Mortal Evil

Nineteen years later.

Deep autumn, Cold rain falling without end, A teenage boy sat woodenly inside a coffee shop, staring out at the endless stream of traffic and the bustling city beyond.

Though the warmth of the cup he held seeped into his palm, his heart was ice-cold.

Why?

Because of the hospital report tucked into his jacket.

The doctor had been evasive when explaining it, tossing around words like "suspected," "possible," "cannot rule out," but Fang Linyan had still caught a very ominous scent from it.

So he called up a client who knew medicine, not saying it was his own report, only that it belonged to a friend. After he finished reading the contents aloud, the client said casually:

"Late-stage lung cancer. Basically no saving it."

Then his mind went completely blank for a good half hour. He just stood there frozen on the roadside, and in the end, he didn't even remember how he got home.

By the time he came back to himself, he realized he was already sitting dazed on the edge of his bed, his hands icy cold, his heart a blank wasteland. He mechanically poured himself a glass of water, drank it down sip by sip, and only then did his brain slowly begin to regain its reason.

Suddenly, it was as if all the strength had been drained from his body. He collapsed onto the floor, pressing both hands tightly over his face, and a choked sob escaped him:

"I don't want to die. I'm only nineteen!"

For Fang Linyan, that deep-autumn November was the longest month of his life. First, the only relative he had left in the world passed away. He had barely finished handling the funeral when he was diagnosed with late-stage lung cancer.

Though Fang Linyan had endured setbacks since childhood and had tempered his nerves to be tough enough, under such a relentless double blow, he simply broke down. He holed up in his rented room for two full days before pulling himself together, but in the face of the sheer terror between life and death, he still lost control of his emotions in fits and starts.

But who wasn't the same? Drifting silently far from home, occasionally letting out a wild scream or a bitter wail, a burst of losing control, only to gradually cool down again, numb and gritting their teeth as they struggled through this indifferent world?

Cold stares, cold nights, cold rain, cold treatment. Over that month, Fang Linyan had endured too many disdainful looks and borne too much pressure. The fact that he hadn't completely collapsed was already a testament to his mental fortitude. The world had been far too harsh and thin with him, yet he still stubbornly held on with the tenacity of a cockroach!

After a while, Fang Linyan finally stood up again, wiped the tear stains from the corners of his eyes, took a few deep breaths, and managed to pull himself together. He coughed a few times, his brows tightly furrowed as he clearly fought off pain. Searching around the house, he found half a stick of beef jerky that had already gone a bit stale.

Though he had absolutely no appetite, he still gritted his teeth and forced the leftover jerky down bit by bit. If anyone had been watching, they would have thought that the way Fang Linyan frowned and tore at the food with his teeth looked exactly like a wolf.

A starving wolf, driven to a dead end in a blizzard, yet still baring its fangs and bristling its fur!

Wild to the core, and dangerous to the core!

In Fang Linyan's heart, one phrase was always engraved:

What doesn't kill us only makes us stronger!

After eating, Fang Linyan took out his phone and saw that a sum of money had been deposited into his account. He was just about to head out when a sudden, violent fit of coughing hit him, doubling him over as he leaned against the wall, coughing so hard it felt like his insides were being ripped out.

It took a long while before Fang Linyan could straighten up again, gasping for breath. Blood was clearly trickling from the corner of his mouth, and the palm he had pressed over his mouth was stained with crimson. He casually grabbed a piece of tissue to wipe off the blood, took a pill, and then walked out the door, weak and unsteady.

The supermarket on the street corner was still open, but a light rain was falling. The cold raindrops mixed with the wind struck people with a bone-deep chill. Even those holding umbrellas hunched their necks or shoulders, walking with hurried steps.

Because this road was relatively remote, the surveillance cameras and electronic eyes installed there had long since broken down. On top of that, this was a poor neighborhood that didn't get much attention from the authorities, so many overloaded trucks and construction vehicles roared down this road without restraint, thundering past with a deafening rumble, charging about recklessly and leaving the pavement badly damaged.

Fang Linyan walked along the road with a blank expression. Five minutes later, he reached the supermarket and began his shopping.

