Zhou Yan was led out of that eerily strange place.
Even with his eyes covered, when leaving that location, there was still a particular sensation—like surfacing from the bottom of a lake, suddenly able to breathe fresh air, his entire body becoming lighter.
After the man shielded him and rushed out of the demon market, the palm covering his eyes moved away, and Zhou Yan saw the sky outside.
It was already night, the sky dark, but unlike inside that manor where looking up revealed only an oppressive blackness, the night sky was filled with stars, bright moonlight cascading down, the surrounding area bathed in silver-white.
Zhou Yan turned back to look at the man, seeing his right arm hanging empty, the arm guard fallen away, while his left eye bore a fresh knife scar, tightly closed and bleeding, though his face remained resolute.
He had paid such a price to save himself.
Zhou Yan felt deep guilt welling up in his heart.
“Don’t speak. We haven’t left the demon market’s range yet.”
The man reminded Zhou Yan. Outside stood a tall black horse. The man helped Zhou Yan mount, hanging his horizontal blade on the horse’s side, patting the steed’s flank and speaking softly: “Thank you for your trouble, old friend.”
“Go!”
The horse neighed once, then under the moonlight, began galloping swiftly. Zhou Yan’s experiences that day had been too exhausting, and with the sudden relaxation and sense of safety, he unknowingly fell into a drowsy sleep.
He dreamed again of returning home, seeing his parents, seeing those friends, chatting and joking around, then starting up a game. Playing for a while, he grew thirsty, his mouth dry, so he went to open the refrigerator, took out a bottle of cola, popped it open, and took a big gulp.
The cool, fizzy sensation rushed into his parched throat.
That refreshing, comfortable feeling spread throughout his entire body.
Zhou Yan gulped down the happy water in big mouthfuls. They say eighty percent of an ice-cold cola’s value is in that first sip—indeed, afterward the cola became increasingly bland, like water, but he was truly too thirsty and continued swallowing in large gulps.
It became more and more like water.
“Xiao Yan, come eat! Your favorite twice-cooked pork.”
“Your father’s cooking.”
His mother was calling him. He was about to respond when he noticed his parents’ voices growing more distant. Looking back, he saw his parents, that familiar small living room, and the warm yellow lamplight becoming a spot of light, growing ever more distant.
Zhou Yan grew anxious and was suddenly choked, coughing violently.
“Cough, cough, cough!”
Zhou Yan was choked awake, barely opening his eyes. He was sitting propped against a tree, seeing the man half-crouched before him, holding a water pouch, giving him water to drink. The black mountain-pattern armor scales glimmered with gentle pale ripples in the moonlight.
Then all of that day’s experiences flooded back into Zhou Yan’s mind.
The man moved the water pouch slightly away, saying: “You’re awake.”
Zhou Yan said: “Mm, this place is…”
The man stood and returned to sit nearby, saying: “We’ve run beyond the demon market’s range. It’s safe now. Who are you, and why were you in such a dangerous place?”
Zhou Yan concealed his true origins, only saying he had tumbled down from the mountains, forgotten many things, been picked up and sold by someone called Wang Chun. Then, barely mustering his spirit, he said: “I haven’t yet thanked you for saving my life. May I ask my benefactor’s esteemed name?”
The man said: “Shen Cangming.”
After a pause, he added: “It wasn’t really saving you.”
Zhou Yan said: “What?”
Shen Cangming said: “Nothing.”
“Do you still remember where your home is?”
Zhou Yan said: “I don’t remember.”
“What about your parents?”
Zhou Yan thought of that dream. Though it was clearly just a dream, he felt his heart contract painfully, a kind of distant yet real suffocating feeling. His expression unconsciously became bewildered and sorrowful as he said: “…I, I don’t know.”
“I might never see them again…”
Shen Cangming paused, then said: “Is that so.”
He had made a deal with the master of Qingming Workshop, lost an arm, had an eye taken, lost his archery memories, but hadn’t suffered significant blood loss—just exhaustion. He didn’t know how to comfort people, so after a long silence, he only said:
“Today is already late. Having escaped such trouble, you should sleep first.”
“Tomorrow I’ll help you find a place to settle.”
Zhou Yan originally wanted to say he wasn’t tired yet, wanting to learn more about this world and era, but his body clearly had different opinions. After just a few words, he drowsily fell asleep again.
