Redeeming The Hearts Of My Beasts

Ina Richmond opened her eyes to a world of pain. Her lungs felt packed with wet sand, every breath a shallow, burning struggle against a weight that crushed her chest. Her hand shot out instinctively, fingers scrabbling against the grimy sheets for the tactical knife she always kept under her pillow.

She grabbed nothing but air.

Panic, cold and sharp, spiked through her. She tried to roll, to vault off the bed into a defensive crouch, but her body betrayed her. It was heavy. Impossibly heavy. Layers of thick, suffocating fat anchored her to the mattress like slabs of wet concrete. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, irregular rhythm that echoed in the silent room.

Before she could process the physical failure, a searing agony ripped through her skull. It wasn't a headache. It felt like someone had jammed a live wire directly into her cerebral cortex. Memories-foreign, violent, disgusting-flooded her mind in a chaotic torrent.

She saw herself. Or rather, a woman who looked like her, but whose eyes were dead with cruelty. The woman held a whip studded with rusty barbs. At her feet cowered a boy with golden hair, his back a mess of torn flesh and blood. The sound of the whip cracking filled Ina's head, followed by the boy's muffled sob.

More memories surged in, and with them came a dawning, horrifying clarity.

This world was not the scorched, zombie-infested wasteland she had fought through for a decade. This was a beast-world, primitive yet governed by a single, ironclad law: females were the absolute rulers. In this realm, women were born with a rare spiritual power that could soothe the violent rampages inherent to all beast-men, and because females were outnumbered a hundred to one, they were worshipped, treasured, and granted unquestioned authority.

A single female could-and was expected to-take multiple males as her mates, forming a matriarchal household where her word was law. Males, no matter how powerful their beast forms, lived to serve, protect, and compete for a female's favor. The woman whose memories now infected Ina's mind, a woman who shared her name and face, had twisted this sacred bond into a theater of sadism.

The golden-haired boy was not a servant. He was one of her bound mates, and she had spent years perfecting his torment.

Ina's stomach heaved. A violent, physical revulsion twisted her gut. She gagged, the taste of bile rising in her throat. That wasn't her. She had spent her life in the apocalypse protecting the weak, not torturing them.

"System reboot complete."

The voice was mechanical, devoid of emotion, echoing directly inside her brain. It was a sound she hadn't heard since the bombs fell, a sound that meant survival.

"Arno?" she thought, her mind reeling.

"Affirmative. Military AI Arno online. Synchronization with host Ina Richmond at 12%."

"Status report," she demanded internally, forcing herself to breathe through the nausea.

"Host vital signs critical. Genetic rejection level: Severe. Cardiac output failing. Toxin accumulation lethal. Immediate medical intervention required."

A pause hung in her mind. Then Arno's voice returned, but this time it carried something unusual-a flicker of genuine surprise, a quality so human it made Ina's breath catch.

"Alert. Detecting unfamiliar energy signatures. Beast-man genetic markers. Matriarchal societal structure. The apocalypse database is insufficient. Processing... adjusting parameters... recalibrating survival protocols for new world paradigm."

Ina could almost feel the AI stretching, learning, evolving in real-time as it absorbed the rules of this alien place.

Arno had kept her alive through hell, but even the most advanced military AI had its limits. Now it was rewriting its own code to match a reality neither of them could have imagined.

"Recalibration complete. New world data integrated. As an arrival incentive, the Kismet Protocol has authorized a Novice Gift Pack tailored to this realm's biological framework."

Damn, Ina thought, a flicker of warmth cutting through the pain. Even after crossing universes, you're still looking out for me. She had always treated Arno as a tool, a weapon. But in moments like this, it felt less like code and more like the closest thing to a partner she had ever known.

The AI's cold voice was cut off by a sound from outside the bedroom door. It was faint, barely a whisper against the rotting wood, but Ina's enhanced hearing caught it instantly. A whimper. The high-pitched, desperate sound of an animal waiting to die.

It was the boy from the memory.

Ina's mind, forged in a decade of brutal survival, snapped into cold assessment. She was in a broken body, trapped in a world she didn't understand, surrounded by males who had every reason to want her dead.

The original owner had made this bed of hatred, and now Ina had to lie in it. The woman's memories showed her the truth: a female in this world commanded power, but only if she had mates.