"One box of Big Bucket instant noodles."

"Ten jin of hanging noodles (near-expiry sale)."

"One bag of beef jerky (for nutrition)."

"One pack of chili bean paste (noodle seasoning)."

"..."

It was clear that everything Fang Linyan bought was purely for the sake of filling his stomach. Why was he so frugal? Because earlier, when he was treating the illness of Uncle Xu, who had taken him in, and handling his funeral, he had borrowed quite a bit of money—all told, over a hundred thousand yuan.

Though Fang Linyan had endured a hard childhood and youth, with a certain ferocity in his heart, he had been deeply influenced by the honest and sincere Uncle Xu during the years when his worldview was taking shape.

So now, he had a stubborn obsession: even if he was terminally ill and truly beyond saving, he had to pay off his debts before he died. On top of that, the boss Fang Linyan had worked for before was a real miser, which was why he was so thrifty.

After quickly gathering everything he needed, Fang Linyan picked up his items and headed for the checkout. But just then, he felt a bit of a stomachache and went to the supermarket restroom.

Coming out of the stall, he naturally walked over to the sink to wash his hands. Usually, directly opposite the sink was a mirror, so customers could tidy up their appearance.

Pale white light shone down from above. The sink area was empty. Fang Linyan washed his hands, then habitually splashed some cold water on his face to wake himself up—a habit he had formed over years of working at the auto repair shop.

But just as he looked up at the mirror in front of him, he suddenly felt an icy chill run through his entire body. An indescribable sense of terror instantly enveloped him!

Because Fang Linyan did not see his own face in the mirror!

Where the mirror should have been, there was instead a dense, swirling vortex of black mist! And not only that—from within the vortex, a bloodstained, scarred hand reached out, grabbed Fang Linyan by the neck, and yanked him violently forward.

Fang Linyan felt a searing, burning pain where the hand gripped his neck, as if a branding iron had been pressed into his skin! His whole body went limp, or to be more precise, the strength he had was utterly useless against the bloodstained hand.

Just as his face was about to smash into the black mist vortex, he suddenly noticed a crazed, bloodshot eyeball inside it. The eyeball looked as if it had been gouged straight out of its socket, with bits of bloody tissue still clinging around it, shot through with red veins.

And the deep pupil seemed to possess an immense pull. The moment Fang Linyan's gaze met it, he felt as if he were riding clouds and mist, spinning dizzily, and then he lost consciousness entirely, knowing nothing more.

He didn't know how long passed, but suddenly Fang Linyan felt a sharp, piercing pain in his chest. His body twitched, and amid a dizzying spin, he came back to his senses.

He found himself still standing in front of the sink. He gasped a few times, swallowed a mouthful of saliva, and looked around. But there was no bloodstained, scarred hand, no dense black mist vortex, and no bloodshot eyeball.

Only the quiet restroom remained—the sound of water droplets falling from the faucet, the gentle, pale light cast down from above. He himself was frozen in a pose, hands braced on the sink, staring at the mirror ahead, as if everything he had just experienced was nothing but an illusion!

Fang Linyan stood there in a daze for a while, then walked out the door and picked up his shopping basket, intending to head to the checkout counter. But the moment he stepped out of the restroom, he froze—because he clearly saw that the staff inside had already started mopping the floor and tidying up the shelves.

This ordinary scene meant one thing: it was already close to 9:30 PM. The supermarket closed at 10:00, and to leave on time, the salesclerks and guides would naturally start cleaning early.

Yet Fang Linyan remembered with absolute clarity that he had left home at 7:30. When he stepped out, the little shop at his doorstep was playing the CCAV weather forecast on its TV. Even walking, it took no more than twenty minutes from his home to the supermarket. He never browsed inside either—he grabbed items according to his shopping list and left. So that meant he had been in the restroom...

For nearly an hour and a half!

Such a bizarre occurrence instantly made the hairs on the back of Fang Linyan's neck stand on end.

"This... this can't be!"

If he had really stood there with his hands on the sink for an hour and a half, someone from the supermarket would have come to check on him long ago. At the very least, they wouldn't be looking at him now with such indifferent faces.

What exactly had happened during that hour and a half?