The restaurant's business hours were from 6:00 PM to 10:00 PM, but Le Zhengling usually started cleaning up around 9:30, as no one typically came by that late.
Although Japanese workers were known for their overtime, this wasn't the time when the corporate drones got off work. Besides, this wasn't a densely populated area, so the streets became exceptionally quiet at night.
As many know, Japan is rife with urban legends like the "Slit-Mouthed Woman," "Hachishaku-sama," and the "Rokurokubi." The urban planning of this era was quite poor, resulting in an insufficient number of streetlights. Walking alone on the streets at night could be a terrifying experience.
At 9:50 PM, a tall, dark figure appeared on Le Zhengling's street. The moment the figure emerged, the streetlights flickered as if the power supply were failing. As the shadow moved forward, the lights ahead of it went out one by one, leaving only the rhythmic sound of footsteps in the silent street.
A large flock of crows followed the figure, perching on the telephone poles, cawing incessantly as their blood-red eyes scanned the surroundings.
Just then, a stray dog stumbled out from an alley between the houses. When it noticed the dark figure, its legs gave way, and it trembled in fear, letting out a soft whimper. As the shadow passed, a black mass detached from it, shot out, and then instantly returned.
The stray dog on the ground was gone.
A resident in one of the houses happened to witness this scene. Their face turned pale with fright, and they immediately drew the curtains, pretending they had seen nothing.
The dark figure paused and muttered in a low voice, "Troublesome. Can I no longer suppress it? Fine, I'll clean up the witness first."
With that, clumps of matter leaped from the shadow at his feet and vanished into the various corners of the street.
The dark figure then continued forward, finally stopping in front of the Chinese restaurant.
Le Zhengling had heard the heavy footsteps earlier, but knowing better than to be nosy, he had ignored them. However, the footsteps drew closer and closer, eventually stopping right outside his door.
Peeking through the cloth curtain, he saw the silhouette of a tall, imposing figure standing there, yet it made no move to enter.
Le Zhengling keenly sensed that this figure was no ordinary person. Even without seeing them clearly, the overwhelming presence seeping through the curtain was completely undisguised.
Every cell in his body screamed, Danger! Danger! Danger! His primal instincts told him that the being outside was something beyond "human," a creature at the apex of the food chain.
Le Zhengling trembled all over, sweat pouring down his face. The immense pressure was about to make him faint.
Just then, as if sensing his state, the figure outside paused. The intense pressure receded, and the door slid open.
With a pale face, Le Zhengling looked at the newcomer under the dim yellow light of the bulb.
He was a man nearly 190 centimeters tall, wearing a pitch-black trench coat and black trousers. The shirt underneath was so form-fitting it seemed to have grown from his body. No, on closer inspection, it looked as if his muscles were coated in a layer of black liquid, a darkness that extended all the way up his neck.
Body paint? Le Zhengling wondered.
The man's silver-gray hair looked unnaturally unhealthy, and his gray-black eyes, like those of a merciless beast, stared straight at him. It was a gaze he recognized from wildlife documentaries he'd watched in his past life.
He swallowed hard, holding a tray in front of him like a shield. He knew it was useless, but it offered a sliver of psychological comfort.
"S-Sir, I'm closing up. C-Could you come back tomorrow?" Le Zhengling asked cautiously, forcing down the terror in his heart.
The man ignored him, instead lifting his head and sniffing the air. After a long moment, he asked in a deep voice, "Is your grandfather not here?"
Le Zhengling felt a flicker of recognition but couldn't quite place the man. Since he was asking about his grandfather, he must have been here before. He answered truthfully, "If you're looking for my grandfather, I'm sorry, but he passed away six months ago."
Upon hearing this, the man fell silent. He pressed a hand to his stomach as if trying to suppress something.
"Is that so? A pity. I wanted to have his noodles one more time. A considerable part of 'me' is growing restless," he said, taking a seat at the open counter designed for watching the chef. "Since the original owner is gone, I demand that you make me the same noodles."
Hearing this completely unreasonable demand, a thousand alpacas stampeded through Le Zhengling's mind. He took two steps back and asked, trying to keep his fear in check, "Sir, can I refuse your request?"
The man shot him a cold glance and said flatly, "Of course. But after you refuse, the [me] that can no longer be restrained will have to use you to vent this agitation."
Hearing those dangerously ambiguous words, Le Zhengling's first reaction was a clenching in a certain indescribable place, followed by goosebumps breaking out all over his skin.
"S-Sorry, I'm a guy…" As someone who had lived in 21st-century China, an era of peace and internet saturation, Le Zhengling's thought process was different from that of people in this time.
To put it simply, his mind was a bit dirty, and he didn't assume the man was talking about murder.
But this was late 1980s Japan, a society that wasn't exactly stable, where bizarre murder cases were not uncommon.
The man said nothing more, just stared at him with his cold, emotionless eyes. Just then, a Borzoi, a Russian wolfhound as tall as Le Zhengling and entirely pitch-black, silently entered through the half-open door. Its crimson beastly eyes, fixed on Le Zhengling, mirrored the man's gaze perfectly.
In those two pairs of eyes, Le Zhengling saw something unfamiliar, yet he knew exactly what it represented—it was raw, undisguised killing intent.
"Right away! I'll prepare it for you immediately, please wait a moment! I'll get those noodles for you right now!" Le Zhengling shivered, not daring to waste a second. He relit the gas stove, and soon the kettle on it was boiling vigorously.
He grabbed a clean basin, poured in high-gluten flour, added boiling water and a pinch of salt, and began to knead the dough. His hands worked quickly through the white flour. Soon, feeling the dough had reached the right consistency, he coated it with sesame oil and wrapped it in a damp cloth.
Next, he took out beef from the refrigerator, sliced and pan-fried it, while also reheating the bone broth from the pressure cooker. The rich aroma of the soup began to fill the shop.
Feeling the intense gaze on his back, Le Zhengling felt like he was on pins and needles. He made this bowl of noodles with more focus than he had ever mustered in his life.
Half an hour later, without even wiping the sweat from his face, Le Zhengling placed a bowl of fragrant and visually appealing beef dan dan noodles in front of the man.
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