My words have become law; I truly have no desire to display my divine power before others.

The old merchants told him that the things in the ghost market were not people, but ghosts.

They imitate everything about the human world: markets, shops, teahouses, restaurants, and even the hawking cries on the streets.

But that's not real; it's a trap.

If a living person enters the ghost market, they will never be able to get out.

Ma Desheng stopped walking, and the others stopped as well.

Zhou Laoqi looked at the village with a very unpleasant expression on his face.

"The ghost market," he said.

Wang Laoshi's face was as white as paper: "What should we do?"

Zhou Laoqi said, "Go around it. Don't go in."

They went to the left.

After walking several dozen steps, the village disappeared, and all that remained was darkness.

But after walking a few more steps, the lights ahead came on again. It was the same village, the same village entrance, and the same old locust tree with red lanterns hanging from it.

They went to the right, and did the same.

They did the same thing on their way back.

No matter which direction they go, they will eventually arrive at that village.

And each time, the village seemed to get a little closer to them.

The first time, they were separated by hundreds of steps; the second time, by tens of steps; and the third time, by a dozen steps.

They could now clearly see the words on the stone tablet at the village entrance—"Huaiyin Village".

The stone tablet was old and covered in moss, but the three characters were new, painted in red, and gleamed brightly in the light.

Zhou Laoqi stopped and wouldn't go any further.

He looked at the village, remained silent for a long time, and then said, "Go in."

Ma Desheng looked at him, his lips moving.

"Do you have any other ideas? Do you absolutely have to go in?"

Zhou Laoqi didn't look at him, but simply said, "Go in. This is the Ghost Market; we can't avoid it."

Once inside, do not speak, do not accept anything from anyone, do not eat anything from anyone, and do not make eye contact with anyone.

Wang Laoshi asked, "What if someone talks to us?"

Zhou Laoqi did not answer.

He stepped into the village entrance.

At the entrance of the village stands an old locust tree with a red lantern hanging from it. The lantern sways gently in the night breeze, its light flickering and casting shadows all over the ground.

But those shadows were wrong; some were long, some were short, some were fat, some were thin, some were moving, some were still, some were walking backwards, and some were walking sideways.

Zhou Laoqi walked through those shadows, crushing several of them in the process.

The owner of the shadow didn't call out, and nothing happened.

They took to the streets.

The street was wide, lined with shops on both sides selling cloth, grain, medicine, and wine, as well as teahouses, restaurants, and inns.

The shops were all made of wood, carved with flowers, painted red, and hung with lanterns, looking even more impressive than the shops in the surrounding towns.

The streets were bustling with people: some carrying loads, some pushing carts, some leading donkeys, and some carrying children.

They wore all sorts of clothes, some made of coarse cloth, some of silk, some new, some old, some red, some green.

They walked the streets, just like living people.

However, their faces were not clearly visible.

It's not that something is covering it; it's just that you really can't see clearly, like looking through a layer of mist. You know there are facial features there, but you can't tell who they are.

Ma Desheng's hands were shaking.

He dared not look at those people's faces, nor at their feet.

He followed Zhou Laoqi, walking in the middle of the street, far away from the shops on both sides.

But he couldn't walk fast because there were too many "people" on the street, jostling and pushing, and he was bumped on the shoulder several times.

The person who bumped into him turned around, his face only a blurry blur, but his voice was clear: "Can't you watch where you're going?"

Ma Desheng didn't dare to speak, kept his head down, and continued walking.

After walking several dozen steps, there was still no danger.

Wang Laoshi and the other two helpers started whispering among themselves.

"Is this really a ghost market? Why does it feel so safe?"

Zhou Laoqi and Ma Desheng ignored them and focused on their journey.

Suddenly, a vendor's cry came from ahead.

"Watermelon—big and sweet watermelon—freshly picked from the field—if it's not sweet, you don't have to pay!"

The group looked in the direction of the sound and saw a melon stall on the street corner.

The stall wasn't big; a wooden board was placed on two wooden stools, and several rows of watermelons were arranged on it.

The watermelon is round, with a green rind and black stripes; it looks so fresh and juicy.

The melon vines still had leaves attached, and the leaves were bright green, as if they had just been picked from the vines.

Behind the stall sat an old man, wearing a gray cloth jacket and a tattered straw hat. His face was covered with wrinkles, and he was missing a few teeth, so his smile was lisping.

"Here, have a taste. If it's not sweet, you don't have to pay."

He picked up a knife and cut a slice off a watermelon.

The blade fell, and with a "crack," the watermelon split open.

The sound was crisp, but something felt off. It wasn't the sound of a watermelon cracking; it was the sound of bones breaking.

Ma Desheng felt a sharp pain in his head, from his forehead to the back of his head, as if someone had cut him with a knife.

He covered his head and squatted down.

Zhou Laoqi pulled him, his hand was icy cold, and his voice was icy cold: "Don't look."

Despite the pain, Ma Desheng stood up.

He dared not look at the melon stall again, lowered his head, and followed Zhou Laoqi forward.

But then he heard a "click".

Then comes the third tone, the fourth tone, and the fifth tone.

With each sound, his head throbbed with pain.

As he walked, he suddenly felt something wet on his face. He reached up and touched it, finding his hand covered in blood.

Zhou Laoqi's voice rang in his ears, very low and quick: "Don't wipe it, don't look, keep walking."

Ma Desheng lowered his hand; his face was covered in blood, but he dared not wipe it away.

Blood streamed down his cheeks, dripping onto the ground, onto his clothes, and onto the back of his hands; he dared not wipe it away.

He followed Zhou Laoqi, step by step.

The "crackling" sound behind me continued, one after another, like a butcher chopping bones.

It's not just similar, it is.

His head was still throbbing, but he didn't dare turn back. He just kept walking, walking and walking, until he left the street, entered an alley, and went into the deeper darkness.

Ma Desheng did not follow.

By the time Wang Laoshi discovered it, he had already walked quite a distance down that street.

He glanced back at the dark alley, where there were no lights, no people, only the sound of his own footsteps, pattering on the stone pavement.

He didn't know when Ma Desheng disappeared, nor did he remember when they got separated.

He only knew that they were there just a moment ago, but in the blink of an eye, they were gone. Even Zhou Laoqi was gone, as were the two helpers. He was the only one left in the alley.

Wang Laoshi stood there, holding onto the wall, too afraid to move.

It's so bizarre; I have absolutely no idea how I got infected.

The wall was cool, made of stone, and felt damp to the touch, as if it had just rained, but he couldn't hear the sound of rain.

He pressed his ear against the wall and listened. There was a sound coming from inside, very faint, like something breathing, expanding and contracting rhythmically.