Murder in the Desolate Village

The blood-red sunset soaked the desolate village like spilled ink. Two silhouettes pierced the dusk, their elongated shadows slanting across the cracked earthen walls.

At the village entrance, a skeletal yellow dog lay on the ground, its coat dull and its ribs clearly visible. It seemed to catch the scent of strangers and struggled to stir, letting out a faint whimper. There was no telling whether it was a warning or a plea for help.

Monk took a small piece of steamed bun from inside his robe and tossed it in front of the yellow dog. The two men entered the village, one behind the other.

The farther they walked, the more the crooked thatched huts stood scattered like dominoes.

In this village of over seventy people, every household had its doors tightly shut. It was so quiet that they could hear the crisp crackle of dead leaves beneath Zhang Xuan's boots. The entire village had sunk into a deathly silence.

Zhang Xuan sniffed. The air was thick with the smoky smell of burning wheat stalks peculiar to the countryside. "Someone must have been living here recently."

Monk nodded. He thought so too. From the smell of wheat stalks in the air, he could tell that people had still been cooking here that morning. Yet now the village was so deathly quiet and desolate...

As they pressed on, the smell of blood in the air grew stronger. Even Zhang Xuan could clearly smell that nauseating, rusty odor, putting both men on edge after their rash decision to enter.

Before he knew it, an eerie light rippled through Zhang Xuan's left eye—[Nether Candle Mystic Eyes] activated!

Safety came first. Spending one chance to ask a question was nothing compared to keeping himself alive.

At last, they stopped outside a house. Unlike all the others in the village, this house alone had its door open.

The door stood half ajar, the darkness within forming a stark contrast to the blood-red sunset outside.

Monk gave Zhang Xuan a slight nod, took something from his bag, and pressed it into his hand before signaling that he was going in.

Zhang Xuan glanced down and grinned!

Wasn't this an old friend? In his hand lay a glossy Black Donkey Hoof.

Under ordinary circumstances, Monk's innate strength, his knotted muscles like those of a vajra guardian made flesh, and his considerable martial skills should have been more than enough to keep him safe.

But nothing the two of them had encountered lately could be called ordinary.

Enemies they could see and touch were manageable. Take Xu Ming: although he had already entered the Dao and was a [Yellow Tier] Light Opening Realm cultivator, far beyond the bounds of an ordinary person, Monk could still put up a fight against him.

But if they encountered demons and ghosts they could neither see nor touch, such as the Chang Ghost on the barren mountain, or the Headless Corpse Buddha that could sever heads with invisible threads, even Monk felt a little apprehensive.

And now Zhang Xuan's body was severely depleted. Trying to use "Palm Thunder" again might well cost him his life, so for the moment, they could only rely on external aids to quench the fire at their brows.

Clutching the Black Donkey Hoof, Zhang Xuan paused briefly, keeping two body lengths behind Monk. From that distance, he could warn him of danger and provide cover in time if trouble struck.

Monk gently pushed open the half-closed door. With a creak, the battered wooden door made a teeth-grating sound.

The room was dim, with only a shaft of light through a hole in the roof barely illuminating a patch in the center. An indescribable stench hung in the air, mingled with the nauseating smell of blood.

The two surveyed the room and found no one inside, only a crude wooden table and a few battered benches.

Monk gave Zhang Xuan a meaningful glance, then turned toward the side room on the left.

Zhang Xuan covered his nose and mouth, his wary gaze sweeping their surroundings. Just as they stepped into the left-hand room, a small, thin figure burst out of the shadows like a wounded wolf, eyes gleaming with madness and bloodlust.

Though the attack was sudden, Monk had remained alert to his surroundings and would not be caught off guard. His huge, palm-leaf-fan-sized hand swung toward the attacker's head.

Standing slightly farther back, Zhang Xuan had a better view. He recognized the attacker at once and immediately called out a warning. "Monk!"

Monk checked his movement at the sound. In the faint light, he saw the attacker clearly—a child of twelve or thirteen, dressed in rags, with disheveled hair and a face smeared with mud and tear tracks. The boy gripped a sharp, broken wooden stick and was thrusting it toward his lower abdomen.

Realizing his attacker was only a child, Monk hurriedly changed his move, shifting his large hand upward. The gust from his palm surged, blowing every strand of the child's hair straight.

The mere gust from his palm carried such force. Had the blow landed, it would have fractured the boy's skull at best and killed him at worst.

Squish!

Monk had pulled back in time, but the boy had not. The sharp wooden stick drove hard into the area just above Monk's lower abdomen, staining his pale yellow robe with specks of crimson.

"Amitabha!"

Whether it was the hot blood splashing onto his hands or the force of Monk's invocation, the boy shuddered all over. His hands gradually loosened their tight grip on the stick. When he saw the flecks of blood on them, his pupils trembled violently, and he backed away like a madman until he tripped over something. Only after his thin body hit the ground did he stop moving.

"Monk, are you all right?"

Zhang Xuan hurried forward to examine Monk's injury, but after one step, he sensed something wrong. Some kind of gelatinous substance had suddenly stuck to the sole of his boot, drawing out thin strands of blood when he lifted his foot.

"This humble monk is unharmed."

Once the boy let go, the wooden stick clattered to the floor. Monk's muscles were now taut, and the wound had stopped bleeding. With muscles like cast iron and poured steel, he was difficult to injure, not merely for a frail child but even for an adult like Zhang Xuan.

"No, you're not..." A flicker of shock crossed the boy's eyes, as though he had realized he had stabbed the wrong person. Tears mingled with blood, obscuring his face.

Zhang Xuan looked around. Nearly dried blood covered the floor beneath his feet, and a hideously mutilated corpse lay in a corner beside the bed. It had been torn to shreds, scarcely recognizable as human. Only the scattered scraps of floral fabric and long black hair suggested that it had been a woman.

Monk glanced at the corpse on the floor, and his expression darkened at once. "Another damned Demon Ghost!"

Zhang Xuan's expression was just as grim, but his attention was on something else...

Hair soaked in pooled blood, foul-smelling organs scattered across the floor, a room so thick with the reek of blood that it turned the stomach—the sight before him was so bloody and horrific. Why, then, did he feel not a single ripple within?

Was he even... enjoying it a little?

This isn't normal. It isn't normal at all!

An ordinary person confronted with such a scene would vomit uncontrollably, even if they did not soil themselves in terror. Yet he was as steady as an old dog, his composure outrageously unshaken.

In the darkness, Zhang Xuan's pupils contracted slightly, and he began to examine himself anew...

A Celestial Master's Mansion Taoist, born with a spiritless root, someone who had lost his cultivation and memories, an inheritor of the Celestial Master's Ordination—all these were labels attached to him. Yet none of them should have made him as calm as he was now!

Unless this isn't the first time I've encountered such a bloody, horrific scene?

Or am I bloodthirsty by nature—a complete and utter psychopath?

The instant that thought arose, a chill swept through Zhang Xuan's heart, and an intense desire to peer into his life before his memory loss took hold.