Yang Jian stood before the post office within the oil painting.
The main doors stood open. Quite a number of strange-looking people had gathered in the first-floor lobby. Their clothing and styles seemed to span several years, decades, even generations, each one different. They did not seem like living people either; their eyes revealed mostly eerie expressions.
Yet these people were not ghosts, because Yang Jian could read surprise and astonishment in some of their gazes.
True ghosts would not possess such living emotions.
Yang Jian stared at them, and these strange people stared back at him. The scene fell into deathly silence. Zhou Ze, who had followed him in, also froze in place, his face marked by shock.
Why?
Why was there another Ghost Post Office in the world inside the oil painting?
Why were so many peculiar people hidden within this Ghost Post Office?
At the same time.
The old man whose axe Yang Jian had taken, and whom he had kicked flying, struggled back to his feet. He seemed unable to feel pain. Losing an arm did not matter to him. Hatred and fury showed through his dark, sinister face, as though he wanted to rise and attack again.
However, another person beside him reached out and stopped him, unwilling to let him continue.
If I'm not mistaken, these are all fifth-floor messengers who delivered three letters. Although some of them never appeared in the oil paintings, their identities aren't hard to guess.
Yang Jian thought to himself, inexplicably feeling a chill.
So many people had gathered here. What exactly did the Ghost Post Office want to do?
And were these people really human?
"Who are you people? Can you speak?" Yang Jian asked directly, his expression grave.
Yet after he spoke, the first-floor lobby remained silent,