A lone, disgraced female was a target-easy prey for rival families, for wild beasts, for anyone who wanted to strip her of her status. Her mates were not just victims to be rescued; they were her lifeline. Their beast-man strength, their combat instincts, their bond to her very soul through the mate contract-these were assets she desperately needed.

If the golden-haired boy died in that hallway, if the others were too broken to ever trust her, she would be utterly alone in a world that devoured the weak. Saving him wasn't just morality. It was survival. She needed them, and right now, they needed a monster who wasn't a monster anymore.

Ina gritted her teeth. She planted her hands against the mattress, her thick arms trembling with the effort. She pushed. Her knees protested, the joints popping with a sickening crack, but she forced herself upright. The room spun, dark spots dancing in her vision, but she locked her knees and stood.

She swayed, catching herself on the peeling wallpaper. The floorboards groaned under her weight as she took a step toward the door. Her bare foot came down on something wet and sticky. She looked down. A dark red smear, already drying, stained the floorboards. The metallic tang of blood filled her nostrils.

She reached the door. The metal frame was warped, rusted at the hinges. She grabbed the handle and pulled. It shrieked in protest, the sound loud enough to wake the dead, but it swung open.

The hallway was dim, lit only by a flickering emergency light at the far end. The air smelled of mold and old blood. Huddled in the corner, wedged between a rusted pipe and the wall, was a figure.

He was thin, too thin, his ribs visible even through the tattered remnants of a shirt. Golden dog ears, matted with dirt and blood, were pressed flat against his skull. His arms were wrapped around his knees, pulling them tight to his chest as if trying to make himself disappear.

Angel.

The name surfaced from the stolen memories. Angel Baldwin. Her guard. Her victim.

At the sound of the door, the boy flinched. His whole body seized, a tremor running through him that rattled his bones. He didn't look up. He just buried his face deeper into his knees, making himself smaller.

Ina took a step forward. Her footstep was heavy, a dull thud in the silence.

Angel let out a choked whine. It was a sound of pure despair, of a creature that knew pain was coming and had no way to escape it.

Arno's interface flashed in her vision. A red progress bar hovered over Angel's head.

"Target: Angel Baldwin. Loyalty: -99 (Extreme Hatred). Trust: 0. Psychological Trauma: Critical. Mate Bond Status: Intact but severely damaged. Warning: Subject highly unstable. Survival recommendation: Immediate medical intervention and long-term trust-building protocol."

Ina ignored the data. She focused on the boy's back, on the crisscross of scars and fresh wounds that seeped through the cheap fabric. She had to help him.

She lowered herself, her knees screaming in protest as she bent down. The cold floor bit into her skin through the thin fabric of her pants.

Angel heard her approach. He snapped his head up. His eyes were wide, the blue irises bloodshot and swimming in terror. He looked at her like she was a monster crawling out of a nightmare.

Ina reached out. She just wanted to check his pulse, to see how bad it was.

The moment her hand moved, Angel screamed. It was a raw, throat-tearing sound. He scrambled backward, his spine hitting the concrete wall with a sickening thud. The impact tore open a half-healed scab on his back, and fresh blood trickled down the wall.

"Don't! Please!" he gasped, his voice hoarse and broken.

Ina yanked her hand back as if she'd touched a hot stove. The memories of the original owner slammed into her again-the whip, the acid, the laughter. She was the monster under his bed.

She took a deep breath, forcing down the bile and the guilt. She couldn't comfort him with words. Not yet. He didn't trust her voice.

"Arno," she thought. "Medical assessment."

"Subject Angel Baldwin: Lacerations, contusions, second-degree acid burns. Infection risk: 98%. Estimated time to septic shock: 2 hours. Immediate intervention required."

Two hours. He would die in this hallway if she did nothing.

Ina straightened up. She didn't look at him. She couldn't stand to see that fear directed at her. She turned away, her heavy footsteps echoing as she walked down the hall toward the storage room.

Behind her, she heard Angel's breathing hitch. The tension in the air shifted from terror to confusion. He was waiting for the blow that didn't come.

She found the storage room door. It was stuck. She threw her weight against it, the wood groaning before it gave way with a crash. Dust billowed out, choking her. She coughed, waving a hand in front of her face, and stepped inside.

