Vol12: Abstract
I don't know when it happened, but as long as you add frame skipping, an orange film filter, and finish with Klaokexia's <Yumeji's Theme: In the Mood for Love>, you can be transported back to that deep and eerie midnight, back to Wong Kar-wai's world.
No matter how bright the streetlights were, they were only eighteen degrees Celsius. This tiny source of light was like the moss on the back of Spuantong used for protection, unable to warm Saint Josh Joris's heart. Like his blood-soaked body, once he left the house, this cold-blooded creature would soon become prey in the eyes of the Night Demon.
A CFMOTO electric scooter brought two unnamed people. Although they had been arguing about a medical book called "Brain Injury" for the first half of the night, displaying their medical talents in different parts of the mind and body, they had already reached a consensus in the second half of the night, seemingly becoming friends after a fight.
Zhang Congfeng didn't speak. His skin was purple from the cold, and all he felt now was regret. He gripped the ignition of the electric scooter, his hands and feet stiffening along with his face. It was as if everything was because of his impulsive act of using Maquire's vehicle as a weapon, which had left the two of them in such a sorry state, braving the wind and snow and enduring the bitter cold, traversing thirteen kilometers of town and county roads to reach the villa area.
Maquire didn't say anything either, because the wrecked car was his.
The person who got him on the electric scooter was someone he couldn't beat in a fight or argue with, and he had no chance of becoming the King of Cinder—he lacked the Inspiration.
Although Cong Feng always said "there's a way," he could only hold Cong Feng's waist, trying his best to keep his tears from turning into ice flowers.
He was so angry he couldn't speak.
He had also considered becoming anonymous. In the back seat of a public electric two-wheeler, he gritted his teeth and forced out a few fragmented, stubborn words, repeatedly asking about the wind—
"Are you anonymous?"
Maquire Copenhagen had wondered more than once if the tall, broad-shouldered man in the front seat was the owner of Berloberg, but the speculation was too beautiful, too enchanting. Like a swarm of insects gathering and dispersing in a deep valley, such demons also existed in Saladin's mythical tales.
Insects would gather together, transform into the person the petitioner most desired to see, and then lead that person to the wilderness, where they would devour them until not even bones were left—this was a method Spuantong used to combat Homo sapiens.
Maquire was overthinking things. He was convinced he was a murderer, and if the man really was a gunsmith, he shouldn't have lived to see the next day.
It is 3:51 a. m., and Dr. Zhang Congfeng does not answer Maquire's question.
A full minute had passed. After running 800 meters from Xiyuan Street to the entrance of Mati Lane, Maquire finally understood why the wind wouldn't speak—the wind was too damn strong, and he couldn't hear him at all.
The two got off at unit D2 in the villa area. Dr. Zhang Congfeng scanned the QR code of the shared electric bike and paid six yuan. He rode very fast and paid even faster. In Maquire's eyes, he was like an old corporate slave who had been molded and squeezed by life, with the apps on his phone screen all about daily necessities.
Finally, I muster the courage to face the monstrous aspects of life.
Maquire began to feel nervous. He had wondered if it was possible that he couldn't fool the Hercules ogre at all, and that all his thoughts and feelings would be transmitted to the freak's nose through pheromones the moment they met.
But Zhang Congfeng remained calm, even somewhat indifferent.
"Go inside, don't look him in the eye, it's best to turn your back to him," Cong Feng said.
Maquire didn't respond; in the cold winter night, he only felt that the book "Brain Injury" should be returned to Zhang Congfeng.
--Even the most basic knight combat techniques and methods don't have such an outrageous close-quarters battle (CQB) technique.
Enter? Don't look into their eyes? Turn your back to the demon?
He didn't understand, felt it was absurd. He even had the illusion that the wind had fallen under Joris's mind control and was going to treat him, Maquire, like human food, sending him to this hellish place and onto Joris's chopping board.
But there's a voice in my head that's always beautiful and always warm.
Berloberg's spirit seemed to have gained some insight and began speaking familiar English.
[YES, YES, YES.]
So Maquire made his decision. He walked to the villa's door, pounding on it as if beating the drum of fate, while turning to the side as if he were going to use his life to perform this dark and absurd comedy.
In order to gather evidence of Joris's cannibalism, Maquire started recording on his phone.
The homeowner awoke from his dream, wearing a burgundy plaid pajama shirt. As soon as the door opened, Saint Josh was jolted by the cold wind.
This cunning and shrewd cannibal had already devised countless countermeasures. Observing Maquire from the second-floor bedroom window, he secretly wondered—what was wrong with this surgeon? What was the purpose of his midnight visit?
Regardless, Saint Josh Joris was prepared to fight to the death. The inhabitant of the spirit of Berloberg was like a natural enemy to him. Such Homo sapiens had to be swallowed by him no matter what, and could not be allowed to ruin his wonderful life in Saladin.
He grabbed the chef's knife, pushed open the door, and was startled by Maquire's posture with his hands behind his back.
