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

He dared not listen any longer, let go of her hand, and walked forward along the alley.

He dared not stop, for if he did, he would start overthinking.

He remembered what Zhou Laoqi had said: don't speak, don't accept anything, don't eat anything, and don't talk to anyone.

He kept doing it, but he wasn't sure how much longer he could hold on.

The alley was long and winding, with high walls on both sides. The walls were bare, without doors or windows, as if they had been licked by something.

He didn't like the thought, but he couldn't control himself.

He looked down at his shadow, which was long and dark, following him without missing a single step.

He tried jumping, and his shadow jumped too.

He jumped again, and his shadow jumped again.

He suddenly realized that it wasn't his shadow.

not human.

No.

He couldn't quite put his finger on what was wrong, but he just felt that the shadow was copying him, mimicking his every move, but the imitation was off, a beat too slow.

Every step was a beat too slow.

He dared not look any longer, raised his head, and quickened his pace to walk forward.

At the end of the alley, a glimmer of light appeared.

It wasn't sunlight, it was lamplight, dim and warm, like the yellow of a charcoal fire burning in winter.

Looking at that point of light, Wang Laoshi suddenly felt an inexplicable longing welling up inside him, as if something inside him was pushing him toward that direction.

He took a few steps, then stopped.

He remembered what Zhou Laoqi had said: don't go into any place with lights on.

He gritted his teeth, turned around, and walked in the opposite direction.

After walking a few steps, the light reappeared in front of him.

He changed direction and reappeared.

He changed directions three times, and the light was right in front of him, getting closer and brighter. He could see it clearly now; it wasn't a lamp, but an inn.

Lights were on in the window and hanging at the door. The lanterns were round and red, with words written on them, but he didn't recognize them.

The characters looked like they were written with a brush, but the ink had bled out and become a mess, making it impossible to distinguish the strokes.

The inn's door was open, and many people were sitting inside.

Wang Laoshi stood at the door, not daring to go in.

He saw people sitting around tables, some eating, some drinking, and some laughing and talking.

Their faces were just as indistinct as the ones he had seen on the street earlier, as if veiled by a layer of mist.

But their voices were real, a mixture of laughter, shouts, clinking glasses, and the clatter of bowls and chopsticks, all buzzing together like a pot of boiling water.

He didn't want to go in, but he couldn't move.

It wasn't that something was holding him down; it was that his feet wouldn't obey him.

His feet moved forward, step by step, crossing the threshold and entering the lobby.

His heart was pounding so hard it felt like it was going to explode, but he couldn't stop it.

He walked to an empty table and sat down.

There were bowls and chopsticks on the table. The chopsticks were made of bamboo, and the bowls were made of coarse porcelain. A blue flower was printed on the bottom of the bowls.

He looked at the flower and felt it looked familiar, but he couldn't remember where he had seen it before.

A voice came from behind him, very close, as if whispered in his ear.

"Sir, what would you like to eat?"

Wang Laoshi suddenly turned his head, but there was no one behind him.

He looked down at his shadow, which was dark and motionless on the table.

He looked elsewhere, but there was no one there. Yet he could hear the voice clearly.

He turned his head again, and there was something else in the bowl on the table.

It was a bowl of soup, steaming hot and with a wonderful aroma.

He glanced down at the soup; it was clear broth with a few scallion pieces and thin strips of ginger floating on the surface.

He swallowed hard, picked up the bowl, and was about to drink when he suddenly remembered what Zhou Laoqi had said—don't eat anything from anyone.

He put the bowl down; the soup was still there, but the flavor was even stronger.

It wasn't a pleasant aroma, but a fishy smell, the kind of bloody smell that wafts from a butcher shop when bones are being chopped, with a putrid stench.

He covered his nose, but the smell still seeped into it.

He saw that the soup in the bowl had changed color, from clear soup to red soup, red like blood, or rather, it was blood.

He noticed that the things floating on the soup had changed; they were no longer scallions or ginger shreds, but minced meat, white and covered with tendons, as if it had been picked off the bone.

Wang Laoshi's hands began to tremble.

He pushed the bowl away, and it slid across the table without breaking, but the soup inside spilled out, staining the tablecloth a deep red.

He tried to stand up, but his legs wouldn't obey him; they were as limp as noodles.

He braced himself against the table, trying to stand up, but when his hand touched the tablecloth, he felt something hard and round underneath, like a bowl, but not quite a bowl.

He lifted the tablecloth and looked down. There was a bowl with something inside, but he couldn't see what it was. It was dark and moving.

He leaned closer and saw clearly.

It is an eyeball.

The white part of the eyeball was already cloudy, but the black part was still moving, as if it were alive.

It stared at him, staring at him without blinking.

Wang Laoshi let out a scream, a sound that didn't sound human, but rather like the sound of a chicken being strangled.

He suddenly overturned the table, shattering bowls and plates all over the floor, spilling soup and blood everywhere.

He stood up; his legs were no longer weak.

He turned around, wanting to run, but he saw those people.

Those who were originally sitting at the table eating all turned to look at him.

Their faces were still unclear, but his gaze was drawn to what they were holding—someone was gnawing on a bone, which was a human arm with fingers still hanging on it, and nails painted with red nail polish.

Someone is drinking soup, and a heart is floating in the soup bowl.

Someone is eating barbecue, and the skewers are made of fingers.

His legs were shaking again, but he gritted his teeth and ran towards the door.

The moment he stepped over the threshold, he felt something grab his ankle with great force, as if it were going to crush it.

He didn't look back, but with a burst of strength, he ran away.

Strangely, there was no one on the street.

The lanterns were still lit, but the street was empty except for the wind and the sound of his own footsteps, tap-tap-tap, echoing on the stone pavement, one after another, as if someone was following behind him.

He dared not turn around.

After running for an unknown amount of time, he ran into an alley. The alley was very long, with closed doors on both sides. Red paper was pasted on the doors, and words were written on the paper.

He still didn't recognize those characters, but this time he recognized one of them—"奠" (diàn).

Those were the words written in the mourning hall; he had seen them before.

Wang Laoshi's heart skipped a beat.

He stopped, leaned against a door, and gasped for breath.

His clothes were soaked and clung to his body, feeling cool. He put his hand on his chest, trying to feel his heartbeat.

But what he touched wasn't a heartbeat; it was something else, slippery and cool, like a snake, beneath his skin.

He lowered his head, unbuttoned his shirt, and looked down.

There was a seam on his chest, running from his collarbone all the way to his navel, and it was sewn very neatly, as if it had been stitched up with needle and thread.