Reborn In A Perverse Monster World! My System Adapts To Everything! Chapter 106: Am I High?

Jason stood before the sleeping woman, his heart hamring against his ribs.

She was human. Undeniably, irrefutably human. Her skin had the sa warmth as his, not the pale, otherworldly glow of elves. Her ears were round, soft, lacking the pointed elegance of the fey races. Her face was structured like his—familiar in a way that made his chest ache.

"If humans exist in this world," he thought, "then my existence is not so unique."

The realization unsettled him more than he expected. He had grown accustod to being the anomaly, the creature that no one could identify, the pink-skinned outsider who did not belong. But if there were others—if there was a human race hidden sowhere, sleeping in gardens of impossible flowers—then everything he thought he knew about this world was wrong.

He tried to leave the room but the roots did not respond to him anymore.

Jason scread but to no avail, there was no response and if anything, his voice had no effects on the roots either.

He stepped toward the entrance, expecting the vines to part as they had before, clearing a path for him like servants bowing to a king. They did not move. The green tendrils remained still, woven together, blocking his exit. He pushed against them. They held firm.

He shoved harder but they did not yield.

"The vines are no longer responding to ."

Jason’s jaw tightened. For a brief second, worry flickered through his chest—a cold, sharp spike of uncertainty. But it did not linger.

He was not scared.

The watcher had tried to kill him. The watcher had ripped the ant king apart, had pierced Ylva’s stomach, had shown him the face of death. And sohow, Jason had won.

He had torn the creature’s arm off, absorbed its magic, and made it run.

That victory had instilled sothing in him—not arrogance, but confidence. A quiet, steady certainty that he could rely on his own strength.

He looked back at the sleeping woman.

Then he looked at the vines.

If they will not part for , he thought, I will make them.

-

Ylva pressed her ear against the woven roots and listened.

Jason’s voice was faint—barely a whisper, muffled by layers of living wood. But her heightened senses caught it anyway.

The vines did their best to shut out the sound, but they were not soundproof. Nothing was, not against a werewolf’s ears.

She heard him speak, heard the uncertainty in his voice and heard him try to leave.

And then she heard nothing.

Sothing was wrong.

Ylva’s claws extended. She lunged at the vines and began to dig. Her claws sank into the living wood, tearing through layers of green and brown. She ripped and shredded, pulling chunks of root from the barrier, tossing them aside. The vines did not try to attack her—they simply regenerated.

New growth sprouted from the wounds she created, weaving together, sealing the holes faster than she could make them. She could not destroy it faster than it could regenerate.

Ylva stepped back. Her chest heaved and her arms burned. The vines had already repaired the damage she had done, leaving no trace of her assault.

"This is becoming tedious."

She took a breath, then another. She planted her feet with her claws flexed and her lungs filled with air.

And she scread.

The sa skill she had used earlier—the shockwave that had torn through the roots that had captured her. The sound erupted from her throat, raw and powerful, vibrating through the air, through the vines, through the stone itself.

The barrier cracked.

A small hole punched through the center, the edges splintered and smoking. Ylva did not hesitate. She plunged forward, her shoulders squeezing through the gap, her arms reaching for the other side.

Her legs were stuck.

The vines were already regenerating, tightening around her thighs, trying to drag her back. Ylva snarled and clawed at the roots, her claws tearing through the wood, her muscles screaming. She destroyed the vines around her legs just before they could pull her back, and she tumbled through the opening, landing hard on the stone floor inside the chamber.

Her claws scraped against the moss. Her chest heaved.

She looked up.

Jason stood a few feet away, staring at her.

His eyes were wide and it was a look of frustration.

"I told you to leave," he said.

Ylva pushed herself to her feet. Her legs were scratched and barely bleeding. Her fur was matted with sap and splinters. But she t his gaze without flinching.

"What are you doing here?" Jason asked.

Ylva stood in the chamber, her chest still heaving, her legs scratched and bleeding. Sap and splinters clung to her fur. Her green eyes blazed with defiance.

"There was no way," she said, her voice low and fierce, "that I was going to leave you alone. Not after everything we’ve been through."

Jason’s jaw tightened. He opened his mouth to argue, but she cut him off.

"What I felt in that cave—watching you almost die, watching that thing rip the ant king apart, watching you—" Her voice cracked. "I never plan to experience that again. Ever."