The room was a mess. Broken furniture, empty bottles, and rat droppings covered the floor. She ransacked the shelves, her thick fingers clumsy with desperation.

There. A white box with a red cross, covered in a layer of grime. She grabbed it and flipped it open. Inside lay a few gauze pads, a roll of bandage, and a vial of cloudy liquid. Expired antibiotics. And a half-empty bottle of cheap disinfectant.

"Useless," she muttered, slamming the box shut.

"Host has received a Novice Gift Pack," Arno's voice cut in, its tone now carrying that new, unsettling warmth. "Acknowledged by the governing system of this realm as an arrival concession. Item: Military-Grade Gene Repair Serum, adapted for beast-world genetic compatibility. Single use."

A syringe materialized in her palm. It glowed with a faint blue light, the liquid inside swirling like liquid nitrogen. It was cold against her skin.

Ina didn't hesitate. She knew the risks. The original body was a wreck, poisoned and decaying. This serum was the only chance to survive, to become strong enough to save the boy in the hall.

She rolled up her sleeve, exposing a flabby arm covered in track marks and bruises. She found a vein, the needle sharp and cold.

She plunged it in.

The effect was instantaneous. It wasn't medicine. It was napalm. The cold liquid hit her bloodstream and ignited. It felt like millions of microscopic drills boring into her marrow, tearing apart the corrupted cells and rebuilding them from scratch.

Ina dropped to her knees. The impact jarred her teeth, but the pain in her bones was worse. She clamped a hand over her mouth, biting down on her own flesh to muffle the scream. She wouldn't give the original owner the satisfaction of hearing her cry.

Sweat poured down her face, mixing with the grime. Her vision went white, then black. She collapsed onto the dirty floor of the storage room, her body convulsing as the serum began to rewrite her genetic code.

Out in the hallway, Angel lifted his head. He had heard the crash, the muffled groan, the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor. His golden ears twitched, swiveling toward the storage room.

He didn't know what game she was playing. He only knew that the monster had fallen.

The pain was a living thing. It had teeth and claws, and it was tearing her apart from the inside. Ina lay curled on the dusty floor, her fingers digging into the wood so hard her nails splintered.

She forced herself to focus. She had survived interrogations in the wasteland. She had survived radiation storms and raider ambushes. This was just biology.

She stared at a water stain on the ceiling, tracing its brown edges with her eyes. She counted the cracks in the plaster. She recited the serial numbers of her old rifle. Anything to distract her mind from the fire in her veins.

Then, the smell hit her. It was rank, like rotting garbage and sour sweat. She looked down. Her skin was oozing. A thick, black sludge was seeping from her pores, coating her clothes and the floor around her. It was the toxins, the years of drug abuse and bad food the original owner had pumped into this body, finally being expelled.

It smelled like death.

Slowly, the inferno in her bones cooled to a dull ache. The convulsions stopped. "Synchronization with host Ina Richmond increased to 18%," Arno's mechanical voice chimed faintly in the background of her fading agony. Ina lay there, gasping for air, her chest heaving.

She moved her hand. It felt lighter. She pushed herself up, expecting the usual strain on her joints. It came, but it was less. The heavy, suffocating weight was still there, but it had shifted. It felt... looser.

She didn't have time to celebrate. The boy. The two-hour countdown.

She grabbed the edge of the shelf and hauled herself to her feet. Her head swam, but she steadied herself. She snatched the bottle of disinfectant and the gauze from the first aid kit. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.

She walked out of the storage room. Her footsteps were still heavy, but there was a rhythm to them now, a purpose that hadn't been there before.

Angel heard her coming. He shrank back into the corner, his body tensing. He pulled his torn shirt up, trying to cover his neck, the most vulnerable part.

Ina stopped a meter away from him. She didn't crowd him. She kept her distance, slowly lowering herself to the ground until she was sitting on her heels, her eyes level with his.

She pulled the bottle of water from her pocket-the only clean water she had found. She twisted the cap off. The plastic crinkled loudly in the silence.

Angel's eyes locked onto the bottle. His cracked lips moved involuntarily, his throat bobbing as he swallowed dry air.

Ina placed the bottle on the floor. She used her fingertips to gently push it toward him. The plastic scraped against the concrete, a soft, scratching sound.

