The Male Zerg Cub Doesn’t Want to Be the Cannon Fodder Top - Chapter 2

Upon their first meeting, Maurice already had an inkling of the black-haired female’s origins, his round face wrinkling in sympathy.

Zerg society was one of oppression and violence, a civilization built upon a tiny minority of males dominating the vast majority of females and sub-females. Due to the innate advantages of male pheromones and mental tentacles, females and sub-females, despite their superior physical strength, found it nearly impossible to resist.

The female before Maurice, collared and hovering on the brink of death, was clearly a victim who had escaped the clutches of a male. Maurice could sense the latent energy of a high-level female within this stranger. Though different from a male’s mental power, it was undeniably formidable. Under normal circumstances, he should not have been this severely injured.

That is, unless the perpetrator was a “Master” to whom the female had “willingly” submitted, or a punishment robot acting on a Master’s orders.

Confirming Maurice’s suspicion was the pitch-black collar still cinched around the injured female’s neck. It fit snugly against the pale skin, bearing faint traces of a male’s mental energy, which was a mark of cruel and overbearing possession.

Maurice knew that most females and sub-females in the Zerg Empire led grueling lives. Short of a total revolution, they were beyond saving. Yet, with a victim right before his eyes, he could not bring himself to stand by, even if they were strangers and even if it might delay his system mission progress.

Maurice hung his hunted deer on a tree branch and cautiously retracted his python-like mental tentacles. He did not want to further traumatize a female already broken by a male. His male mental perception told him that although the black-haired female sat upright against the tree trunk with a striking and dignified posture, his breath was faint and reeking of death and exhaustion.

As an underdeveloped cub, Maurice lacked a male’s glands and sexual characteristics. He could not secrete or perceive pheromones. Yet, inexplicably, he caught a scent of sweetflag mixed with frankincense, steeped in the metallic sweetness of blood. It was faint and fleeting, as if it might vanish at any moment.

Maurice’s heart tightened. He leaned in and pulled medicine and bandages from the small satchel hanging over his chubby belly, which were items he had bartered for in the Downtown black market. Zerg technology was actually quite advanced. The males in the Uptown led lives of extreme luxury regardless of their background. The healing spectrums in medical pods could regenerate cells instantly without a hint of pain.

However, these high-tech marvels were not for “low-born” females or sub-females to enjoy, not even those of noble birth. The law strictly forbade them from accessing such rights or privileges, lest they forget their “sacred mission” to serve males. Since injuries were commonplace for females, most relied on their hardy constitutions to self-heal. But even the strongest body has its limits.

Tyranny is fiercer than a tiger, but on border planets far from the Imperial Capital, enforcement was less rigid, allowing black markets to emerge. The medicine Maurice bought was crafted by a sub-female pharmacist. He had scanned it with his mental power and found it contained energy-rich plant extracts, which were sufficient, though barely, for treating external wounds.

The chubby cub approached the female’s scarred and bleeding arm and hesitated. He was not a professional doctor, and at only four heads tall, applying bandages on such a scale without help was an impossible task. This was when he realized how much he relied on his mental tentacles. Although his tentacles were a dull gray and lacked an imposing color, they were indispensable.

If he is unconscious, maybe I can release a tentacle to help, Maurice thought. He stood on his tiptoes and used a chubby paw to lift a lock of thick black hair, peeking at the female’s face.

The twilight filtering through the forest illuminated the female’s pale and closed-eyed countenance, coating him in a hazy glow. A night breeze stirred. Holding the black hair, the male cub widened his green eyes. His heart thundered in his chest, and for a long moment, his mind went blank.

What a magnificent face.

Though the black-haired female was bloodless and pale, it did not diminish the impact of his beauty. The exquisite contours of his features were like distant mountains shrouded in mist, masterfully crafted yet fragile enough to shatter at a touch. The dignity inherent to old-world nobility left its mark on his face. The haughtiness of being raised in luxury had not quite masked the innate refinement of his soul, even as his tightly pressed lips leaked a hint of unyielding stubbornness.

Maurice was not a stranger to beauty. In his past life, there was no shortage of stars with striking features. In this life, many females and sub-females fit human aesthetic standards perfectly. But Maurice had never cared much for looks. To him, beauty was never as valuable as a reportable piece of information.

Today, he learned for the first time that when beauty reaches a certain peak, it possesses a value that crushes everything else.

Once he confirmed the female was unconscious, Maurice carefully summoned his python-like mental tentacles and transported him into the small wooden shack where he was staying. By now, Maurice was proficient with his tentacles. He commanded three to carry the female steadily and another to stand by with disinfectant and gauze.

After placing the female on the bed, Maurice began carefully removing the military uniform. As the skin and muscle were exposed, his round face flushed a deep red, which was a heat that even his light gray skin could not hide. But soon, the scent of blood shifted his mood to a mix of sympathy for the female and fury toward the male perpetrator. He treated the wounds as quickly as possible and wrapped the larger injuries in gauze.

Afterward, the male cub crouched by the bed for a long time. Finally, he pressed his lips together and tentatively used his mental tentacles to try and repair the female’s stagnant mental sea. He did not know exactly how to do it. He relied entirely on intuition, working so carefully that sweat beaded on his forehead.