Jason’s expression softened.

The tension in his shoulders drained away.

He looked at her injuries—the scratches on her legs, the sap matting her fur, the splinters embedded in her skin. She had clawed through living roots to reach him. She had scread until her throat bled.

He stepped toward her. "Are you okay?"

Ylva looked down at her legs. "This is nothing."

She crouched and began pulling the splinters from her flesh, one by one. The pieces of root ca out easily, sliding free from her skin like thorns from a rose stem. Jason watched, expecting blood to follow.

None ca.

The wounds on her legs healed almost as quickly as she removed the splinters.

The scratches sealed themselves. The bleeding stopped the mont the foreign objects were gone.

Her skin knitted together, leaving behind faint pink lines that faded to nothing within seconds.

Jason stared. "Your healing factor... it’s improved."

Ylva shrugged, but there was a hint of pride in her eyes. "It seems so."

He looked at his own hands. The hands that had torn the watcher’s arm off. The hands that had absorbed mana that should have killed him.

"I see," he thought. "I am not the only one who is getting stronger,"

He pushed the thought aside and gestured toward the center of the chamber. "There’s a human lying on that bed of flowers."

Ylva raised an eyebrow. "A human?"

The word hung in the air between them. Jason realized in that mont that he had never told her about the human race, not explicitly. And if he did, she must have forgotten.

She knew he was different—knew he wasn’t an elf, wasn’t a wolf, wasn’t anything she had encountered before—but he had never explained what he actually was.

"Ylva," he said slowly. "What I am... what I’ve always been... is a human."

She blinked. Her ears twitched. "A human."

"Yes."

She stared at him for a long mont. Her tail flicked once.

"I assud you were sothing," she said finally. "But I did not know what." She paused. "I still do not know what a human is. It does not matter to ."

Jason’s chest tightened. "It doesn’t?"

"You could be a reptile for all I care." Her voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "I love you. That is the only thing that matters."

She muttered while breaking eye contact as her face flushed red.

He wanted to say sothing, he wanted to tell her that those words ant more than she could know. But the lump in his throat stopped him.

Ylva walked toward the bed of flowers. Her hooves—paws, Jason corrected himself—were silent on the moss.

She stopped beside the sleeping figure and studied it for a long mont.

Then she turned back to Jason.

"You said there was a human here?"

Jason nodded. "There is."

Ylva shook her head. Her ears flattened. "No. That is not a human."

Jason frowned. "What do you an?"

"That is one of my kind." She gestured at the sleeping figure. "A werewolf. Male. Powerful, from the look of him."

Jason rushed to her side. He stared down at the sleeping figure—the chestnut hair, the fair skin, the round ears, the delicate features. Everything about him scread human. Everything Jason knew about anatomy, about race, about the differences between species, told him this was a human.

"What do you see?" Jason asked.

Ylva tilted her head. "Fur. Dark brown, almost black. A strong jaw. Broad shoulders. He is tall—taller than , taller than you." She paused. "His ears are pointed, like an elf’s, but shorter. His claws are extended, even in sleep. And his scent..." She inhaled deeply. "His scent is pure." Ylva had an impressed look in her eyes.

Jason’s mind raced. The details she described—the fur, the pointed ears, the claws, the ancient scent—none of it matched what he saw.

He saw a human. A perfect, beautiful, impossible human.

"Tell more," he said.

Ylva studied the figure. "He looks like the stories. The ones the elders tell. About the first werewolf. The one who was born from blood and moon."

"He looks like the Jensen Ackles of her race," Jason thought to himself, though he had no idea who the creature was but this reference simply ant they saw what they found attractive. Jensen Ackles was an actor, soone his past life self had seen on a screen nurous tis, the epito of the human race even in his advanced years. Handso and universally admired.

The kind of face that stopped conversations.

But that was not what he saw. He saw a human.

"What is going on?" Jason muttered.

He looked at the figure. Then at Ylva. Then back at the figure.

"What are you?" he whispered.

The sleeping figure did not answer.

Ylva crossed her arms. "You see a human. I see my kind. Sothing is wrong with this room."

"No," Jason said slowly. "Sothing is wrong with us," Jason corrected.

He reached out to touch the figure’s hand and that is when it registered its first movent, the fingers twitched.