Thin Threads

Yu Xing reached the courtyard wall and nimbly climbed over it. Another shadow followed close behind, landing on the other side.

The central courtyard lay deserted. Most of the side-room doors stood open, as if someone had flung them wide in a panic. Dense fog hung motionless, swallowing up the nooks and crannies.

As far as the eye could see, there were neither living people nor corpses. Only a persistent damp smell lingered in the air.

"No one here. They probably left the funeral home," Zhao Yijiu said casually, glancing back at the rear courtyard.

He hadn't noticed it before, but this time, as soon as they crossed the wall, the bells in the rear courtyard fell silent. It was as though that place existed in another space. The other deductions must have planned to flee through the rear courtyard too, but after climbing the wall, they hadn't managed to enter its true space.

Out of the corner of his eye, Yu Xing spotted the burial clothes, coffins, and other items the group had gathered. They were piled in an empty room. Most of the burial clothes had already been taken; the rest might not have been claimed in time.

He made a few more rounds. As he passed one of the rooms, a sudden whoosh sounded beside his ear—

Yu Xing raised his hand to block the attack. Agony shot through his arm. Several white fingers, hard as iron, pierced straight through his flesh, nearly reaching the bone.

He looked up. Behind the door stood a naked, pale corpse. It was ancient and decrepit, its skin hanging limply from its flesh. Its bloated body looked as though it had been soaked for days, and its wet hair clung to its skin.

Before he'd approached, the corpse had been lurking