(11) Torn Between Depravity and Nobility

Liu Yi had a second nap, and when she pushed open the door of the manor, she saw prey piled up right in the middle of the path: a wild rabbit and two pheasants.

Beside them, the tiger cub put down the half-eaten pheasant and trotted over with its round little head, radiating such cheerful energy that there was no need for words to understand its delight.

She found its innocence utterly endearing. As long as she knew the visitor bore her no ill will, that was enough.

While she chatted with the cub, the tigress was occupied, eating a pheasant with great satisfaction. Yet, her eating manner was not as ferocious as Liu Yi had seen on television; the tigress pressed down with her huge paw, tore off the feathers from the wings and tail, and spat out the tough, indigestible parts.

Then, she would slowly bite and tear off small pieces, swallowing them bit by bit.

"Crunch, crunch!" She snapped the chicken feet and tossed them aside.

When the tigress noticed Liu Yi watching her, her tail, lithe as a whip, gave a little elegant flick.

In no more than a quarter of an hour, the tigress had finished off two fat pheasants, leaving behind only a patch of blood, feathers, and scattered chicken feet.

But then, she was a creature as mighty as a tiger. If it were a human, Liu Yi would have certainly scolded them for wastefulness.

Chicken feet could be braised, pickled in chili, or stewed—why discard them? Even the feathers could be gathered to make dusters!

Unaware she had narrowly avoided a lecture, the tigress licked the meat scraps from her lips with relish, stretched, shook out her fur, and prepared to return to the mountains with her cub.

As she turned, she saw, not far behind, leaning against a tree and staring intently at the remains, the great-grandmother.

Liu Yi was a sensible person. Even if the tiger had no intention of guarding its food from her, she would never dare to take their prey.

"Roar, roar~" the tigress called, "Great-grandmother, is there not enough food for you?"

The tigress, having evolved, was a bit cleverer than the average animal, but still didn't comprehend the complexities of human thought.

Liu Yi glanced at the two pheasants and the rabbit the white tiger and her cub had deliberately left for her, and warmth filled her heart.

"It's enough. It's just a pity to waste the feathers and feet. If you don't want them, could I keep them for my own use?"

"Great-grandmother, the texture of the feathers isn't good, so we don't eat them. When I grow up, I'll catch you even fatter and bigger prey," said the tiger cub, shaking its head and disdainfully stomping its soft paws on the feathers.

"You're such a good little tiger. One day you'll be as mighty as your mother, but I'm not keeping the feathers to eat..." Liu Yi praised him first, then started explaining.

Not only did the tiger cub become confused, but even the tigress was left baffled by her words.

From then on, the white tiger and her cub would often bring their catch to share the meal with great-grandmother, and whatever was left, she would collect.

In the apocalypse, Liu Yi had no qualms about eating the leftovers from the white tigers; after a good wash, she would stew or roast them.

Sometimes, when the tigress needed to hunt deep in the mountains, she would entrust the cub to Liu Yi's care.

Liu Yi's gaze toward the tigress softened, no longer wary or guarded, but affectionate and fond.

The more time she spent with these animals, the more she felt their world was simple and straightforward—like and dislike were clear at a glance, gratitude and resentment distinct, without the duplicity of humans.

Their love extended even to the little puppies Liu Yi kept; the tigress, full of maternal kindness, even nursed the puppies with her own milk.

Watching the carefree puppies guzzling tiger milk, Liu Yi thought that once they grew up, they'd have stories to brag about for a lifetime—having played with a tiger since puppyhood and being raised on tiger's milk...

One day, she made a large pot of braised chicken feet—all leftovers from the white tigers. She had saved them in her space until she had enough for a pot, then set about cooking.

The tiger cub, having often tasted grandmother's treats, already knew the allure of cooked food. A translucent string of drool hung from its slightly open mouth.

The two little puppies sat in silence, watching the tiger cub.

Liu Yi was not a skilled cook; she kept one eye on the recipe and the other on the pot.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the puppies watching the cub intently and thought they were about to quarrel.

She went over to intervene, only to spot the long string of drool hanging from the tiger cub's mouth, and the wet patch on the floor beneath its furry paws.

Good heavens, such a waterfall!

"Haven't you just eaten a whole pheasant, Tiger? How can you be so hungry again?"

Liu Yi was so amused by its cuteness that she burst out laughing, but remembering her status as the elder, she walked over, picked up a cloth, squatted down, and wiped the drool from its chin.

Perhaps it was due to their bodies evolving in the apocalypse, but not only the tiger cub, even Liu Yi herself could now eat three to five times more than before with no sign of gaining weight.

In peacetime, she would have been delighted with such a miraculous metabolism, but now, in the apocalypse, her poor cooking skills meant she could not make anything truly delicious, even with a recipe.

Still, thinking of those in the shelters, hungry and ill-clad, she found the spirit to carry on.

Thus, woman, tiger, and two dogs happily gnawed their way through the braised chicken feet, then collapsed together on the sofa to rest.

"Be good and guard the house while I’m out," Liu Yi said. As much as she wanted to be lazy, the urgency of survival made her shoulder her little basket and set out to forage, hoping to find some nuts.

This forest had once been a national nature reserve, lush and overgrown, shielding them from the worst of the radiation and heat—cool and idyllic, like a paradise.

There were many wild hazel and Korean pine trees, some as tall as seven or eight-story buildings.

As soon as she entered the forest, the air was alive with birds and squirrels, little shapes darting among the branches.

Because few humans ever ventured this deep, the animals had little experience of people and rarely suffered at the hands of poachers. Compared to other regions, they had no instinctive fear of humans.

Some bold little squirrels even crept down from the trees, clinging to the tips of branches and tilting their fluffy heads to peer at her.

Liu Yi had been planning to raid a squirrel’s stash, but seeing the innocence in their bright eyes, her resolve wavered.

She took out a pole from her space and began to beat the hazel branches. She could just reach the hazels, but climbing for pine cones was out of the question.

She craved pine nuts. They nourish the body, replenish energy and blood, and moisten dryness.

She wavered between temptation and virtue.

Squirrels are fond of hoarding; every autumn when food is abundant, they go to great lengths to hide away nuts. Taking a few caches wouldn’t hurt them, she rationalized.

No—these little creatures work so hard for their food, and she wasn’t desperate yet. How could she bully the small and weak, seizing what wasn’t hers?