Chapter 38: Flesh-Eating |
When Zhao Feng found A'Xi and handed him the piece of flesh, still streaked with blood, the boy bared a row of fine, sharp teeth, like a shark's, and giggled.
The ghost child tilted his head, his voice crisp and innocent. "Thank you, brother," he said. "Let me tell you a story in return."
Hearing this, Zhao Feng's eyes lit up, his delight impossible to conceal.
No wonder the ghost child was unkillable. He was an NPC meant to provide clues.
The initial prompt had stated that the truth was hidden in the villagers' words, and speaking it aloud could ward off their attacks. In other words, at a critical moment, a verbal clue was as good as a life-saving charm.
Trading a piece of his own flesh for a life-saving charm wasn't a win, but it wasn't a loss either.
Qi Si stood silently to one side, the corner of his mouth curving into a subtle smile.
Yes, he thought, a piece of Zhao Feng's flesh for a clue. Not just a fair trade—a massive profit.
A'Xi cleared his throat and began to chant in the singsong cadence of a nursery rhyme:
[At night, sister heard a crunching sound. She asked Grandma what she was eating; Grandma said it was dried fava beans.]
[The next day, brother was gone. Sister searched and searched, and in the corner found a pile of shattered bones.]
Finishing his recitation, A'Xi let out a cackle, then skipped away with the piece of flesh, leaving Zhao Feng standing there in a daze.
Zhao Feng glanced around and saw Qi Si standing nearby, clutching a tape recorder, his expression unreadable. "Brother Chang," he asked instinctively, "what does that story have to do with this instance?"
"I don't know," Qi Si answered honestly.
The tale A'Xi had recounted was a common one, seemingly just another variation on a cannibalistic horror story.
Qi Si had heard another version of it called "The Old Woman in White."
It told of a monster that would disguise itself as a grandmother, sleeping beside her grandchildren only to devour them in secret.
Qi Si had never found the story particularly terrifying. Recalling it now, his most vivid memory was of the cousin who had first told it to him.
That girl, always dressed to the nines, loved to jab at his eyes with her bright red fingernails, hissing viciously, "You jinx, you little curse, why hasn't the Old Woman in White dragged you away yet?"
A cruel and foolish girl, bowing and scraping before the malice of the outside world while venting all her frustrations on the cousin who depended on her family's charity. After being bullied by her classmates, she had fallen prey to some folk superstition, put on a red dress, and hanged herself... What a crude, cliché little tragicomedy.
The long-faded memory sharpened for an instant. Qi Si casually pressed a button on the recorder in his hand, and the smile on his lips softened with a hint of warmth.
"Sister and brother to Grandma's did go..."
The nursery rhyme, distorted by static, echoed in the air. The recording had stripped the voice of its childlike clarity, leaving it deep and raspy—a sinister sound that sent a chill crawling up the spine.
Zhao Feng's eye twitched. "Brother Chang, where did you get that recorder? What's it for?"
Qi Si's smile vanished. He replied honestly, "I swiped it from the bus. No idea if it'll be useful, but it was free for the taking."
Zhao Feng suddenly had a flash of insight into why Qi Si had so many items.
Is this what you'd expect from a member of the Sila Guild? he thought. The man would pluck a feather from a passing goose.
In the center of the courtyard, the players had gathered, armed and ready. Apart from Yang Yundong, who carried a broadsword on his back, and Zhu Ling, who had a dagger tucked into her belt, none of the others displayed any obvious weapons.
Qi Si said calmly, "We should join them. Showing up late will only raise suspicion."
Zhao Feng glanced down at his left arm, which was wrapped in strips of cloth that were still seeping blood.
He wasn't sure if it was because of the instance's mechanics or some other reason, but the pain had mostly faded. Still, he knew that appearing before the group with such an injury would undoubtedly draw unwanted attention.
Then he heard Qi Si say in a matter-of-fact tone, "Let's go over separately. This whole business of feeding flesh to ghosts is your problem. I never triggered that quest, did I?"
Zhao Feng was left speechless.
...
Near the woodshed, Su Po appeared, seemingly from nowhere, carrying a wooden bucket on a shoulder pole as if preparing to leave.
A thick, coppery scent of blood wafted from the bucket. Its lid was only partially closed, creating an irresistible urge to peek inside.
Zhu Ling took a step forward. "Su Po," she asked, "where are you headed?"
Su Po made no attempt to hide her intentions. "I'm going to the ancestral hall to offer prayers," she replied. "When someone dies, you must pray at the hall to ward off disaster."
So you know people have died, Zhu Ling thought.
Zhu Ling cleared her throat and said tentatively, "You've worked so hard hosting us. If it's not against any customs, please let me help you."