How graceful and natural it was, standing alone in the cold wind with an arrogant air, almost like a statue cast in iron.
An inexplicable aura of strength made Joris involuntarily suppress his murderous intent. He calmly put the chef's knife back into his sleeve, as if he were facing the most wicked and vicious nameless person in the world.
"Why did you come to my house?" he asked.
When he asked that question, Saint Josh probably already had the answer in his heart.
Getze's murder of the quartermaster has been exposed, and Maquire has a talent: through the spirit of Berloberg, he can taste scars and blood to reconstruct the crime scene.
Maquire's trip here wasn't to uphold justice; it was definitely to try out a new dish.
He actually understands everything; he just wants an attitude.
Like your girlfriend (if you have one), she tells riddles and doesn't reason.
Maquire: "I suddenly felt like coming to see it."
The surgeon's answer surprised Joris, and he felt a surge of unease, because during the last time he saw off this guest, he had given Maquire this advice—remember to make an appointment.
As for why Maquire uttered that riddle, the reason is quite simple. The weather was fucking freezing, just like Hunan in mid-November, dropping from around 20 degrees Celsius to 9 degrees Celsius in just a few days, like your mother beating you without any reason.
The surgeon's mind was so frozen he could barely think, only remembering what the wind had told him—to stay calm.
Saint Josh did not understand Maquire's implied meaning.
"Want to come in?"
Maquire retreated, still with his back to the devil, and stood still in the living room.
Saint Josh couldn't see through the strange figure's back, nor could he understand Maquire's heart. Without eye contact, he had no way to influence the other's state of mind through body language and thought guidance.
He took two steps toward the kitchen counter, but suddenly stopped.
A strange sense of crisis enveloped him, as if he had returned to the Mimir Hot Spring Market years ago, back to District 18.
The gunsmith was young then, with deep, almost light-absorbing eyes. He didn't like to talk, and when he did, he could scare the ogres to death. People said that Baba Yaga was shy, which was a good thing, because when he wasn't shy, he would use his guns to cast spells and take the lives of the devils.
For some reason, Saint Josh suddenly felt the gunsmith very, very close to him. It was almost a survival instinct stemming from the holy blood of the calamity beast within him. Instead of cooking, he took the initiative to come to Maquire's side, wanting to see the guest's eyes clearly.
Then something very strange happened.
Like a scene from a horror story, Joris took one step, and Maquire followed suit.
Joris started spinning, and Maquire started spinning too.
They are like the Earth and the Moon, with the Moon forever tidally locked, always presenting only one side to the Earth.
"What are you doing?" Joris asked.
Maquire replied, "I'm cold."
Joris: "Why won't you look me in the eye?"
After thinking for a long time, Maquire finally managed to squeeze out a sentence: "He's seriously ill."
"Your gaze is so intense, I'm afraid I'll fall for you if I look at you too long."
This evoked a strange feeling in Saint Josh Joris; he felt a chill run down his spine, almost as if he had been electrocuted, and wanted to stay away from this Homo sapiens.
Everything seemed to make sense now: the late-night visit, the ambiguous courtship dance that resembled a waltz.
With his blond hair, stubble, emerald green eyes, and intense hormones, Maquire's arrival at the mansion despite the cold terrified Saint Josh.
Strange fate landed Joris in a prison.
He thought he had escaped from District 18, but he hadn't.
It seems there are always one or two patients who fall in love with him in all sorts of strange ways.
But he is like New Year's Eve in 2023, he can never give these Homo sapiens a holiday.
Saint Josh walked towards the kitchen counter. "Shall I... I'll make you a meal?"
"Okay." Maquire breathed a sigh of relief.
Mr. Joris walked this road very, very slowly.
This wasn't the first time he'd cooked for Maquire, and he never imagined it would be the last.
When he opened the refrigerator and saw the quartermaster's family's precious treasure, he was reminded of them and casually asked about it.
"You know about the Robinson family (the quartermaster's surname)?"
Maquire: "I know a little, but not much."
Saint Josh remained wary. "That has nothing to do with me."
Maquire: "I understand you."
Saint Josh: "Getze has gone mad. He came to me wanting me to do his therapy. He's jealous of the quartermaster and has designs on the quartermaster's wife. I have to heal him and help him overcome his inner demons."
Maquire: "He's been caught."
At this point, alarm bells rang in Saint Josh's mind. It was as if he had just finished writing a 100,000-word BL (Boys' Love) story in his head. It was as if Maquire had become the male protagonist in a tragic love story, and he had to cover up the culprit for the sake of the pure love between men.
He still couldn't see Maquire's eyes, and still couldn't figure out what the other was thinking.
He could only become more gentle, revert to the roles of father and mother, and even wife, to lower Maquire's guard.
He took out the quartermaster's heart and skillfully flipped through the menu.
What cuisine would you like to eat today?
