Incense ashes, sparks, and spirit money flew; ghosts wept beneath a miserable sky.
Spirit money drifted down on the wind, carpeting the streets and doorways. Not every household hung white mourning banners, because those unnaturally silent homes had been wiped out entirely—men, women, old, young, every family line extinguished. One night of slaughter had turned the place into hell, and the strange stench from the dead bodies filled the small city.
A white-haired figure stood upon the roof ridge of the small city's only four-story tavern.
An ancient zither lay beside her. Last night, she had slaughtered over a thousand people. The remaining rebel soldiers, having lost all coordination, had been annihilated by the city guards or driven from the city. Firelight had illuminated her figure through the night. Every gaze that spotted her atop the roof ridge from afar was filled with fear. Over a thousand people—when one song ended, only severed limbs and mangled flesh remained everywhere. The girl looked delicate, but the instant she acted, she became a killing god.
A lone melody, enough to rend one's heart and gut.
Dark clouds blotted out the sun, and the light was dim and oppressive.
After staying awake all night, she felt somewhat weary. She wanted to return to the small courtyard and sleep soundly in the reclining chair, or sit on the threshold and drink flour paste. Standing atop the building while countless pairs of eyes watched her felt strange.
No one dared stand higher than that white-robed, long-haired girl. They only dared look upon her with reverence.
They had transferred the reverence they once held for certain gods and Buddhas onto the Mysterious Girl. After all, when catastrophe descended, it was that girl who had saved them all. Whom they ought to believe in was obvious at