Maurice knew that for a “claimed” female, having their mental sea soothed by another male was considered betrayal, which was a crime punishable by death for “infringing upon a male’s honor.” The black collar proved this female had a Master. Logically, Maurice should not have interfered, but he simply could not stand by.

The female’s mental sea was precarious, crumbling from the inside as if his own consciousness were endlessly tearing at itself. Whoever this Master was, they had utterly failed their duty, or perhaps, they were intentionally punishing him.

The chubby cub gritted his small teeth. His brow lowered in anger, and a murderous glint appeared in his pretty, green, puppy-like eyes. He looked fiercely adorable, though he did not know it, as he mentally issued countless death warrants to the female’s Master.

Once the female was settled, Maurice’s thoughts turned to the medical pod in the hunting grounds manor where the original owner of his body had been raised and confined. Although he had “run away from home,” he had not gone far, just far enough to escape surveillance and test the Earl’s attitude. He did not believe the Earl’s House had good intentions, especially since they had raised the original owner under the label of “sacrilegious.” So far, they had not reacted to his disappearance.

Maurice was still within the vast hunting grounds of Earl Schmidt, living in an abandoned wooden shed used for storage. The shed had only basic facilities, much like an apartment on Earth, but the room in the manor had a medical pod specifically for males.

Black market medicine could only treat external wounds. Using a medical pod would be safer, but Maurice could not think of a way to let the female use it without revealing his own identity.

Furthermore, how could he keep this female away from those male scumbags in the future?

Fretting, the male cub tugged at his hood until only his clear green eyes were visible. He stood on a high stool, waving his tentacles as he skillfully stirred ingredients on a simple stove.

The fresh venison had no gamey smell. Maurice paired it with truffles and asparagus to make two large steaks. Considering the female might lack an appetite after such trauma, he used leftover beef bones to make a rich stock, then blended vegetables and mushrooms into a sweet, creamy mushroom soup, served with a crispy toasted biscuit.

Finally, he braised the tendon meat from the deer leg and baked a simple muffin for dessert. In his past life, to investigate the hygiene of a high-end restaurant, Maurice had gone undercover as an apprentice. He was naturally gifted. It did not take long for him to learn the trade from the head chef. When he finally revealed his identity, the chef had begged him to stay, lamenting that going to university for journalism was a waste of culinary talent.

Since transmigrating, Maurice had not cared much about food or comfort, his mind consumed by the system tasks, which was much to the system’s annoyance. Zerg seasonings were hard to find. Under their twisted societal norms, pleasures like art, music, fine food, and poetry were exclusive to males. Females and sub-females, regardless of their merit, were forced to survive on nutritional supplements.

Maurice loathed this male privilege so much it made food taste like ash, so he usually did not bother. But now that he had picked up a tortured female, caring for him had become a responsibility. This gave him a sudden surge of domestic motivation. Although illogical, he felt that since he had started helping, he had to see it through.

The inexplicably fired-up male cub bustled about. Once everything was ready, he retracted his tentacles and stirred the thick soup with a ladle half his size. His round, tubby back radiated a sense of earnestness. The steam from the food blurred his silhouette, making the sight rather comical.

This was the scene Eliotte saw when he opened his eyes.

The black-haired female blinked his golden eyes, seemingly unable to process this absurd sight.

He moved his arm and let out a suppressed hiss of pain from the wound.

Before falling into darkness, Eliotte had prayed he would never wake up again.

News of the First Legion’s failed rebellion had reached the Capital Star. As the Admiral of the First Legion, he had become the target of public scorn. The Zerg would not forgive a defeated soldier. How could a Master tolerate a tool that was no longer sharp? Historically, officers who shamed the Empire on the battlefield faced two fates: execution on the spot as a warning to others, or losing all dignity by walking the “Path of Shame,” and then serving out their final value as a male’s female slave.

Unfortunately, Eliotte’s punishment was the latter.

The Path of Shame was, as the name suggested, a route of utter humiliation. The criminal soldier would have their hands bound and neck collared, starting from the border planets and walking through the busiest streets of every inhabited world. It gave every male in the Empire a chance to humiliate a defeated soldier, and showed every female and sub-female the consequences of disappointing a male.

The goal was not to kill the criminal. High-level females capable of commanding a legion were rare and still possessed reproductive value. But no soldier who walked the Path of Shame could ever live with their head held high again.

Most died halfway through. Those who survived usually withered away quickly due to the abuse of their Masters and a lack of will to live.

The planet governed by Earl Schmidt was the first stop on Eliotte’s Path of Shame. Even before the ceremony began, Eliotte had been pushed beyond his limit. To find release, he was willing to do anything.

But he had woken up again. The black-haired female’s pale lips pulled into a bitter smile. He seemed to be in an abandoned, ancient wooden building with only two rooms. He was in the bedroom. The walls were covered in flamboyant handwritten notes and clippings. Through the open door, he could see the other room, where a four-heads-tall cub in a cloak was standing with his back to him, preparing food.

Sensing he was awake, the cub turned off the stove with his short hands and hopped off the stool. He ran toward Eliotte with a thump-thump-thump of his feet. His hood almost covered his entire face, leaving only a pair of green eyes visible.

They were the most vibrant eyes Eliotte had ever seen.

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