I, the screenwriter, have experienced a resurgence of inspiration.

Third mirror copy.

At the east end of the village, there was a dilapidated mud-brick house with an open roof, through which the cold winter wind howled in through the holes.

The four of them huddled together in a corner, trying to keep warm like chicks.

Jiang Chen leaned against the earthen wall, clutching a cold, hard steamed bun in his hand, and took big bites of it.

Even though the steamed bun was so dry it crumbled and made him choke and frown, he still kept swallowing it, as if he was competing with someone.

A day has passed since he vomited blood.

After regaining consciousness, he never mentioned vomiting blood again, nor did he say what he had seen.

When Kang Xiaojia and others asked, he either remained silent or simply said, "It's nothing, I'm just a little tired," to brush it off.

No one knew that it was as if a piece of his brain was missing.

The images before I fainted were blurry, as if viewed through a thick layer of frosted glass.

All he remembered was a huge cat face in the thick fog, with its vertical pupils reflecting his image.

There's also a feeling of being stared at by something—not the gaze of a cat's pupils, but some larger, more distant being.

How can I describe this feeling?

Jiang Chen recalled the giant Earth pattern he had seen when he attempted vacuum walking in the aerospace experience center.

The vast and boundless space was eerily quiet.

When a huge and beautiful planet appears in the field of vision, if you stare at it for a long time, you may even have the illusion that "the planet is breathing".

Jiang Chen felt that way at that time.

He was like a speck of dust in the universe, seeing the Earth grow eyes, through those cat-like pupils, across the dungeon, across time and space—

She glanced at him lightly.

In that glance, there was no emotion, no like or dislike, and no bias.

It's like a person looking down at ants on the ground.

But that one glance made Jiang Chen's blood boil.

The pain was real; the blood I vomited was mixed with pieces of internal organs; and the dizziness and the feeling that my head was about to explode were also real.

But along with it comes extreme happiness and fervor.

"I was seen."

"I was seen."

"I was seen."

Like a believer seeing God.

Like moths drawn to a raging fire.

Jiang Chen knew that his current state was extremely abnormal; his internal organs were ruptured, and his mind was on the verge of collapse, but every cell in his body was screaming:

He wanted to be seen again.

I want to experience that feeling of being watched by a supreme being again.

I want to become stronger, strong enough to stand before that being and let it take a good look at me.

This idea grew wildly in his mind, like weeds.

……

……

"Young Master Jiang, eat slowly, don't choke."

Zhou Chang handed over a bottle of red wine, his tone slightly ingratiating: "I couldn't find any water, so this is all I could find. Make do with this."

Before Jiang Chen vomited blood and fainted, fearing that his teammates would abandon him and escape, he promised the three of them that if he could return alive, he would pay each of them 500,000 yuan.

The degree of control was excellent.

If they were promised 100,000 or 200,000, the three people might still consider it.

Promising a million or ten million inevitably makes people feel it's too fake, like a casual remark or empty promise.

Five hundred thousand is just the amount that most people consider their savings target and feel they can easily obtain.

……

Jiang Chen took the water, gulped down a large mouthful, and washed the dry bread from his throat.

This red wine tastes like paper pulp.

"Did you get it from the village?"

He glanced at the seven or eight cold steamed buns piled on the ground and asked casually.

Zhou Chang and Kang Xiaojia both looked a little uncomfortable.

The former argued, "It wasn't really stealing. There was a banquet held all day at the village's threshing ground, and a lot of food was wasted. We didn't dare touch the food, so we just took some steamed buns."

—It's actually stealing.

Every household in the village kept their doors closed. The four outsiders didn't want to do the task, nor did they want to have any contact with the villagers.

So they could only hide like rats in the street, afraid to show their faces.

To be honest, stealing steamed buns is a bit shameful.

But when faced with life and death, face and morality have long since become worthless.

Kang Xiaojia was holding a steamed bun and taking small bites, looking a little dejected.

She has never stolen anything in her entire life.

"Good students" disciplined by school and family feel guilty even when they are starving and need a steamed bun.

"It's alright, little sister."

Zhou Chang comforted her, "These are all offerings after the sacrifice. They might all be thrown away later. What's wrong with us taking some? Steamed buns aren't worth much."

Kang Xiaojia nodded without saying anything.

Wang Lei huddled in the innermost corner, tearing large bites of dry steamed buns. When he choked badly, he raised the bottle of red wine and poured it down his throat.

The bottle in his hand seemed fine; his breath reeked of alcohol.

At this moment, his face was pale, his lips were trembling, and his eyes were full of fear. It was clear that Wang Lei wanted to live.

"How about... we leave tonight?"

He muttered to himself somewhat nervously, "Don't stay in the village, it's too scary here. It's safer to go back to the car, it's better to go back to the car."

Paper cars don't need gasoline; they can just drive along the winding mountain road, going in circles.

Anyway, it's better than living in the village.

—Ever since the group hid in this dilapidated house, Wang Lei has been repeating this every half hour.

It all boils down to "go back to the car" and "don't stay in the village."

Jiang Chen finished the last bite of his steamed bun and peered out from behind the dilapidated wall.

It was already dark outside, and the night, like ink spreading, gradually swallowed up the village.

In the distance, faint sounds of suona horns drifted by, thin and ethereal, always hard to hear clearly.

Jiang Chen frowned:

Is this the time to play the suona?

