Origin

The innkeeper had already walked up to Yang Guyun. He carefully examined Zhou Qiubai leaning against Yang Guyun's shoulder, then looked at Yang Guyun's expressionless face. For a moment, he did not know what to say. He merely raised the oil lamp higher, wanting its light to fall across Zhou Qiubai's face.

Under the lamplight, Zhou Qiubai's face looked deathly pale, but his eyelids trembled faintly. He was clearly still somewhat conscious.

"Is he alright?" the innkeeper asked quietly.

"Not dead." Yang Guyun's answer remained curt, but he tightened his hold on Zhou Qiubai's arm as it began to slip.

The innkeeper noticed, but said nothing more. He only moved the oil lamp slightly away.

More and more doors began to creak.

One after another, the elderly people awakened by the white light pushed open their windows or wooden doors. Some tightly gripped firewood cleavers, while others had even come out wrapped in their quilts.

They stood hesitantly in their doorways, fear still lingering in their eyes.

After all, they had been plagued by this nightmare for many years.

"What happened?"

"Have those ghosts come back?"

Others hid behind their doors, showing only half their faces, ready to shut themselves inside at any moment.

They had been tormented by fear for far too long. It had already been carved into their bones.

Yet when they saw that the figures standing in the middle of the street were not those blurry shadows, but two real people, and when they noticed that the moonlit street was cleaner than it had ever been before—

Some people finally lowered their cleavers, while others stepped out from behind their doors.

The crowd gathered before the inn, forming a loose semicircle.

Some recognized the white clothes Zhou Qiubai wore, while others noticed the spear on