Angel stared at the bottle, then at her. He didn't move. His eyes were full of suspicion. The memories flashed in his mind-the original owner offering him water laced with acid, the burning scars that still lined his throat.

Ina saw the hesitation. She saw the fear. She checked the data Arno displayed: "Subject has history of chemical burns via ingestion. Trust level critical."

She cursed the original owner silently. She reached out and pulled the bottle back. Angel flinched, expecting a blow.

Instead, Ina lifted the bottle to her own lips. She took a long drink, letting the cool water wash down her throat. She let out a breath, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

She placed the bottle back on the floor and pushed it again. This time, she pushed it until it was only two inches from his trembling fingers.

Angel watched her. He stared at her for a full minute, his eyes searching for the trick, the trap. But she just sat there, her hands resting on her knees, waiting.

Thirst won. The primal need to survive overrode the terror.

He lunged. His hand shot out, grabbing the bottle. He tilted his head back, chugging the water like a man dying in the desert. He drank too fast. He started to cough, the water spilling down his chin, his body wracking with spasms that pulled at the wounds on his back. He gasped, tears of pain welling in his eyes.

Ina moved. She tore open a packet of gauze and leaned forward.

Angel reacted instantly. He dropped the bottle, scrambling backward, his hands up to protect his face.

Ina stopped. She raised both hands, palms out. It was a universal gesture of surrender. "Don't move," she said. Her voice was still rough, still sounding like gravel, but the tone was steady. Calm. "I'm just leaving the bandage."

She placed the gauze and the bottle of disinfectant on the floor next to the water bottle. Then, she stood up. She didn't linger. She didn't try to force the issue. She took three steps back, putting space between them.

Angel stared at her. His golden ears twitched. This was wrong. This wasn't the script. The monster didn't retreat. The monster didn't share water.

"Target loyalty increased by 1 point. Current loyalty: -98."

One point. Ina almost laughed. It was a pathetic number, but it was a start.

She pointed at the supplies on the floor. "Bandage yourself," she said, her voice hard. "I'm not in the mood to hit anyone today."

She turned her back on him. She didn't wait for a response. She walked away, her wet, filthy clothes sticking to her skin. She needed to wash off the grime, both the physical dirt and the lingering stench of the original owner's sins.

She found the bathroom. It was small and grimy, the mirror cracked and spotted with toothpaste. She hit the light switch. The fluorescent bulb buzzed to life, casting a harsh, unforgiving glare.

Ina looked at the mirror and froze.

The face staring back at her was grotesque. The skin was sallow, covered in the black sludge that was still oozing from her pores. The eyes were puffy, buried in fat. The hair was lank and greasy. She looked like a monster from a swamp.

She turned on the shower. The water sputtered, then came out in a cold rush. She didn't care. She stepped under the spray, clothes and all.

The cold water hit her skin, washing away the black grime. It swirled down the drain, a dark, dirty river. She scrubbed at her skin, her nails raking over the flesh until it turned red.

As the dirt washed away, she began to see the truth. Underneath the layers of fat and toxin, the bones were good. The frame was solid. This body had potential. It was just buried under years of abuse.

She turned off the water. She stood in the dripping silence, her chest heaving. She looked at her hands. They were still thick, but she could feel the serum working, tightening the skin, rebuilding the muscle.

She clenched her fists. A spark of strength, real and raw, flickered in her muscles. It was weak, but it was there. It was a weapon.

She was going to need it.

Ina grabbed a threadbare towel and scrubbed the water from her hair. She walked out of the bathroom, her bare feet leaving damp prints on the dusty floorboards.

She entered the bedroom. The smell of mold and old sweat was overpowering. She grabbed the stained sheets and yanked them off the bed, throwing them into a corner. She wasn't sleeping in that filth.

She sat down on the bare mattress. She closed her eyes.

"Arno," she commanded. "Access all memory files regarding identity and exile."

The data dump hit her like a hammer. Images flashed behind her eyelids. A life of luxury. A sprawling mansion on the capital planet. Endless parties. And through it all, a face. A smiling, innocent face with wide eyes and a soft voice.

Debera Paul. Her cousin. The "true" princess.

Ina watched the memory unfold. A party. Debera handing her a glass of wine, her smile sweet. "Drink up, cousin. It's your favorite." The taste of bitter almonds. The sudden surge of uncontrollable energy. The screaming. The destruction. The scandal.

