They pulsed faintly—like the embers of a dying fire.

Han Yu gave a dry chuckle.

"Who’d have thought? Soul Needles... your worst enemy," he said to no one. "No flesh, no defense. Just pure soul. That makes you... my prey."

The Fireborn beasts had been cunning, powerful, and devastatingly fast. But they weren’t invincible—not to someone who fought the soul, not the body. And that was his strength.

Soul Cultivation.

He pocketed the packet and looked back toward the center of the caldera.

It still glowed brighter than the rest—a massive core of magma surrounded by seething energy.

Somewhere beneath that, the Ancient altar that the Mist Eye Sect was searching for laid hidden.

Somewhere nearby, Nascent Soul Realm beasts prowled.

And even now, the Fireborn continued to rise—new flames born from the deep chambers below.

Han Yu was under no illusions. He had survived, but barely. And if he wanted to go survive and get out of here, he’d have to do his very best.

He’d need a plan.

But first—first, he needed rest.

He leaned against a warm boulder, eyes scanning the glowing horizon.

"One day at a time," he muttered.

He’d earned that much.

But then, Han Yu’s stomach growled.

Loudly.

He blinked, then chuckled hoarsely as he leaned against the warm stone and reached into his robes. "Ah, right... the boar meat," he muttered, fishing around for the familiar bag he had lovingly grilled and wrapped in the same beast’s hide before diving into this hellhole.

His fingers found... nothing.

He patted the spot again. Then again. Slowly, realization dawned. The bag, tied carefully and kept close all this time, had likely vaporized during his mad dash through the heart of the caldera.

A small puff of air escaped his lips in amusement. He looked down at his blackened robes, his half-burnt sleeves, the blistered skin on his arms, and sighed.

"Grilled to perfection... by the volcano," he murmured. "Starvation it is for now."

He slumped back against the rock, letting his qi slowly circulate. The pills had helped, but his meridians were still scorched in places, like dried riverbeds in summer. Carefully, cautiously, he guided the flow of energy through his body, stabilizing where he could, patching small tears, nursing the larger injuries.

Eventually, his breathing steadied. The tremble in his limbs dulled. His legs no longer felt like overcooked noodles.

Time to move.

He rose with a grunt, dusted off imaginary ash from his robe—there was no point really, he was practically a walking cinder—and began the slow trudge back to the jagged slope he had descended earlier.