He couldn't loosen his grip in his mouth, and Zheng Zha strained, managing to loop the buckle of the explosive onto the Queen's claw. With a sharp yank, the buckle of the spiral spike bomb tore free, but before he could make his next move, a fierce gust struck him head-on. Without looking, he knew it was either the claw or the Queen's tongue—either way, the powerful blast of air was aimed directly at his skull.

"Bang! Bang!" A few gunshots rang out, the source not far off. Near another container, close to where the Queen and Zheng Zha were locked in combat, Chu Xuan stood there, trembling violently. One of his arms was severed, hanging by mere tendons attached to the bone; his waist was bent at an unnatural, horrifying angle. He was clearly grievously injured, his spine likely deformed beyond recognition.

These shots were fired by Chu Xuan with his remaining hand. The bullets struck the alien's tongue with uncanny precision, once again proving his mastery of short-range marksmanship. Moreover, the handgun he wielded was immensely powerful; these shots completely obliterated the tip of the Queen's tongue, deflecting the remainder just enough for it to graze past Zheng Zha’s head at that critical second.

"Hurry up and do whatever you need to do! My eyes are going blind!" Chu Xuan shouted, his handgun firing continuously, managing to punch several yellow-tinged holes into the alien's tongue.

Zheng Zha slammed his left hand hard against the Queen's claw, finally releasing his mouth from its grip. But immediately, he gritted his teeth with renewed ferocity. Gathering every ounce of strength, he shoved hard, launching himself two meters up and straight toward the Queen's head.

With a sharp hiss, the spiral spike on Zheng Zha's left hand plunged deep into the side of the Queen's massive head, piercing straight through to its mouth from the flank. Time seemed to stretch; the Queen's other claw was already halfway raised, not yet able to swat at Zheng Zha clinging to its skull, when BOOM—the explosion erupted. Zheng Zha’s left hand, along with the Queen's head, were pulverized. Shrapnel, fragments of the spike, and shards of the Queen's carapace rained down, peppering Zheng Zha’s entire body. His left hand was utterly destroyed. Since he was already beyond caring about debt, his previous injuries were near-fatal; these new fragments were mere trifles. He simply closed his eyes and drifted slowly toward the ground.

His internal energy was completely spent, his vampire essence nearly depleted, his Bloodline Lock pushed to its absolute limit. More than half his body’s blood had been spilled, and the cumulative trauma should have instantly killed any ordinary strong man. Zheng Zha truly lacked the strength to move even a finger; the effort to close his eyelids left him exhausted. He was so tired, desperately wanting to find a place to sleep deeply, yet feeling as though some crucial task remained unfinished in his heart… “Damn you, Main God, hurry and repair our bodies… deduct the repair points, you decide how much…” Faintly, Zheng Zha thought he heard Zhang Jie muttering incoherently, followed by the sound of a girl crying that was terribly familiar. This weeping made him want to force his eyes open, but he was simply too weary. Had this crying not arrived, he might have slipped into a deep slumber.

Fortunately, a sudden warmth enveloped him, wrapping his entire being. The comfortable heat felt like soaking in warm water, providing an indescribable sense of ease. However, this comfort was fleeting, immediately replaced by searing agony—true, soul-rending pain that words could barely capture. Zheng Zha was in such agony he wished for death, yet this very torment jolted his consciousness back into clarity.

As soon as his mind cleared, Zheng Zha was struck by icy dread. Recalling the moment he had clashed head-to-head with the Queen sent shivers down his spine. That monstrous entity, easily seven or eight meters tall and nearly twenty meters long! Never mind him, even an elephant could be dispatched with a few casual swings. The sheer audacity of engaging that monster in close combat made him tremble with lingering terror.

Zheng Zha finally took in his surroundings: he was in the "Main God" Space. A vast plaza, a single suspended sphere of light, and the infinite, endless darkness surrounding them—this was the only sanctuary in the horror movie reincarnation cycles.

A pillar of light shone down from the radiant core in the center of the plaza, and he floated directly within its beam. Besides him, there were four other pillars of light, varying in shade. Chu Xuan, the least injured, floated in the dimmest column. Next were Zero Point and Zhang Jie. As for Zhan Lan, her pillar’s brightness was second only to his own.

Four? Zheng Zha counted again carefully. Yes, only four people. Bawang was nowhere to be seen in the plaza. The burly Russian mercenary was clearly dead. A wave of melancholy washed over him; indeed, only those who survived made it back to the "Main God" Space.

Zheng Zha then examined his own body. The intense pain had lessened, but it remained unbearable. Not a single part of him was intact. His entire lower half was pulverized and gone, and both his arms were missing. His upper torso was riddled with shrapnel wounds. The only stroke of luck was that while his face bore some scratches, his head had been spared the direct impact of the fragments—a blessing amidst the catastrophe.

His muscles seemed alive, writhing and moving. Under the illumination of the light, his flesh and bone began to regrow at a speed visible to the naked eye. His spine extended downward until it finally halted at the tailbone area. Then, centering on the spine, bone and nerve structures emerged, followed by the appearance of blood and internal organs… Zheng Zha could no longer bear to look at his body; the visible regeneration was sickening. He shifted his gaze past his reforming flesh to the ground below. There, two girls looked up at them, their eyes blurred with tears. One was the classical beauty created by Zhang Jie, who watched Zhang Jie silently weeping. The other was the girl in his heart, Lolita, a fifteen or sixteen-year-old crying with overwhelming despair. If the classical beauty hadn't been quietly supporting her, it seemed the young girl might have collapsed from sorrow.

Zheng Zha could not speak; shrapnel had severed his windpipe, and any attempt to talk made air hiss violently from his lungs. He could only part his lips slightly toward Lolita, trying to mouth the words he wished to convey, unsure if she could interpret the movements of his lips.

“I came back alive… Lier, I kept my promise, I came back alive!” he mouthed.