Mosquitoes Should Be Swatted

The grey-robed man's eyes widened, staring fixedly at Chen Zhuo. His face mask bulged and fell, as if he were trying to open his mouth to say something.

Chen Zhuo gazed coldly at the grey-robed man, his long, slender fingers clamping down on the man's throat with a forceful squeeze.

With a crisp "crack," the grey-robed man struggled symbolically for a few moments before falling completely still.

"Ah!"

"Shh..."

The women in the room grew restless at the sight, some even screaming in terror.

But the moment a sound escaped them, Chen Zhuo turned his head and made a shushing gesture.

The women instantly fell silent, trembling like cicadas in late autumn.

Chen Zhuo lowered the grey-robed man's body to the floor, taking care to make no noise, and slowly withdrew the dagger from his chest.

Because the blade was pulled out slowly, it didn't cause blood to spray everywhere, though a steady stream still quickly pooled on the floor.

"What's going on?"

Hearing the commotion outside, someone immediately came running with heavy footsteps, shouting a question.

Chen Zhuo wiped the bloody dagger on the grey-robed man's clothes before responding with an unruffled expression:

"He's getting restless, just settling him down."

"Heh heh..."

The person outside let out a knowing, cryptic laugh and said nothing more.

Chen Zhuo gripped the dagger in reverse, hiding it beneath his long sleeve, and stood up to scan the women in the room: "If you want to live, keep your mouths shut."

With that, he opened a crack in the door and slipped out alone.

"Where's Old Qian? Is he having such a good time in there he can't even walk?"

Just as Chen Zhuo turned a corner after leaving the room, another tall, sturdy grey-robed man walked over, patted him on the shoulder, and teased him with a grin.

Chen Zhuo nodded slightly and replied in a feigned, raspy voice: "He had a good time to death."

"Hahaha... you old lecher."

The man shook his head and laughed, but suddenly sensed something was wrong. He turned to stare at Chen Zhuo, asking suspiciously: "Pockmark, your voice... why does it sound so strange?"

Chen Zhuo didn't answer; he only tightened his grip on the dagger hidden in his sleeve.

The way the man looked at him began to shift.

However, at that very moment, a shrill, miserable wail suddenly erupted from the room beside them, followed by a silence that fell within a few breaths.

The door opened, and a thin, small grey-robed man walked out in a hurry, his hands covered in blood and holding a large bowl.

Moving too quickly, he didn't notice Chen Zhuo and the other man standing by the door and nearly collided with them, the liquid in the bowl sloshing dangerously.

A sudden, sharp scent of blood filled the air.

Chen Zhuo's brow twitched. He fixed his eyes on the bowl and discovered that the liquid inside was a dark, crimson red.

Human blood...

Chen Zhuo's mind flashed to the women in those three rooms; their arms and legs were covered in varying degrees of lacerations.

His thoughts raced. He glanced into the room and nearly lost control of the hand hidden in his sleeve.

The room was filled with various torture implements, and the walls, floor, and tools were all coated in a layer of dark red that could never be scrubbed away.

A slender arm, stained with blood, lay motionless on a table in the corner.

Chen Zhuo's pupils trembled violently as he stared into the room, but the door was suddenly slammed shut.

The sturdy grey-robed man beside him seemed accustomed to this, merely glancing at the blood in the bowl and asking in confusion:

"It's not even nightfall yet, why are you already drawing blood?"

The thin, small grey-robed man pointed toward the room on the far left and said with a sneer: "It's that gentleman from the yamen."

The sturdy grey-robed man mocked: "That pretty boy?"

"Don't even mention it. I don't know how much blood he's already replaced. He drinks five times a day and his demands are absurdly high. It's exhausting."

The thin, small man shook his head and sighed helplessly. Just as he was about to leave, Chen Zhuo spoke up in his raspy voice:

"Rest your feet. I'll take it over for you."

"Oh? A stroke of luck? Here, take it."

