A Decent Person Doesn't Keep a Diary

What was the biggest letdown in the world?

It wasn't finding out that your girlfriend was a seasoned masseuse, nor was it rushing to a shop with a winning ticket, only to discover that the promotion had ended yesterday.

It was going to all that trouble, piecing together countless clues, and finally finding the mastermind—only to discover he'd already been reduced to a pile of mush.

A pile that had even been smeared across the wall.

Zhou You waved a hand in front of the face.

There was no reaction.

"Hey, hey. Can you hear me?"

There was no answer.

The face seemed to exist and nothing more. It had no intelligence, no answers, and no clues to pry loose.

Zhou You was tempted to jab it a couple of times with his bloodstained knife and see if that would make it talk. But it looked so fragile that he worried one overly forceful poke might send it to its grave.

After searching around carefully for a while, he suddenly glanced at the flashlight in his hand.

Shit, how did I forget about this?

It's the perfect interrogation tool.

Zhou You turned the flashlight up to its brightest setting, pried open the other person's eyelids, and shone it straight into those lifeless eyes.

The pupils shrank instantly in the reflected light, but the intense glare soon caused a searing pain in the lenses. As the pain burrowed deep into his skull, the face struggled wildly to close its eyes. Unfortunately, all that remained of him was a face, and he couldn't wriggle free from beneath Zhou You's fingers.

Watching the expression shift from blank to pained, then from pained to pleading, and finally from pleading to sobbing, Zhou You at last lowered the flashlight.

"Looks like... you still have a will of your own. I thought you were going to keep playing dead until the end."

Zhou You smiled as he spoke, but the tear-streaked face didn't answer. After taking a while to recover, it glared furiously at Zhou You, mouth opening and closing as if saying something—but not a single sound came out.

Zhou You wasn't much good at reading lips, but he figured the other person must be saying a string of lovely things.

Things like "You're incredibly handsome," "You're charming, brilliant, and brave," and "Your luck is god-tier"...

Zhou You accepted all these compliments without hesitation—they were all true, after all. But he didn't have time to listen to the flattery, so he cut in.

"Friend, there's no need to get so worked up. Actually, we don't have any conflict of interest. I just wanted to tell you—"

Before he could finish, the face spat at him.

There was no saliva, but there was foul-smelling blood.

Zhou You didn't care in the slightest. He even managed to keep up his professional smile.

"Actually, I might be able to help you out a little..."

The face remained full of disdain.

"For instance..."

Zhou You pulled out his bloodstained knife and lightly drew it across the skin.

The equipment's special effect—"can inflict minor damage on Sinister Objects"—activated.

Skin that no longer had any blood vessels suddenly split open, and dark-red blood welled from the wound like a spring.

"...I could kill you."

The face froze.

Then an utterly frenzied look spread across it.

The face opened its mouth wide, revealing an oral cavity with no tongue or teeth left, and soundlessly roared at Zhou You. Its eyes, initially cold and scornful, now held the deepest plea.

Though he couldn't hear a word, Zhou You quickly figured out what the other person was saying this time.

He was saying:

"Please, please, please... kill me!"

But at that point, someone pulled the knife back.

The face immediately showed profound terror. Nothing in the world was more despairing than being given hope only to have it snatched away. Only then did Zhou You smile and say,

"As you can see, I really can set you free. The problem is, I can't do it for nothing..."

Before he could finish, the face opened its mouth wide and roared.

Zhou You didn't need to think hard to guess what it meant. It was probably offering to transfer all its vast wealth to him in exchange for a quick death or something along those lines.

But Zhou You simply shook his head and turned it down.

"Relax. I don't want your money, or beautiful women, or power. There's only one thing I want: everything you and this 'Jixiang Jimiao Guimu Bodhisattva' have done."

At that, the face—that is, the expression of Liu Shang, the richest man in the city—suddenly stiffened.

A moment earlier, he'd been pleading desperately. But now he looked as if he'd heard something terrifying; his eyes turned timid and fearful, as though he hoped Zhou You would name a different price.

But Zhou You's voice remained firm.

"Don't try to bargain with me. This is all I want."

The face still hesitated. Zhou You crouched down and lightly tapped its forehead.

"If I'm not mistaken, that state of being unable to live or die is the work of that Bodhisattva, right? The other party's done this to you and clearly made you a pawn to be discarded. What's the point of protecting them? You might as well tell me everything. At least then you can get a clean, quick release from me."

This time, Liu Shang finally made up his mind. He struggled to turn his eyes and look in a certain direction.

There was nothing there but a carpet of mingled flesh and fat.

Zhou You said nothing more. He stood up without hesitation and used his foot to sweep the revolting mass aside, revealing bare floor tiles beneath. He tapped them lightly, then immediately turned the knife around and brought its handle down hard on the tile.

With a wet crack, the tile broke apart, revealing a hidden compartment and a wooden box.

There was only one thing inside the box: a very thick diary with yellowed pages.

Zhou You glanced at the face, took out the diary, and casually flipped it open.

The first part was full of trivial matters, mostly related to business. Most of it described seizing property and bullying competitors. But Zhou You had expected as much, so he skipped that section.

When he reached the middle, however, his casual expression suddenly turned serious.

From that page onward, the black-ink handwriting abruptly disappeared, replaced by a brownish color.

Zhou You sniffed it and caught a musty, rusty smell.

It was the smell of blood.

The writing must have been made with a mixture of blood and ink.

But judging by the pages, the blood had dried who knew how many years ago. For some reason, though, it still seemed as if it had only just been smeared on; even now, its smell hadn't faded.

The line itself was simple. Just eight characters:

"Today, I met a Bodhisattva."