Ina opened her eyes. Her gaze was cold. It was a setup. A classic frame job. Debera had drugged her, caused her to lose control, and then used the incident to strip her of her title and exile her to this rock.

"Target: Debera Paul," Arno displayed. "Status: Imperial Princess. Ability: S-Class Mental Purification. Public Approval: 92%."

Ina scoffed. A white lotus. The most dangerous kind of enemy. She had dealt with them in the wasteland. They smiled while they stabbed you in the back.

"Current host status," she asked.

"Ability: Suppressed (Unranked). Assets: 150 Star Coins. Debt: 3 million Star Coins (Black Soil City Underground Bank)."

Three million. Ina let out a breath. The original owner wasn't just a monster; she was a degenerate gambler. They were broke. They were in debt. And they were trapped on a garbage planet.

She stood up and walked to the window. She pulled back the heavy curtain. Sunlight flooded the room, along with the acrid smell of industrial smoke.

Black Soil City. It was a dump. The streets were cracked and filled with trash. In the distance, she could see the towering walls of the Hunting Zone, separating the city from the wilderness beyond.

This wasn't the capital. There were no laws here, only power. And right now, she had none.

She turned back to the room. She needed a plan. Step one: Regain combat capability. Step two: Make money. Step three: Go back to the capital and settle the score.

She walked to the closet. It was filled with trash. Garish dresses, neon colors, fabrics so cheap they looked like plastic. She pushed them aside, digging deeper.

Finally, at the bottom, she found a pair of black cargo pants and an oversized grey hoodie. They were plain, durable. They would do. Beneath the clothes, her fingers brushed against cold, heavy steel. She pulled it out-an old-model electromagnetic pistol. The original owner had likely bought it for show, a prop for her twisted games, but Ina quickly checked the energy pack. The indicator flashed a solid green. Still fully charged. She checked the grip, testing the weight of it in her palm, feeling a familiar comfort wash over her. She tucked the weapon securely into the waistband of her new pants. A useful tool in a world like this.

She dressed, pulling her damp hair back into a tight ponytail. She looked in the mirror. Her face was still round, her body still heavy, but the way she carried herself had changed. She stood straight. Her eyes were sharp.

She opened the bedroom door and walked down the hall. The spot where Angel had been was empty. Only a dried pool of blood and the empty water bottle remained.

She followed the faint scent of blood down the stairs to the first floor. She needed food. Real food, not the synthetic trash the original owner lived on.

She walked into the kitchen. It was a disaster. The sink was overflowing with moldy dishes. The fridge was bare except for a few vials of cheap, expired nutrient fluid.

Ina picked one up. "Industrial synthetic sweetener," she read on the label. She threw it in the trash. That garbage would only slow down her body's recovery.

She checked her pocket. 150 Star Coins. It wasn't enough to buy a fresh apple, let alone the high-energy food she needed.

"Novice Quest triggered," Arno announced. "Objective: Acquire first pot of gold. Suggested method: Collect low-level materials in the Level 4 Hunting Zone periphery."

The Hunting Zone. Ina felt a familiar thrill. This was her territory. Killing and scavenging were what she did best.

But she looked down at her hands. They were still clumsy. Her body was still slow. Going into the zone alone in this condition was suicide.

She needed backup. And the only backup available was the men in this house.

She closed her eyes, searching the original owner's memories. A dark, damp image surfaced. A basement. The hum of machinery. A cold room. And inside, a figure curled up on the floor, scales dull and eyes empty.

Harlan Wright. The snake.

The memory showed the original owner turning the temperature down, laughing as the cold-blooded man shivered and begged. She had kept him in the cryo pod for weeks.

Ina's heart skipped a beat. Harlan was an SS-class potential. He was dangerous. He was lethal. And he probably wanted her dead.

But if she could tame him, he would be her sword. If she failed, he would be her executioner.

Ina walked to the counter. She pulled open a drawer and took out a boning knife. The blade was dull but sturdy. She tested the edge against her thumb. It would cut.

She slid the knife into her sleeve. She took a deep breath, steadying her racing heart. She was about to walk into a cage with a starving predator.

She turned and walked toward the hidden door that led to the basement.