In the cold darkness of the forsaken village, the breath of the soil echoed like an ancient curse. The threads of purple-black miasma, no longer raging against Ho Lam Uyen, slithered back, retreating deep underground. There, beneath the shabby little tea house—known to the villagers as the place of "purification"—lay the true altar of the centipede demon.
Its consciousness wavered, body cracking, yet fragments of memory were forced to the surface. In that haze, it recalled its origin: a starving village, struck by endless droughts, harvests failing year after year, people dying of plague. The weak and trembling villagers turned to a small shrine, praying for gods who never answered.
And in their fear and despair, it was born. At first, no more than scraps of wandering souls fused into a hideous shadow. Yet over time, the village learned to worship wrongly—not gods, but fear itself. Every bow, every drop of blood, every twisted offering fed directly into its form.
The elders whispered: "Obey the Guardian in the shrine, and the harvest will come." And so strange rites began. Pregnant women were dragged to the altar, mother and child both sacrificed for promised rain. Old animals were slaughtered, their carcasses cast into the pit. Even lost travelers, trembling in fear, were kept and slowly drained of their spirit.
In return, barren fields sprouted green shoots. Empty granaries filled again. The villagers believed in this "blessing," never realizing they were sinking deeper into chains they themselves forged.
In its recollection, the demon also remembered the meals of the village. Stews of meat, bowls of broth steaming in crude clay pots—the very dishes the old couple had once pressed upon Khanh and Le Vy. They were but scraps, the remnants of the dead, flesh left over from sacrifices. The savory scent was laced with the bitter poverty of the people, who had long since blurred the line between food and offerings to their dark benefactor.
"You… will never understand…" the demon's final thought rasped like wind through the underworld. "I sustained them, and they sustained me. This was the covenant, the symbiosis. They knelt of their own will."
But its body convulsed. The demonic shell split apart, revealing the faint figure of a frail man, eyes clouded with sorrow. His hollow gaze lifted skyward, lips trembling as if to speak, yet his last breath dissolved into smoke. His soul unraveled, torn free of chains, rising silently into the night.
At that moment, the village itself quaked. Suppressed memories surged in the minds of the living: meals of uncertain origin, midnight rituals, desperate prayers muttered in fear. The final veil was ripped away, exposing the dreadful truth that had always lurked beneath their lives.
Beneath the blood-soaked pit, the last whisper of the centipede demon lingered, curling through the soil like a cursed lullaby:
"Bow down… tremble… so the harvest may endure…"