The Grey-Robed Man's eyes widened as he stared straight at Chen Zhuo. The cloth covering his face shifted slightly, rising and falling, as if he wanted to say something.
Chen Zhuo fixed him with a cold stare. At the same time, he reached out with his long fingers, clamped a hand around the Grey-Robed Man's neck, and squeezed hard.
There was a sharp crack. The Grey-Robed Man struggled feebly a few times, then went still.
"Ah!"
"Shh..."
The women in the room grew restless at the sight. Someone even screamed in fright.
But the moment she made a sound, Chen Zhuo turned his head and looked over, raising a finger to his lips.
The women fell silent, too frightened to breathe.
Chen Zhuo lowered the Grey-Robed Man's body to the floor, taking care not to make a sound, then slowly pulled the dagger from his chest.
Because he drew it out slowly, there was no spray of blood, but blood still quickly gushed onto the floor.
"What's going on?"
Hearing the commotion outside, someone immediately came running over with a series of hurried footsteps and called out loudly.
Chen Zhuo wiped the bloody dagger on the Grey-Robed Man's clothes a few times before replying without changing expression:
"Got an itch. Just took care of it."
"Heh..."
The person outside left with a knowing chuckle and said nothing more.
Chen Zhuo reversed his grip on the dagger, hiding it beneath his long sleeve. He stood and glanced at the women in the room. "If you want to live, don't make a sound."
With that, he cracked open the door and slipped outside alone.
"Where's Old Qian? Having such a good time in there he can't even walk?"
As Chen Zhuo rounded the corner, another tall, burly Grey-Robed Man came over, clapped him on the shoulder, and teased him with a grin.
Chen Zhuo gave a slight nod and pretended to speak hoarsely. "He had the time of his life."
"Hahaha... Old lecher."
The man shook his head and laughed a few times. Then he noticed something was off, turned to stare at Chen Zhuo, and asked suspiciously, "Pockmark, your voice... Why does it sound a little strange?"
Chen Zhuo didn't answer. He simply tightened his grip on the dagger hidden in his sleeve.
The man's gaze toward him grew more and more suspicious.
But just then, a shrill wail suddenly came from the room beside them. After only a few breaths, it abruptly stopped.
The door opened, and a short, thin Grey-Robed Man hurried out, his hands covered in blood and a large bowl in his grasp.
Moving too quickly to notice Chen Zhuo and the other man standing by the doorway, he nearly crashed into them. The liquid in the bowl almost spilled, too.
The air suddenly filled with the smell of blood.
Chen Zhuo's brow twitched. He peered into the bowl and saw that the liquid inside was dark red.
"Human blood..."
The women in those three rooms flashed through Chen Zhuo's mind. Their arms and legs were all marked with cuts of varying severity.
His thoughts raced. He turned his head to look into the room, barely managing to keep the hand hidden in his sleeve under control.
Various instruments of torture stood inside. The walls, floor, and implements were all coated in a dark red that could never be scrubbed away.
A slender arm, smeared with blood, lay motionless on the table in the corner.
Chen Zhuo's pupils trembled violently as he stared into the room, but someone suddenly shut the door.
The burly Grey-Robed Man beside him seemed long accustomed to such sights. He merely glanced at the bowl of blood and asked, puzzled, "It's not even night yet. Why are they drawing blood already?"
The short Grey-Robed Man pointed at the room across the hall, on the left. "It's that lord from the Yamen."
The burly Grey-Robed Man gave a mocking smile. "That pretty boy?"
"Don't even get me started. Who knows how many times they've replaced the blood in his body by now. He drinks five times a day, and he's picky as hell. It's exhausting."
The short Grey-Robed Man shook his head and sighed, unwilling to say any more. Just as he was about to leave, Chen Zhuo suddenly spoke hoarsely.
"Take a breather. I'll deliver it for you."
"Huh? That's generous of you. Here."
Hearing Chen Zhuo volunteer for a chore, the other man immediately handed him the bowl and added a warning.