Is a funeral being held in the village?

Wasn't this supposed to be Grandma Huang's birthday celebration?

"That's about it."

He turned around, used Zhou Chang's strength to stand up, and said listlessly, "Pack your things and get back to the car."

The group relied on him as their leader, so upon hearing this, they immediately sprang into action, packed up the remaining steamed buns, crouched down, and walked along the wall towards the village entrance.

It was dark, and there wasn't a soul on the road.

Every household had its doors and windows tightly shut, and only a few lights were on. The whole village was quiet, like a dead village.

Occasionally, a few cat meows could be heard from afar, sending chills down one's spine.

The four of them moved quickly, barely daring to breathe, and jogged all the way to the paper bus at the village entrance.

They opened the car door, got in, and closed it, finally letting out a collective sigh of relief.

I feel safer in the car.

At least, this is a mobile safe zone.

"Shall I drive?" Jiang Chen sat in the driver's seat and stretched his wrists.

"No, no, no!" Wang Lei immediately stopped him, his face pale.

"What if you drive the car off a cliff? I'll drive it."

He wasn't worried about Jiang Chen's injury, but he was truly afraid of dying.

Jiang Chen glanced at him, didn't insist, and moved aside: "Okay, you drive. Take it slow along the mountain road, don't go too fast."

"OK."

Wang Lei gripped the paper steering wheel with both hands and took a deep breath.

The paper-crafting cart slowly started up, leisurely drove away from the village entrance, and onto the winding mountain road.

The wheels crunched and groaned as they rolled over the snow.

The car headlights emitted only a faint light, like two dim, yellow eyes tearing a small opening in the thick fog.

Further ahead, it was all white, and you couldn't see the road or the end.

The car was quiet; no one spoke.

Kang Xiaojia and Zhou Chang leaned back in their seats, their nerves, which had been tense all day, relaxing a little.

Wang Lei was completely focused on driving, not daring to relax for even a moment.

Jiang Chen leaned back in the passenger seat, resting with his eyes closed, his internal organs burning with pain.

The car slowly drove forward, and before they had even left the village, Zhou Chang suddenly twitched his ears and cautiously asked, "Listen... can you hear music?"

Everyone pricked up their ears.

Besides the sound of the wind, there were indeed some other sounds mixed in:

Tick-tock, sobbing.

It's the sound of a suona.

There were also gongs and drums, cymbals, all banging and clanging together, creating a standard funeral ambiance.

The sound was eerie, drifting on the wind, sometimes near, sometimes far.

"Funeral procession?"

Jiang Chen pursed his lips, his expression turning serious. "Here... are funerals usually held at night?"

In folk funerals, people always start early, setting off before dawn to ensure the deceased is laid to rest in peace.

There's no such thing as a funeral procession at dusk; it's not even a matter of good or bad luck anymore.

The sound was far away in front of the car, as if trying to stop them from leaving.

"I...I...I..."

Wang Lei trembled, half of the paper effigy rustling as it spoke: "It's alright, it's alright, it has nothing to do with us, just drive over there."

That's what he said, but he was clearly terrified.

This instance is already eerie and strange, and now it's caught up in a villager's funeral procession late at night. Who knows what kind of ghosts it is?

The sound of the suona was getting closer and closer.

The tone became clearer and clearer.

The mournful music was so mournful and chilling that it made people feel uneasy.

The sound of something snapping down was deafening, as if a hand was tearing at the heart, pulling and ripping it away relentlessly.

Wang Lei unconsciously slowed down his driving speed.

At the bend ahead, a group of figures could be vaguely seen in the thick fog.

A long line, moving slowly forward.

The sounds of music and drumming came from over there.

"There really is a team..." Kang Xiaojia murmured, leaning forward and squinting to get a better look.

Nearly.

closer.

The faint light from the car headlights shone on the group.

The moment they saw it clearly, all four people in the car froze simultaneously:

The line was very long, stretching from the other end of the bend, with about a hundred people in it.

At the very front were two children, a boy and a girl, dressed in mourning clothes.

A pale face, rosy cheeks, a strange smile on his lips, and eyes drawn large and round, staring straight ahead.

They wore bright red jackets and green trousers, holding soul-guiding banners in their hands. Their feet didn't touch the ground; they floated forward lightly, as if being lifted by invisible threads.

Behind them was a band playing the suona.

Four people, dressed in gray mourning clothes and wearing white mourning caps on their heads.

But their heads weren't human heads.

They are rat heads.

It has a pointed snout, a long beard, round little eyes, and gray-black mouse fur covering its entire face.

They wore human clothes, had human hands, and puffed out their cheeks while playing the suona.

The whiskers around its mouth twitched, making a ticking sound.

A group of "people" followed on both sides of the coffin to attend the funeral.

Old and young, male and female, they all have rat heads.

They were dressed in hemp and mourning clothes, some holding mourning sticks, others covering their mouths and making squeaking noises.

It sounded like they were wailing at a funeral, or perhaps whispering among themselves.

The voice was so high-pitched and thin that it made one's teeth ache.

On both sides of the procession, villagers were carrying piles of paper offerings.

The two-story house made of paper is exactly the same as the houses in the village.

The paper-made car was shiny and bright.

The paper-made mountains of gold and silver were carried lightly by young boys and girls as they followed the procession.

It's all stuff burned for the dead.

This is a rat's funeral procession.