Shen Cangming sat under the nearby tree, with that black warhorse grazing beside them.
There was a fire pit in front.
It was already September, and the nighttime temperature was quite cold. He watched the exhausted Zhou Yan sleep, seeing him instinctively curl up from the cold. Shen Cangming silently removed the cloak from his armor and covered Zhou Yan with it.
Walking back, he paused, then turned around again.
Bending down, he used his remaining arm to tuck the cloak more snugly around Zhou Yan.
Looking at the sleeping young man’s face, he suddenly spoke with self-mockery:
“Shen Cangming, ah, Shen Cangming.”
“A border soldier of the Great Tang, thinking you could save the Great Tang, instead becoming a traitor. Originally planning to find some great demon and throw this life away, killing a few more demons for the people as atonement, but…”
He had survived that brutal battlefield, yet lost his most fundamental beliefs. Shen Cangming had already resolved to die, but today, saving this young man, his death wish had somehow weakened.
He felt as if… it was like atonement.
Saving one commoner seemed to lighten the sins on his back by a thread.
If he paid a price in this process, it instead gave him a feeling of the stone pressing on his heart being somewhat relieved—a tendency toward self-destructive atonement.
But he saw his own base inner nature clearly, like seeing fire through a hole.
Thus he despised himself even more.
This was nothing but using the act of saving people to deceive himself, wanting to continue living shamefully!
Shen Cangming looked at his own palm—the palm that had once exchanged arrows with Tibetan cavalry at Constellation River, the palm that had held reins and weapons returning to Chang’an. His cheek twitched with anger, disgust, and pain.
He suddenly struck the ground beside him.
“Coward!”
He said.
…
The second time Zhou Yan fell asleep, it was like taking a nap—he slept very deeply, but this time he recovered quickly. When he slowly opened his eyes, the sky’s edge was still somewhat dark.
The fire had nearly died out, leaving only a patch of dark red that stood out against the dark blue, unlit sky.
He straightened his back and sat up, the bloodstained cloak falling away.
“This is…”
Zhou Yan blinked, seeing Shen Cangming resting nearby. The latter was extremely exhausted, tormented by enormous inner pressure, and had also fallen asleep, with only that black warhorse remaining alert.
Shen Cangming’s left hand gripped his horizontal blade, thumb pressed against the hilt.
Somehow, Zhou Yan felt that if anyone harbored ill intent toward Shen Cangming, this seemingly sleeping man’s blade would instantly leave its sheath.
Rather than sleeping, he was more like an exhausted, wounded tiger.
Zhou Yan recalled yesterday’s experiences—everything was real.
“Really can’t go back…”
His head leaned against the tree trunk, feeling a sense of melancholy powerlessness, as if all his strength had drained away, not wanting to do anything. This state didn’t last too long, however, as Zhou Yan pulled himself together again.
Since he was already here, he couldn’t just wait to die.
He suddenly remembered that last night, at the final moment when he killed that butcher, the butcher Zhao’s power and soul seemed to have been absorbed, imprinted on that jade tome. Zhou Yan was very curious about this thing that had mysteriously appeared in his mind.
Perhaps the possibility of returning home lay within this jade tome.
Focusing his spirit on the jade tome, this scroll no longer remained unresponsive as it had initially, but naturally unfolded, its pages turning quickly, gradually slowing, finally settling on a page toward the back.
The page settled, bearing golden characters.
Recording precisely the information about the hungry ghost.
Above these characters was a figure illustration, outlined like ink wash, with vivid expression and lifelike appearance—exactly the crude and fierce-looking butcher Zhao, holding a cleaver in each hand, the handles of both cleavers connected by chains.
Both feet were bare, left foot planted on the ground, right foot raised.
His movements seemed like dancing, like performing a ritual, with a delicate abacus at his waist, the red cord beneath it softening the painting’s fierce brutality, making it strange and eerie.
“Butcher Zhao…”
Zhou Yan curiously ‘looked’ at this painting.
Suddenly, new text appeared on the painting, a mysterious sensation arose in Zhou Yan’s heart, and the information transmitted made Zhou Yan’s eyes widen slightly.
“This is…”
“A divine ability?!”