"Be careful not to break it. Otherwise, I'll have to go through all that trouble again."
Chen Zhuo nodded calmly and carried the bowl toward the room across the hall.
After Chen Zhuo left, the burly Grey-Robed Man watched his retreating back thoughtfully and murmured, almost to himself:
"What's gotten into Pockmark? Usually, he's too lazy to even clean out a doghouse. Now he's suddenly so diligent."
"Who cares? Maybe he's had a change of heart."
The short Grey-Robed Man shook his head, yawned, then turned and went back inside.
The burly Grey-Robed Man frowned and turned his gaze to the room Chen Zhuo had come out of.
The residence wasn't large, but it was filled with sunlight.
Now Chen Zhuo stood beneath the sun, carrying a large bowl of blood in one hand, yet he couldn't feel the slightest warmth.
Ever since he'd seen the woman in the first room, goose bumps had covered his body and refused to fade.
The short stretch of hallway felt as though it had taken him forever to cross.
The dagger hidden in his sleeve was already thirsting for blood.
"Thump."
"Thump."
"Thump."
Steady, forceful knocks sounded as Chen Zhuo rapped on the door.
"Come in."
The person inside didn't even ask who it was, simply telling him to enter.
Hearing the familiar voice, Chen Zhuo's lips curled into a frosty smile.
He pushed the door open and saw Zhou Sheng had already removed his face covering. His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked unwell.
A hulking man with muscles knotted all over his body stood facing Zhou Sheng. His right wrist was wrapped in black cloth, and there was no hand beneath it.
A gray bundle, stuffed full of who knew what, sat on the wooden table in front of them.
"Seems this fellow and I are fated to keep running into each other."
Chen Zhuo glanced at the Long River Gang's one-handed swordsman, then lowered his head and brought the bowl before Zhou Sheng.
"Give me the bowl."
The moment Chen Zhuo entered, Zhou Sheng snatched the bowl from him with something close to a roar. He put it to his mouth and quickly drained every drop of blood.
Looking at him, how could he still be called human?
"No wonder Senior Brother Yan said that those who replace their blood with Demon Blood undergo a complete change in nature. They can no longer be considered human."
"Anyone who replaces their blood with Demon Blood, kill on sight!"
Watching Zhou Sheng drink the blood, satisfaction and pleasure appearing on his face, Chen Zhuo finally understood the words Yan Ming had once spoken.
"Use women's blood to suppress the wicked nature brought on by Demon Blood?"
Chen Zhuo suddenly understood why Zhou Sheng had been buying Demon Blood everywhere, and why he had built this residence.
Treating people like livestock...
At that moment, Chen Zhuo could only think of Zhou Sheng as a giant mosquito that had turned to sucking human blood.
And behind Zhou Sheng, perhaps there lurked even more mosquitoes—ones far bigger than him.
Since he was a mosquito, he deserved to be swatted dead.
"I'll swat this one first."
As the thought crossed his mind, the dagger hidden in Chen Zhuo's sleeve stirred, though there was no breeze. He was about to strike.
But the one-handed man suddenly stood and walked over to him. He wrapped an arm around Chen Zhuo and lowered his voice to whisper in his ear:
"Tonight, should we go to your place or mine?"
As he spoke, his face suddenly flushed.
"Oh, for—"
Hearing that and looking at the man's hideous face, rage surged in Chen Zhuo's heart. He raised his hand and spun the dagger around in a move too fast to follow.
With a swish, he drove it into the swordsman's head from the side.
The tip emerged on the other side, piercing straight through.
"Damn you!"
The blush on the one-handed swordsman's cheeks hadn't even faded before his body stiffened. He toppled rigidly to the floor.
"Young Master Zhou..."
Before Zhou Sheng could react, a burly Grey-Robed Man came rushing in from outside and pointed furiously at Chen Zhuo.
"Young Master Zhou, this man isn't Pockmark. You have to—"
He hadn't finished speaking when he saw the swordsman lying on the floor. His expression changed abruptly, and the rest of the words died in his throat.
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