Gou Zai Punishment Division

A dull thud came from the underground pipe network.

On the other side of the city, deep in the rainy night.

Winter rain dripped down the rusty tin roof and into an unnamed, deserted temple.

The incense here has long been extinguished, and a large hole has been smashed in the wall behind the shrine.

Several dark red old tree roots were intertwined and tightly bound to a brass pneumatic pipe belonging to an official inside the wall.

This is a tactic used by local tyrants to steal public resources.

With a "bang".

The high-pressure airflow forced open the seam, and a brass capsule covered in machine oil popped out and landed on the muddy offering table.

Mud and water splashed everywhere, and the half-burnt candle went out with a snap.

In the darkness, cracks appeared on the surfaces of several clay sculptures.

Muddy water streamed down his face.

A muffled creaking sound came from the statue's belly, as if the wood was being squeezed.

At first glance, I saw the seal of the "Ministry of Punishment" on the capsule, and then several pieces of dry, cracked clay peeled off the surface of the clay figure.

Immediately afterwards, a faint smell from the air-raid shelter drifted out through the cracks—

Top-quality cigars mixed with blackened, dead blood.

The mud fell off with a thud.

There were no living creatures in the temple, but the sound of greedy swallowing could be heard.

Several heavy bodies crashed through the rotten wooden threshold.

They ran on all fours, braving the heavy rain, towards the north of the city.

Rain pelted the tattered cloth on his back, splashing up murky mud.

The weight of hundreds or thousands of kilograms rolled over the asphalt road, causing the ground to tremble, and the tremors continued all the way to the air-raid shelter in the north of the city.

Inside the air raid shelter.

Chen Mo held up the tattered black umbrella with its deformed ribs, his steps never faltering.

The water at the tunnel entrance rippled with tiny waves.

Behind me came the sound of an old ventilation pipe being crushed and broken by being stepped on.

The barbed tongue rolled through the muddy water, scraping up the bloody cement floor along with it.

Only the sound of flesh tearing could be heard underwater.

Chen Mo did not turn around, but paused slightly in his steps.

The "zero" underfoot stirred.

A wisp of black mist seeped from the sole of the shoe, swaying slightly towards the blood-soaked waters behind it.

It was a raw and greedy hunger that silently crept into his consciousness.

This thing isn't just eating; it's craving.

Chen Mo's eyes darkened slightly.

He took a deep breath, and seemingly casually stepped down, pushing the protruding shadow back into the puddle.

It's not its turn yet.

He hunched his back slightly as he walked toward the end of the narrow tunnel.

He heard a dull thud behind him as the clay sculpture was crushed by the water pressure, and a broken piece of wood fell at his feet, but he didn't look.

Chen Mo smashed through the rusted iron bars of the ventilation vent and squeezed into the narrow back alley.

The stench of blood and gore inside the air-raid shelter was kept behind the iron bars.

He leaned against the moss-covered brick wall with one hand, bent down, and coughed twice in a suppressed manner.

The cold, refreshing winter rain filled my lungs, dispelling the stale air from my chest.

Once he caught his breath, he felt like he had returned to the human world.

My shoulder blades, which had been tense all night, relaxed a little.

Before I could catch my breath, the smell of cheap paper money ash drifted over with the rain.

Under the dim streetlights at the street corner, a skeletal figure was squatting.

Wen Liang is a night owl living in the lower strata of Nanming City.

He was wearing tattered and rancid underworld official's robes, and was using a streetlamp to stick a few crumpled pieces of ghost money onto a telephone pole to dry.

This small toll is all He earns tonight.

Hearing footsteps, Wenliang took a half-step back in disgust, afraid that the yang energy of the living would clash with His copper coins.

The fleeting moment when we brushed past each other.

A gust of night wind carrying winter rain blew past the edge of the umbrella, filling Wen Liang's nostrils with the smell of blood and cigars from the air-raid shelter.

Wen Liang stopped drying the money.

His withered neck slowly turned, clutching the white paper lantern tightly, and he took a step to block the alley entrance.

"stop."

The gentle, deep green eyes were fixed on Chen Mo's pocket, and a sticky swallowing sound came from its throat.

He maintained a haughty demeanor, yet his tone carried a dangerous undertone:

"Why do you smell of blood and offerings, the kind reserved only for the high-ranking men, on you? Mortal, did you steal the offerings?"

The surrounding temperature dropped sharply.

The paper money on the ground moved on its own even without wind, its sharp edges tearing through the rain curtain.

Chen Mo stopped in his tracks.

As the cold rain lashed against the umbrella, his mind instantly grasped the absurdity of the deadlock.

When the section chief stamped that dark red official seal, the form was completely soaked with the resentment and cigar smell of those in power. The lowly night watchman couldn't distinguish between paper and flesh; he only recognized smell.

As long as this thing is still in his pocket, this hungry dog ​​will definitely tear him to pieces for this "offering".

The expense report, which they fought so hard to keep, became a death warrant that was delayed in taking effect.

Chen Mo's gaze swept over Wen Liang's greedy face.

His hand reached into the inner pocket, his fingertips touching the crumpled fifty-yuan reimbursement slip.

With overtime pay, it's 100 yuan. Enough for half a month's worth of steamed buns, enough for the rent of that shabby rented room.

Chen Mo's eye twitched almost imperceptibly.

His fingertips traced the edge of the paper, his resentment and the stinging pain preventing him from pulling his hand away.

For a fleeting moment, he even considered whether he could force his way out with the money.

But when he met Wenliang's eyes, which were turning into those of a demon, reason prevailed over his fear of poverty.

The fingers loosened.

"Clatter".

The expense report fell into a muddy puddle, and the red official seal was smudged by the rain.

The strong smell clinging to the paper was instantly diluted and dispersed by the muddy water.

"I didn't steal it," Chen Mo said calmly. "We don't need this order."

He turned slightly to the side, giving way to the view of the ventilation vent.

"The incense you wanted is inside. A whole box of it."

Wen Liang's gaze was fixed on that list.

But as the smell on the paper dissipated, the truly rich, overwhelming, and maddening smell of blood emanated from deep within the vents without any concealment.

His throat bobbed violently, and he abandoned all pretense of divinity, carrying his lantern as he plunged headlong into the darkness of the ventilation vent.

A chilling wind, carrying the scent of paper money, swept through the air.

A dozen seconds later, Wenliang's roar as he snatched the food came from underground.

Immediately afterwards, the iron chain snapped.

The weight of the food being fought over finally broke the heavy barrier that the section chief had laid down.

"boom--!!!"

Tens of thousands of tons of pig iron crashed down.

A dull, loud bang caused the water on the ground to bounce upwards.

Chen Mo leaned against the red brick wall, tilted his head back, and let the winter rain pelt his face.

He exhaled a long breath of white air.

The last wisp of wind that squeezed through the crack in the door blew the white paper lantern that Wenliang had left behind, causing it to turn around.

The character "奠" (diàn, meaning "to lay down a sacrifice") was facing the tightly closed iron fence.

By the light of the streetlamp, Chen Mo glanced at the expense report, now a mushy mess in the mud.

He looked down at his gray uniform, which was covered in mud and looked lifeless.

"I'll send these clothes to the cleaning service tomorrow; they'll probably deduct forty yuan from my depreciation fee..."

He gave a self-deprecating twitch at the corner of his mouth and rubbed his frozen hands.

I opened the tattered black umbrella and walked into the night rain without looking back.