The hunt had changed.
The thing had lost track of Zou Kui's exact position, but it knew he was close. So it did something worse than searching—it began to clean.
Through the gaps in the tablecloth, Zou Kui watched with mounting terror as it straightened every chair, aligning them in perfect parallel to the table. It measured the gaps between furniture with its blackened fingertips, adjusting fractions of a millimeter. A single degree of misalignment earned a guttural snarl, followed by a violent crack as it forced the object back into its "rightful" place.
This was no longer a hunt—it was a methodical purge of chaos. And sooner or later, it would lift this tablecloth.
The clock on the wall ticked. Each second scraped against Zou Kui's nerves.
Then—cloth shoes stopped at the table's edge.
A withered hand grasped the edge of the tablecloth.
It was adjusting it.
Panic hammered through Zou Kui's chest. He scrambled back, pressing into the center, but there was nowhere to go.
The tablecloth lifted.
A sliver of light spilled underneath.
And then—
The face.
That twisted neck craned forward. Milky-white eyes stared directly into the darkness beneath the table.
Zou Kui moved before his mind could catch up—hurling himself sideways. His foot kicked a wooden stool as he rolled—
CRASH.
The stool toppled, shattering the silence.
The creature hissed, snapping upright. Its attention lasered onto the disruption.
Zou Kui didn't hesitate. He bolted.
The living room was a death trap. There was only one place left—
That room.
The grandfather's bedroom.
The door stood ajar, darker than the night outside.
He plunged through—and instantly gagged. The stench was alive—rancid herbs, spoiled medicine, something sweetly rotting beneath. But worse—
This wasn't the room he'd seen earlier.
The medicine cabinet gaped open, bottles glowing faintly with a sickly, greenish luminescence. Dried herbs lay scattered like skeletal fingers across the floor.
And the walls—
The scratches were spreading.
Blackened tendrils crept outward in every direction, like roots burrowing into the wood.
At the center of the nightmare, mounted on the wall—
The knife.
Grandfather's military knife.
It hung perfectly straight, untouched by the chaos. The sheath was dull green, the grip worn smooth.
And—most importantly—
"It has to go back exactly where it was."
Louqi's words seared into Zou Kui's mind.
The creature's footsteps stopped behind him.
Zou Kui turned slowly.
The grandfather—no, the thing wearing his skin—stood in the doorway.
Its milky eyes locked onto him.
Its jaw stretched.
And stretched.
Until its mouth split open like a wound, revealing nothing inside. Just darkness.
"G̶̰̒e̷̡͌t̸̫͝ ̶̤͐b̸̧͊a̸̭̕ć̶͉ķ̶̿ ̸̥̅i̵̙͛n̸̗͛ ̵̙͂y̷̮̽ò̷̱u̷͓͆r̷͈̋ ̶̖̊p̸̛̩l̴̢͝a̶̧̅c̸̢̅e̷̮̚," it rasped, stepping forward.
Zou Kui's back hit the wall. His gaze flicked to the knife.
There were rules.
This thing followed them.
So—he had to break them.
The creature lunged.
Zou Kui dove—not away, but forward, straight at the knife.
His fingers closed around the sheath—
It didn't budge.
There was a latch. A tiny metal clasp holding it exactly in place.
The grandfather's rule: Never move it. Never let it tilt.
The creature shrieked, a sound like metal shearing, as it realized what he was doing.
Zou Kui yanked—
Snap.
The knife came free in his hands.
And for the first time—
The creature hesitated.
Its head tilted. Its hollow mouth quivered.
Zou Kui didn't wait. He twisted the knife in his grip, aiming the blade outward—
And the creature flinched.
It was afraid.
Of the rule.
Of the thing it could no longer obey.
Zou Kui took a step forward.
The creature took one back.
Its eyes flicked between Zou Kui and the empty spot on the wall where the knife should have been.
A muscle in its jaw twitched.
Then—
It lunged anyway.
Zou Kui swung.
The blade bit deep into the side of the creature's neck.
No blood.
Just a hissing, smoking gash.
The thing screamed, clawing at the wound, staggering back.
Its movements grew frantic. Spasmodic.
Zou Kui didn't stop. He slashed again—
This time, the knife carved straight through its wrist.
A blackened hand thudded to the floor.
Fingers still twitching.
The creature wailed, clutching the stump of its arm, writhing as if its very being was unraveling.
And then—
It turned on the wall.
Its remaining hand dug into the blackened scratches, trying to force itself back into them—as though the house itself was the only thing holding it together.
Zou Kui didn't wait.
He sprinted for the window.
The glass shattered as he threw himself through.
Cold night air rushed over him.
And then—
Impact.
Darkness.
Silence.
—
When he came to, dawn was breaking.
The house stood silent behind him. Intact.
No broken window.
No blackened marks.
No sign of struggle.
Only—
A single knife.
Lying in the grass beside him.
Unsheathed.
The blade was stained.
Something thick.
Something dark.
And slowly—
Drying in the sun.