Hearing Chen Zhuo volunteer for the task, the man immediately handed over the large bowl and added a warning:

"Be careful not to drop it, or it'll be a waste of my effort."

Chen Zhuo nodded calmly and walked toward the room opposite, carrying the bowl.

After Chen Zhuo left, the sturdy grey-robed man watched his back, lost in thought, and muttered to himself:

"What's gotten into Pockmark? He's usually too lazy to even clean his own doghouse, yet he's so diligent all of a sudden."

"Screw it, maybe he just had a sudden change of heart."

The thin, grey-robed man shook his head, yawned, and turned to walk back inside, closing the door behind him.

The burly, grey-robed man frowned, turning his gaze toward the room Chen Zhuo had just exited.

The house was small but well-lit.

At this moment, Chen Zhuo stood bathed in sunlight, holding a large bowl of fresh blood in one hand, yet he felt not a shred of warmth.

Ever since he had seen the woman in the first room, the goosebumps on his skin had never faded.

It was only a short distance, but Chen Zhuo felt as though he had been walking for an eternity.

Because the dagger hidden in his sleeve was already famished and impatient.

"Bang."

"Bang."

"Bang."

Steady, powerful knocks rang out; it was Chen Zhuo rapping on the door.

"Come in."

The person inside didn't even ask who it was, simply telling him to enter.

Hearing that familiar voice, the corners of Chen Zhuo's mouth curled up, frosting over with cold intent.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside to see Zhou Sheng, his face-mask removed and his eyes bloodshot and crimson, looking deeply unstable.

Standing opposite Zhou Sheng was a burly man with knotted muscles, his right wrist wrapped in black cloth, the hand missing entirely.

On the wooden table before them sat a grey bundle, bulging and stuffed, though its contents were unknown.

Fate really is a strange thing; I run into this guy everywhere.

Chen Zhuo glanced at the one-handed swordsman from the Long River Gang before bowing his head and bringing the large bowl to Zhou Sheng.

"Give me the bowl."

The moment Chen Zhuo entered, Zhou Sheng snatched the bowl with a near-feral roar, pressed it to his lips, and drained the fresh blood dry in an instant.

Watching him, he looked like anything but a human.

No wonder Senior Brother Yan Ming said that those who replace their blood with demon blood undergo a fundamental change in nature and can no longer be considered human.

Those who replace their blood with demon blood—kill them on sight!

Watching Zhou Sheng drink the blood, a look of satisfaction and comfort spreading across his face, Chen Zhuo finally understood what Yan Ming had once said.

Using the blood of women to suppress the evil 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 house.

Treating people like livestock...

At this moment, he felt that Zhou Sheng had completely transformed into a giant mosquito that fed on human blood.

And behind Zhou Sheng, there were likely even larger mosquitoes hiding.

Since they were mosquitoes, they should be swatted to death.

Start by swatting the one right in front of me.

As the thought crossed his mind, Chen Zhuo's sleeve rippled without a breeze, and he prepared to strike.

However, the one-handed man suddenly stood up and walked over to him, wrapping an arm around him and whispering into his ear:

"Tonight, your place or mine?"

As he spoke, a sudden flush of red rose to his cheeks.

What the...

Hearing these words and looking at the freakish sight before him, rage surged in Chen Zhuo's heart. He raised his hand and spun his dagger with lightning speed.

Swish. It plunged into the side of the swordsman's head.

The tip of the blade poked out the other side, piercing straight through.

"You bastard!"

The flush on the one-handed swordsman's cheeks had yet to fade when his entire body stiffened, and he collapsed straight to the floor.

"Young Master Zhou..."

Before Zhou Sheng could even react, the burly, grey-robed man from outside rushed in, pointing a vicious finger at Chen Zhuo:

"Young Master Zhou, this man is not Pockmark, you must—"

Before he could finish his sentence, he saw the swordsman lying on the ground, his expression shifted violently, and he could no longer get the words out.