Maquire smelled blood, and his heart began to pound. The sudden surge of adrenaline aroused the cannibal's suspicion.
Saint Josh: "You brought other people with you?"
Listening closely to this statement, it's like a stranger suddenly crawling out from under the bed during a romantic date at a hotel – utterly disappointing.
The ogre of Hercules calmed down and picked up the chef's knife.
He finally sensed the betrayal, including Maquire's inexplicable cold demeanor with his back turned to him. Perhaps it was a special technique taught to the kid by the enemy outside, used to deal with psychological hypnosis and mind reading.
Saint Josh: "It seems we have nothing more to say."
In that instant, Saint Josh Joris almost reverted to his original form, his lips protruding slightly, transforming him into the hideous face of a hyena, before instantly returning to human form.
Because he remembered six years ago, there was a figure outside the house with a face almost identical to the gunsmith's, coldly watching the house through the French windows. It was only much later that he realized that it wasn't because he was fast enough to escape, but simply because the nameless man had carried 2,200 bullets. On average, it took thirteen bullets to kill a Bloodstained Demon, and he just happened to be the one who ran out of bullets and had some left over.
When Saint Josh met Berloberg again, he thought it was the beginning of a new story, since the gunsmith was already dead.
Little did I know that this was the end of the story.
Zhang Congfeng, Long Congyun, Hu Congfeng. The claws and teeth of Ming De tiger, naturally "follow the wind."
Perhaps Saint Josh should have realized it sooner, until that moment when he watched the French windows shatter like fragile ice. A dark Night Demon rushed into the house, to punish the child who didn't like to sleep.
For those who leave, in their eyes, it is actually us who leave.
The familiar knightly combat techniques and the unfamiliar Pankrasin, when used on Saint Josh Joris, actually had roughly the same effect.
His body temperature dropped from 23 degrees Celsius to 18 degrees Celsius, just like the streetlights outside the door. The occasional bursts of psychic energy emanating from his body were similar to the hazard-avoiding moss of the Spuantong ladybug; they seemed to be used to scare away predators, but in the nameless man's eyes, they were a way of identifying friend from foe.
The chef's knife lingered in Saint Josh's hands for no more than three rounds. He seemed to believe he still had a sliver of hope, and a terrifying laugh would follow him before his doom. But the moment the knife fell into the hands of the dark-haired Asian man, his laughter vanished. In just three seconds, he could barely breathe.
He felt as if his trachea and lungs had been ripped open, cold blood splattered on the carpet. One second he was thinking about the hunting party camp, perhaps he could find his brothers in the war gang there and find new ingredients. The next second he was face to face with Death God.
"Gun"
Saint Josh didn't finish saying the last word, "Craftsman."
He slumped against the kitchen counter, his severed right arm tendons a result of the enemy seizing his knife in a counterattack. The blood flowing from his mouth and nose came from three fatal knife wounds to his heart and lungs.
The White Lady larvae inside her belly kept crawling towards her throat. They seemed to feel fear too, realizing that this weak, blood-bearing body was about to wither and die. They tried to repair this fatal injury, but it was too late, completely too late.
Maquire never turned around; he couldn't bring himself to look Joris in the eye.
--Berloberg seemed to understand that this little surgeon had been burdened with far too many obsessions that were not his own.
The moment her revenge was achieved, the elf vanished from the scalpel and raced toward the post station where the Eastern Dream Paris was located, wanting to return to the broken hilt of that sword.
After searching the first floor and taking photos of the organs in the freezer as evidence, Zhang Congfeng went to the second floor to search the rooms. He found many books on psionic catalysts and demonic science and finally realized that something was very wrong—this blood-feeding monster not only ate people, but also had the support of demons from the Elf Holy Land.
There was a lot of Hebrew writing on the scroll, Xue Ming didn't recognize the words, so she had to pack it up and take it back to ask Oscar.
Maquire remained standing the entire time, not daring to move.
Until the man pulled him outside, got back on his electric scooter, and scanned the code to pass through, he could still hear the sweet, synthesized electronic voice.
Please wear a helmet when traveling. Have a safe journey.
He hadn't said a word the whole time—that's what Maquire thought.
The process of slaughtering the bloodied freak was as quiet as going out to buy groceries or browsing an unmanned supermarket. Even the aftermath, including how to use the ingredients to ensure the Vita Imprint's calamity wouldn't spread further, was meticulously planned. Saint Josh. Joris vanished in the flames fueled by alcohol, his body turning into charred, rotten mud in a snow-covered garden.
Back on West Street, Maquire couldn't help but ask again.
Are you a gunsmith?
He seemed not to understand just how cold Saladin's night had been.
From 4:00 to 5:00, the outdoor temperature had already dropped to minus five degrees Celsius.
--The wind was so strong, Zhang Congfeng still couldn't hear clearly.
It's like a nonsensical, meaningless statement, even though it sounds very artistic.
Just like taking a train, for some people, missing out means missing out for a lifetime.