When evil gods hold a meeting in my head

Richard stood there, staring at the bartender lying on the ground.

The other person remained motionless, the moonlight illuminating their naked body and highlighting their strange, curled-up posture. A person who had been alive just moments before was now completely still, devoid of any life…

He lay on the cold stone road like a discarded corpse, his breathing barely visible.

Richard waited for a while, but the bartender still didn't move.

"He's really dead! There wasn't a single way he could have died! This is so illogical..."

Not knowing whether I should go over and check, I was hesitating about whether to take a few steps forward when suddenly a voice rang out.

"I'm so cold... so cold... can anyone give me some warmth..."

It was that little boy crying again.

But this time Richard was stunned, because the direction from which the sound came had changed. Before, it had always come from the street corner, but now it was coming from another direction, right next to where the bartender was lying.

A little boy was squatting next to the bartender's left foot.

He was dressed in a fine little suit and white shirt, his black leather shoes were polished to a shine, and the gold buttons on his clothes shone brightly in the moonlight.

His attire made him look nothing like a homeless child who would be wandering the streets and freezing; rather, he resembled a lost young master from a noble family, exuding an air of pampered luxury that seemed out of place on this dilapidated street.

The child looked down at the paper in their hand and cried out in a childish voice, "I'm so cold..."

Every time the little boy cried out a sentence, he would stop and glance at what was written on the paper before continuing to cry out the next sentence.

The other person didn't seem like a ghost at all; they were more like a living child being used as a tool. They could only recite the lines written on the paper, completely lacking any self-awareness!

Richard suddenly felt a chill run down his spine: "Could it be that this kid is reciting lines someone else wrote? Could he be some kind of born superhuman who's been bewitched during his immature period? This is too strange..."

What was written on that piece of paper?

Who gave it to him?

And why did he do that?

Richard was finding it hard to comprehend some of the things before him. He didn't even have time to mourn the innocent bartender who had died. His mind was filled with thoughts of how to escape, and his thoughts raced.

But before he could figure out the little boy's motives and reasons for appearing, he suddenly realized... his feet were moving.

He didn't intend to leave, but his feet were moving forward, staggering step by step, towards the direction of the little boy...

Richard was startled and tried to stop, but his feet wouldn't obey him, as if being pulled by something, and he continued to walk forward. He looked down at his feet, and they were indeed moving, step by step, completely out of his control. He tried again, trying his best to stop, but his body wouldn't listen to him at all. The force didn't come from the outside, but from within his body, as if something was controlling his muscles, his bones, and his nerves.

What's going on?

He recalled what he had just done. From hearing the crying to going downstairs, to going out, to seeing the bartender in trouble, every step he took was normal. He didn't touch anything strange or do anything strange. But now he was indeed walking towards that little boy.

One step, two steps, three steps, getting closer and closer to the little boy.

Richard stared at the little boy, who was still reading the paper, pausing between sentences. The moonlight shone on his face, revealing a delicate but empty face, devoid of any expression, like a moving puppet. His eyes were open, but there was nothing inside; they were pitch black.

After walking a few more steps, Richard suddenly remembered something—did he have any thoughts when he saw the bartender get into trouble?

Pity? Sympathy? Or a desire to help?

He didn't know, but if that was the case, then the way the crying was targeted was to those who would feel pity. That's how the bartender fell for it, and now it's his turn.

Richard took a deep breath, raised his hand to touch the top hat on his head, and the moment his fingers touched the brim, flames leaped up from the edge, the orange-red light dancing above his head, dispelling the surrounding darkness and the eerie chill.

The moment the flames ignited, the little boy vanished—not by running away, but by disappearing into thin air, as if he had never existed.

Richard's body also stopped moving.

He stood there, panting, staring at the empty street corner. The bartender was still lying on the ground, motionless, but the little boy was gone.

Richard waited for a while, but there was no movement. He waited a while longer, but still no movement. He breathed a sigh of relief and was about to turn around and go back when the little boy reappeared.

He was still standing in the same spot, still wearing that exquisite little suit, still looking down at the paper in his hand. As soon as he appeared, Richard's body began to move forward uncontrollably again.

One step, two steps.

Richard gritted his teeth, stroked his top hat again, flames leaped up, the little boy disappeared, his body stopped, the flames weakened, the little boy reappeared, and his body began to move again.

Over and over again, it's always the same.

Richard stared at the little boy, his mind racing. How did this thing lock onto its target? Why was he being targeted? He recalled that when he saw the bartender get into trouble earlier, his heart had indeed stirred. That feeling was hard to describe; it wasn't just fear, nor was it just sympathy, but a complex emotion—a pity for one's fellow human, a fear of death, and a bewilderment at the unknown.

If it's because of that, what can he do now? He can't stand here stroking his top hat forever. The flames will eventually weaken, and he will eventually get tired. When that time comes, he will still be led by that thing, walk up to the little boy, and then take off his clothes like a bartender, lie on the ground, and freeze to death in the summer night.

Richard took a deep breath, raised his right hand, and snapped his fingers.

Purple mist surged from the ring, drifting towards him and entering his nose. He silently thought to himself: You are an extremely cold-hearted person. You have no human touch whatsoever. You will not feel pity for anyone. You are a penniless wretch who only cares about himself and not about others.

He read them over and over again, letting the words seep into the depths of his consciousness with the mist, turning those thoughts into his true thoughts, into instincts etched into his bones.

Then he loosened his top hat to extinguish the flames.

The little boy was still there, still reading that piece of paper, his mournful voice still echoing in the night sky.

Richard stood still, staring at him.

They didn't take a single step.