When the Funeral Procession Met Bandits

What kind of luck—and what kind of absolute unit—did it take to have only just entered the Netherworld and already witness the black sky, while conveniently running into the White Sha of the Red and White Twin Sha, which everyone feared like a tiger?

He Zhao himself did not know, but his luck was as black as soot from the bottom of a pot. If he ran in a tribal chief election, everyone would withdraw in perfect unspoken agreement and nominate him to take the position.

About a li ahead, the person leading the front carried a strange lantern. Its light was blood red, exceptionally conspicuous in the pitch-black night where one could not see their own hand in front of their face.

Right after that came the musicians, playing a dripping, clattering tune with a bizarre and terrifying pitch. Especially set against the surrounding environment, someone timid might well be frightened to death on the spot.

Below the band was a paper figure with a deathly pale face. It held a long banner in its hands, with no words written on it. Farther back, unsurprisingly, was a spirit coffin. There was a coffin canopy over the spirit coffin, and before the canopy was a paper dragon head. Two strips of white cloth were pulled out from the dragon head, swaying unsteadily like dragon whiskers.

There was no one to be seen around the coffin, only paper figures, floating forward out of thin air. Behind them, hazy and indistinct, followed a group of illusory white shadows. They lowered their heads, covering their faces as they wept.

The terrifying sound of the instruments, paired with the hair-raising sobs, was simply horror's mother opening the door for horror—horror all the way home!

Every time the procession advanced a certain distance, scattered pieces