Daylight found Louqi chatting animatedly with her grandfather, while Zou Kui excused himself for air and wandered through the town again. Near the far end of the street, he passed the home of that Old Zhang.
The courtyard gate hung askew, marred by blackened scorch marks. Unlatched, it revealed a tableau of chaos inside—overturned furniture, scattered possessions—as though an abrupt calamity had swept through, leaving disarray no one had cared to mend.
In the afternoon, when Louqi and her mother left to run errands, the old man dozed in the courtyard under the sun. Seizing the chance, Zou Kui slipped into the grandfather's inner room, drawn by an urge he couldn't name.
Spartan furnishings greeted him: a bed, a wardrobe, a storage cabinet, and an aged desk. The prized military knife hung above the bed. The desk itself was nearly bare save for an enameled cup. Through the cabinet's glass panes, medicine bottles and a mortar were aligned with meticulous precision.
Just as he was about to turn away, his gaze snagged on the desk's edge—faint, repetitive scratches, stark white against the worn wood. Fresh marks, as though carved relentlessly by fingernails, forming a fragment of some twisted, arcane symbol he couldn't decipher.
His pulse spiked.
Then—the slightest scuff of a footstep behind him.
Grandfather Li stood in the doorway, half in light, half in shadow. His face was expressionless. The eyes that had once crinkled with warmth were hollow, depthless.
"Looking for something?" The old man's voice was parched, toneless.
"N-nothing. Just… browsing." Zou Kui straightened, his scalp prickling.
Silence stretched. Then Grandfather Li turned wordlessly and shuffled back outside.
Cold sweat sheeted down Zou Kui's spine.
At dusk, while helping set the table, his fingers brushed the inner wall of the dish cabinet—and met a patch of unnatural cold, rough as charred bone.
His breath hitched. Fumbling for his phone, he shone its light inside.
Gouged into the wood were three or four jagged, blackened furrows, their edges razor-sharp. No mere wear or tear—these looked seared by something corrosive, something violent. A faint stench of burnt wires and something metallic, coppery, clung to them.
Then his fingertip grazed the marks again—
"Agh—!"
Tidal waves of agony, of hatred, roared through his skull. Icy malice surged up his arm, flooding his veins.
He reeled back, colliding with the stove, lungs heaving.
"Xiao Kui? You're white as paper!" Louqi's mother bustled in, balancing plates. "Was the trip too much? Your hands are ice!"
"I-it's nothing, Auntie. Just… tired. Maybe the chill last night." His voice wavered.
"Oh, you poor thing! That flimsy sofa—tonight, we'll get you proper blankets!" She patted his shoulder, oblivious, and shooed him out to rest.
But Zou Kui couldn't unsee it: the scorched grooves, the whispers that weren't whispers. Evidence. Something was wrong here. Something hungry.
Dinner tasted like ash. Night descended once more.
The clock ticked through suffocating silence. Then—creak… creak…—the sound came again.
This time, Zou Kui didn't hesitate.
Barefoot, he crept to the grandfather's door. The noises clarified: footsteps, yes, but also—grinding. Mortar against pestle. And beneath it, the murmurs coalesced into broken phrases:
"...soon…"
"...hurry… die…"
"...replace…"
His blood iced.
Then—
Silence.
Absolute.
Zou Kui scrambled back, nearly tripping over his own feet. He dove under the quilt, shaking.
What was happening in there?
Minutes crawled. His mind raced. Then—grim resolve hardened in his gut.
He had to see. One look. One glimpse of the truth.
Eyes fixed on that devouring darkness at the hall's end, he waited.
For the sounds to resume.
For his chance to know.
Just one look.