The Ten-Thousand-Forged Primordial Furnace flew out from the hem of Long Ya's clothes, spun a few times in midair, then dropped back into her hand.
"Find some high ground and set up your rifle. Don't let a single one escape." Yang Yong paused. "Remember, when you're shooting living people, don't hit their stomachs."
"Those bastards have stuff in their bellies. Shoot through one, and the Gu eggs will splatter out. You'll die uglier than if ghosts had chewed you up."
Long Ya nodded.
Cradling her rifle, she ducked into the roadside bushes and crept toward a small rise nearby.
The night wind was cold as a knife.
Long Ya lay prone on the rise, her muzzle trained on that pitch-black iron gate.
She could hear her own heartbeat.
Beat by beat, it grew slower and steadier.
She was waiting.
Waiting for that gate to open before dawn.
Waiting for those animals to return her people, every last one.
Or waiting for Yang Yong to turn this place into a second grave.
And beneath the same night sky where Long Ya lay in ambush, deep below the old school...
Little Radish Head was being dragged forcibly out of his dreams by a faint trace of cold.
His eyes snapped open.
Everything around him was dark.
So dark it was as though someone had shoved his head into a cloth sack filled with ink.
He could see nothing. Only a lingering stench of mold and earth crept into his nose, making him dizzy in waves.
He realized he wasn't dead.
His hands and feet weren't tied, either.
His body felt as limp as a wad of waterlogged cotton. Even lifting an arm took tremendous effort.
"Sister Long..." he called.
His voice was hoarse and tiny, like a short end of thread squeezed