Deep night.
Clouds churned like ink spilled across low skies, close enough to brush, heavy enough to squeeze breath from lungs.
No rain yet, but the taste of rain soaked the whole village.
Xibei Village.
No lamps on the street; what little sky-light remained got swallowed whole; you reached out, and the dark devoured your fingers.
As if by an unwritten rule, the village lay hushed; people hid in their houses, whispers thin as silk, afraid to let their voices ring.
The street held no one.
Only a lone, wandering soul stalked and swayed, like a stray shade blown by a cold wind.
It was a Monstrosity.
Its head tilted askew, nostrils twitching; it hunted by scent, tracking a strange aroma—the aroma of prey, the aroma of food.
The street held few smells; fortune held, the rain hadn’t started, so the thin scent still drew clean lines for it.
To catch the scent better, it flattened to the ground; four limbs splayed; its face almost kissed the stone; it became beast and insect both, crawling forward with a chill, uncanny grace.
Soon, it neared the only hotel in Xibei Village.
It stopped, scarlet eyes fixed on the second floor, twin embers smoldering in the night.
It was ravenous, hunger gnawing like wolves at its mind, yet it didn’t strike at once.
Inside that hotel, a scent pricked it with dread, the sharp tang you smell when a natural enemy waits in the grass.
It was a Monstrosity, yet a Monstrosity still held a thread of reason; instinct whispered that something inside could harm it—could kill it.
What was it?
Its claws scraped the stone, impatient and hard; crack-crack-crack—thin fissures clawed open like frozen rivers. It smothered its mania for meat, tilted its head, and drank that scent in deep.
Suddenly, it caught a familiar, twisted smell, a coil of memory and blight.
The scent lit its rage like a torch tossed into oil!
The rage rose without cause; it belonged to a stubborn obsession left from when it was human.
Obsession flashed into killing intent, so fierce it shattered the fear swelling in its chest.
Its eyes went blood-red; it roared without a sound; boom—stone shattered underfoot; it lunged for the room on the second floor!
Right then, in the pitch sky, a chariot of violet lightning thundered across the heavens!
The World flared white for a heartbeat; rolling thunder poured past and fell quiet again.
The downpour, brewed all afternoon, finally poised to break.
…
…
Time rolled back five minutes.
The moment that Monstrosity stepped out of its door.
Ye Weibai was carrying Daisy, who had fallen asleep mid-story, back to her room, tucking her into soft blankets.
He watched the girl smile inside her dream like a blossom in spring; his own mouth softened; he pulled up a chair, and smoothed the wisps at her brow.
Then his gentle hand froze like ice struck by a hammer.
Seated on the chair, his face blanched to paper; a flood of terror surged like a tide, sweating him in an instant, nearly dropping him to the floor.
The terror came without cause, yet the panting Ye Weibai knew the “flavor” of it too well.
It was the same death-tinge as last night.
For no reason at all, Ye Weibai was certain.
It was that Monstrosity.
It had come for him.
He’d tried hard to avoid Owen, but the worst path still opened—the creature would only be content if it ate him.
It took almost a full minute for him to steady; once calm returned, action crystallized.
Then let’s try.
His face went blank, his will firm; he rose and strode to his own room, lifted the black book from the desk, and tucked it close to his chest.
He crossed to the room split by the Exorcist’s black coffin.
The massive coffin stood slanted in the center, a black tombstone planted in shadow.
He exhaled.
Facing it again, that cold, bone-deep chill bled from the coffin like winter air.
He fought the limpness icing his muscles, stepped closer, studied the floor, and chose his spots.
He picked up several charred splinters, wood burned by the coffin’s breath, and tossed them down before Daisy’s door and Uncle Shawn’s door.
When it was done, he returned to his room, tore off a blank sheet, scrawled a message, and stabbed the paper into the wall with his pen.
He didn’t turn and flee; he dragged out a chair and sat, steady as a stone.
He waited.
He waited for the Monstrosity to come.
The lamp flame wavered; shadows rippled across Ye Weibai’s face, light and dark passing like clouds. His expression sank to still water; his mind moved cold and clear.
He could be sure of one thing: the Monstrosity was here for him, and the reason was clean as rain.
If that Monstrosity really was Owen, then to protect Filia he’d hold the village in place; he wouldn’t eat the villagers. That matched what he’d learned from Daisy.
What it had lived on before didn’t matter; what mattered was simple—the intruder from outside, him, was the best choice.
As for how it found him, the likeliest path pointed to Filia—by words or by scent. It wasn’t human now, so you’d better overestimate any hunter’s nose, ears, and eyes.
If only the rain came a little earlier.
Ye Weibai murmured, voice low as drizzle against eaves.
If its target is only me, that’s the best outcome. He thought through the lines, then paused, startled.
His hand had been burned at some point, and he hadn’t even felt it.
When? Did I brush that coffin just now? An Exorcist’s tool—does it wound humans on touch?
He stared at his injured hand; breath quickened; a thought rose like a shape in fog, yet a mist veiled his mind and blocked the view.
Again, that feeling. He frowned, bit his lip. Every time I’m about to “see,” a fog spreads in my head. Are the clues thin, or is this what Time called Misfortune?
Maybe… the back of that book holds what the clues still lack.
He reached for the black book at his chest.
His hand stopped, stiff as frost.
Cold from a winter lake clasped Ye Weibai; malice brushed him like claws—he’d drawn a cruel, twisted predator’s gaze.
Too late.
He rose, drew a deep breath, and let it out heavy.
Eyes like cold stars, he looked through the window, and in the thick night he seemed to see a vast, crawling silhouette closing in.
It’s here.
…
…
Boom—!
A flash of lightning and the thunder rolling after it hid perfectly the sound of stone crushed under its foot.
For all its thunder when it leaped, its movements were light as feathers; it didn’t smash the window; it clung to the wall like a drifted plume.
It crawled like a gecko, showing a predator’s patience to the bone.
It slid the window open, slipped in without a sound, and kissed down onto the floor.
The room swam with the scent that stoked its rage; it turned toward the bed, where someone slept under blankets; its scarlet eyes brimmed like overfull cups of blood; it couldn’t hold back; five fingers closed into knives and stabbed.
Then, it screamed in wordless, tearing pain.