Su Po's expression soured, and she shook her head vigorously. "Absolutely not! You broke one of my plates just yesterday. I wouldn't dare let you help again!" A plate? What is she talking about?
Zhu Ling's eye twitched, but she maintained a placating smile. "I'll be very careful. I won't do anything you forbid. I just thought I could walk with you and help carry your things."
Su Po's voice turned colder still. "No. Outsiders are not welcome in our ancestral hall."
The players exchanged a look, each seeing the same calculation in the others' eyes.
The map clearly marked the "Ancestral Hall" as a point of interest to be explored, yet Su Po was openly forbidding them from going.
It seemed the ancestral hall was a place they had to visit—they would just have to do it without the NPC's knowledge.
After Su Po left, Yang Yundong let out a breath. "First, let's go to the village chief's house and sort out this business with the 'divine meat.' After that, we can check the village history hall for any clues about this instance's backstory. We'll save the ancestral hall for last to avoid running into Su Po."
As he spoke, he scanned the group. "Any objections?"
The second rule required players to "plan their own itinerary," and Yang Yundong was clearly taking charge of that step.
The other players, well aware of this rule, quickly voiced their agreement.
"No objections!"
"Whatever you say, Brother Yang!"
Without a doubt, Yang Yundong had subtly overtaken Zhu Ling as the de facto leader of the eight-person team.
Surviving a full night out with a newcomer like Allen was proof enough of his capability. Combined with his tendency to lead from the front whenever trouble arose, the others were more than happy to let him take charge, scout ahead, and spring any potential traps.
Zhao Feng stood beside Yang Yundong, his eyes narrowed in thought. Qi Si, meanwhile, lingered at the edge of the group, conveniently cloaked by the shadows of the eaves, avoiding any unwanted attention.
Noticing Zhao Feng's return, Yang Yundong turned to him. "Zhao Feng, where have you been? You missed breakfast."
Zhao Feng, who had long felt that Yang Yundong was indifferent to his plight, answered with a hostile edge in his voice. "I was trying to figure out how to deal with that little ghost, of course. I have to find some flesh for it today. You don't seem concerned, but I have no intention of just waiting around to die."
Yang Yundong's brow furrowed, his gaze falling on Zhao Feng's left arm.
A fresh stain of red was seeping through the layers of white cloth, and the faint, coppery smell of blood hung in the air. The implication was obvious.
Yang Yundong would have to be a fool not to understand. A thousand chaotic thoughts tangled in his mind, fraying his nerves. He fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette but came up empty.
Seeing his silence, Zhao Feng sneered. "You and that kid need flesh too, don't you? So, what's the plan? Carve up yourselves, or someone else?"
The air grew palpably tense for a moment as the players exchanged furtive glances.
Their fragile sense of security shattered. Subconsciously, most of their minds began to follow the path of "carving up someone else."
After all, cutting one's own flesh meant injury and impaired mobility—a risk far greater than the alternative. In the Weird Game, impaired mobility was often a death sentence.
They projected their own fears onto others, and in turn saw those fears reflected back. The trust between them, already paper-thin, began to tear.
Qi Si remarked, seemingly at random, "It's only the first day, and already three people, including Brother Yang, have been tasked with finding flesh for the ghosts. We still have four days to go. Who knows how much more will be needed..."
He lowered his eyes, his voice laced with just the right amount of hesitation. "If everyone cuts a piece of themselves, our collective mobility will be compromised. The cost would far outweigh the benefit. We're all relying on Brother Yang; we can't afford to have him weakened in a place like this. The optimal solution is probably..."
He left the sentence hanging.
These players had spent decades immersed in a society governed by law. Its conventional, universal values were ingrained in their bones and couldn't be erased in an instant.
Their thinking remained huddled in the comfort zone of conventional morality, unable to perceive the practical—though unsanctioned—options lurking in the shadows of their blind spots.
All it would take was a single catalyst for them to discover a new perspective, a completely different way of looking at the problem.
As one, the players all understood what Qi Si's "optimal solution" implied.
It was, simply put, to choose a few to be sacrificed so that the rest could remain in peak condition to solve the instance.
But who would be willing to make that sacrifice?
Yang Yundong gave Qi Si a long, hard look, then let his weary gaze drift over the other players. "There are some lines you just don't cross. You have to remember that whatever a person does, heaven is watching."
It was an old platitude, one that rang hollow in the life-or-death reality of the Weird Game.
A few players looked scornful, but none of them dared to voice their disagreement.
Qi Si offered an apologetic smile. "I misspoke. Thank you for the reminder, Brother Yang."
A profound light glinted in Yang Yundong's weary eyes, but in the end, he said no more. "Let's go," he said quietly. "To the village chief's house."