I am a full-level celestial master, you let me enter the strange talk of rules?

Seeing makes your eyes tired, makes them weary, and makes you need to close your eyes and rest.

They've been waiting for you, waiting for you to stop looking at them, waiting for a specific situation to occur, then they'll come out.

Thinking of this, Zhang Yangqing stared intently at the surveillance footage.

He stared at the chipped washing machine in the laundry room, at the strangely large head that had once swollen into the toilet stall, and at the severed arm still sitting on a plate in the dining room.
Zhang Yangqing's eyes began to sting and feel dry.

After 28 minutes, his eyelids were about to give way, his vision began to blur, the images started to double, and the still things seemed to be moving slowly.

Zhang Yangqing closed his eyes, leaned back in his chair, and tilted his head back slightly, as if he were sleeping.

His breathing was light, his heartbeat was slow, and his body was completely relaxed.

But he didn't fall asleep. He was listening—listening to the outside of the door, listening to the outside of the window, listening to those faint sounds coming from far away, sounds that didn't belong to this building.

Something is approaching; it's coming in.

It stopped beside Zhang Yangqing, and a cold sensation came from the left side—not just a chill, but an icy cold.

It seemed to want to say something, but it couldn't speak.

It just stood there, for a long time.

Then it left, just as silently as it had come.

Zhang Yangqing slowly opened his eyes; there was nothing beside him.

But he noticed that the door was shaking slightly, and someone had just gone out.

Zhang Yangqing walked to the door, looked down, and saw new footprints on the ground.

Similar to the previous footprints, the left footprint's lines were clear, while the right footprint's were blurry.

The footprints led to the other end of the corridor, not the path that led to the library.

He knew it was dangerous, but there was nothing he could do.

We can only follow the footprints and find a place with surveillance cameras first.

As for why we don't follow the tire tracks of the toy car?

The logic is simple: footprints belong to a person, and that "person" could be a monitor who knows the location of the surveillance cameras, as has already been proven in the library.

Whose tire tracks are those on the toy car? They're from the thing that was pushing the toy car and wandering around in the hallway.

Who knows what that thing is? We don't know if it's friend or foe, so it's best not to go rashly.

Zhang Yangqing followed the footprints to the fourth floor, where they disappeared at the end of the corridor, vanishing in front of an inconspicuous door.

The door was similar to other doors, made of wood, with a mottled paint finish and a rusty handle.

But it is hidden very well; you can't see it at all unless you look carefully.

Zhang Yangqing took out his keychain, tried turning it, but couldn't.

I switched to another one, inserted it, and made a "click" sound as it turned; the door opened.

The moment the door opened, Zhang Yangqing took a step back, his face filled with speechlessness.

This is an art studio, with paintings hanging all over the walls, of all sizes and shapes, some framed and some simply nailed to the wall.

Most of the paintings depict the same person, a woman.

A woman stands among the flowers, a woman sits by the window, a woman leans against the shade of a tree, a woman laughs, a woman cries, a woman is lost in thought, a woman is sleeping.

Each painting is meticulously detailed; every strand of hair, every fold of clothing, every light and shadow—every detail is rendered with lifelike realism.

But none of the paintings have faces; the women's faces are blank, not as if they were erased, but as if they were never painted in the first place.

The canvas is blank where the face should be.

In the corner of the room, there was an eerie presence, an eerie presence that was melancholic to the extreme.

The man was eerie, with slightly long hair that just covered his eyes, but revealed a bit of his eyeballs. He wore a black trench coat, which was old, with frayed cuffs and a wrinkled collar.

He sat on a dilapidated wooden chair, legs crossed, holding a Walkman in his hand and wired earphones in both ears.

The headphone cable was white, but it has turned yellow.

Cigarette butts and empty beer bottles were scattered around his feet, with a small pile of cigarette butts and beer bottles rolling haphazardly on the ground.

The dark circles under my eyes were so heavy, it looked like someone had drawn two lines under my eyes with charcoal.

This is what melancholy feels like; even Zhang Yangqing thinks this guy is too melancholy.

The melancholy and eerie creature exuded a thick black aura, completely different from the black aura emanating from the previous eerie creatures.

The previous black aura was scattered, thin, and lacked texture.

This black aura is condensed, thick, and heavy, like ink or asphalt, so heavy that it feels like it's pressing down on your chest.

His presence was so strong that the room became his domain.

In the library, Zhang Yangqing was invincible.

In this art studio, he was invincible.

Zhang Yangqing understood: this was a melancholic and strange person heartbroken over a failed relationship.

He died here, in front of the easel, in front of that unfinished painting.

His obsession in life was not killing, devouring, or replacing; it was that faceless woman.

He painted so many pictures, so many times, but he could never capture her face.

It's not that I can't draw it, it's that I'm afraid to face it.

He was afraid that after he drew her, he would find that she was no longer the same as he remembered her.

He feared that if he drew her, he would discover that she had never truly existed in his memory.

On the walls of the studio, besides the portraits of the women, there was another painting.

The painting was hung in the far corner, not under the light, but in the shadows.

The painting is abstract, the lines are messy, and the colors are dark. It looks like the hand was trembling while painting, as if the artist was angry or crying.

Most people would only think this painting is a failure.

But Zhang Yangqing didn't think so. He understood the painting; it was an expression of venting, a record of something terrifying.

Having observed the area sufficiently, Zhang Yangqing calmly walked inside.

His pace was neither fast nor slow, just like when he was outside.

He walked over to the gloomy and eerie place and saw a small stool, which he pulled over and sat down.

Zhang Yangqing picked up an unopened bottle of beer from the ground, bit off the cap with his teeth, and took a swig with a "plop".

Beer is bitter, with an indescribable astringent taste.

He put down the bottle, turned his head, and looked at the melancholy and eerie figure.

The melancholy and eerie figure didn't look at him, still listening to music. The sound from the headphones was so loud that you could hear a buzzing electrical sound.

Zhang Yangqing spoke up: "I see that your forehead is dark, your eye bags are heavy, and there is a lingering resentment all over you. This is not something that happened overnight. Your heartbreak has lasted for at least ten years, hasn't it?"

He remained motionless, melancholic and enigmatic, still exuding that same melancholic and unfathomable aura.

Zhang Yangqing continued, “You loved a woman very much when you were alive. You loved her, but you didn’t dare to say it. You felt that you were not good enough for her, that you were not good enough, and that she deserved a better life. Later, she met a man, and you felt that the man was better than you and had a brighter future. You chose to let go and told yourself that as long as she was happy.”

"But then you find out she wasn't happy; she died, killed by that man. You go to find him, you kill him, but you can't save her. You regret it, you blame yourself, you feel it's all your fault. If you hadn't let go, if you had been braver, if you had confessed your feelings before she met that man, she wouldn't have died." (End of Chapter)