Ding Yi was knocked down again, the impact jarring her senses. This time, the skinless horrors seemed to have learned from their previous clumsy attempts. They swarmed her with a renewed, unsettling coordination, their primary objective to pin her down, to restrict the lethal arc of her shovel.

Their sharp, bony protrusions tore through Ding Yi’s arms, thighs, waist, and abdomen, each tearing sensation a fresh wave of agony that threatened to overwhelm her. But the pain also ignited a fierce, primal anger. These relentless, disgusting things wouldn’t stop unless she made them. And the grim reality was, even if she managed to break free and run again, her rapidly dwindling strength wouldn’t carry her far.

Gritting her teeth against the searing pain, Ding Yi fought her way through the suffocating encirclement. The iron shovel in her hand became an extension of her will, each swing a brutal, efficient strike. Her aim was true, her movements economical. She carved a path through the writhing bodies, nimbly leaping out of their immediate reach. With her back offering less of a vulnerable target, she could finally focus her full, furious attention on these grotesque abominations.

But even in the heat of battle, the sheer repulsiveness of these creatures was a constant assault on her senses. Their eyeless faces, the sickly sweet stench of their decaying flesh, the grating, high-pitched screech they emitted – a sound akin to sharp objects grinding against glass – it was a multi-pronged attack designed to break her resolve.

And they were relentless. Despite the damage she inflicted, more of them leaped and lunged, their movements disturbingly agile. Against such overwhelming numbers, even with her surprising resilience and grim determination, her strength was fading. In a world of peace and prosperity, who truly gained experience in such brutal, life-or-death combat? Her aim might be steady, her strength considerable, but time was not on her side. Without a doubt, she would eventually be overwhelmed.

Especially now.

An even more potent wave of cloying mildew assaulted her nostrils, a grim harbinger of another wave of the unholy horde. Ding Yi’s heart clenched with dread. But then she saw them – a fresh wave of skinless horrors, their speed and size noticeably greater than those currently assailing her. Yet, these new arrivals ran straight past, as if she were invisible, not a single one breaking stride to attack her.

Ding Yi: ??? What in the actual…?

But thanks to this bizarre, temporary reprieve – these larger monsters seemingly ignoring the smaller, more persistent ones – Ding Yi saw a sliver of hope, a chance to finally obliterate the remaining creatures.

This fragile light of rational hope was fleeting. Soon, a primal urge to destroy took over. Compared to the beginning of the fight, she barely dodged now, meeting the monsters head-on, her iron shovel a whirlwind of lethal force. When she swung twice in quick succession, the shovel whistling harmlessly through the air, she realized with a grim satisfaction that the last of the disgusting creatures had finally been dispatched.

She stood there, disheveled and panting, her eyes burning with the raw ferocity born of slaughter. Her once neatly tied ponytail had come undone, strands plastered to her neck with blood – her own, or theirs, she couldn’t tell. Her hands and arms were slick with gore, an impossible-to-wipe-clean crimson coating. The iron shovel in her grip was unrecognizable beneath the layers of viscera.

The coppery tang of blood filled her nostrils, thick and cloying. The iron shovel in her hand felt impossibly heavy, a dead weight threatening to pull her down. She closed her eyes wearily, the brief respite a welcome balm before forcing them open again. Now was not the time to succumb to exhaustion, not the time to drop her weapon and rest.

Ding Yi instinctively touched the rolled-up Qingping News tucked securely in her pocket, a small reminder of their purpose. With heavy, leaden steps, she began to walk forward. As she moved, she suddenly felt a shift in the wind. The ever-present, oppressive fog began to dissipate, revealing a shocking scene ahead.

The man who exuded an aura of lethal menace stood with cold, fierce eyes. The iron shovel in his hand dripped with viscous, dark blood. Behind him lay a grotesque mountain of “blood and flesh,” a horrifying testament to his own brutal struggle. Ding Yi could vaguely discern the shapes of the larger monsters that had surged past her moments ago. He, too, had clearly been through a fierce battle. His restricting suit jacket now hung loosely over one pale arm. His once pristine white shirt was now blooming with vivid red stains, like macabre plum blossoms. His tie was loosened, the top button of his shirt undone, a small concession to… what? Comfort? The sheer violence of the encounter?

The scattered crimson against his stark white skin was a disturbing yet strangely captivating sight. His eyes, as bright as distant stars, were also filled with a chilling indifference and a razor-sharp intensity. All these contradictory qualities coalesced around him, forming a bewitching, almost otherworldly beauty.

But what struck Ding Yi most directly wasn’t his unsettling allure.

That wasn’t the look of a “person.” Not anymore.

Ding Yi’s grip tightened on the iron shovel, the instinctive sense of danger screaming in her mind. The man before her was a hundred times, a thousand times more dangerous than those mindless monsters had been!

She should run. Turn and flee immediately.

But even though her subconscious had already issued the frantic command, her legs remained stubbornly rooted to the spot, refusing to obey.

Ding Yi stared at the man walking towards her, the iron shovel in her hand held ready to strike at a moment’s notice.

But she hadn’t expected him to suddenly laugh, a flamboyant, captivating sound that sent a shiver down her spine.

“Good eyes.” Qin Yuan’s voice was low, a hint of something wild in its timbre. He was in a very good mood indeed.

Very good.

It had been far too long since he’d been able to truly stretch his limbs, to unleash the raw power that simmered beneath his composed exterior. And then, just as he’d been about to turn back, a flicker of concern for the disheveled Wisher prompting his return, he’d seen her walking towards him, covered in gore, her gaze holding a… fascinating intensity.

This unexpected sight sent a jolt of pure exhilaration through him, a thrill even more potent than the satisfying carnage he’d just unleashed.

He suddenly felt a grudging appreciation for this punitive instance.

Very good indeed.

“Are you injured?” Qin Yuan’s gaze swept over her, a clinical assessment. The wounds weren’t fatal, but the contamination from those things was… unpleasant. Still, a minor inconvenience. With him here, she wouldn’t die from something so trivial.

“Do you need help?” His hand reached out, a silent offer.

Before Qin Yuan’s fingers could brush against her bloodied skin, Ding Yi’s legs, which had been stubbornly immobile, finally obeyed her silent command. She took a hesitant step back.

“No,” Ding Yi managed, her control over her expression remarkable. Even in this blood-soaked aftermath, she could still summon a small, tight smile. “How about you? Are you hurt?”

Qin Yuan’s smile didn’t waver as he withdrew his hand. “Perhaps I’m lucky. Untouched.”

“That’s… good.” Ding Yi’s voice was still a little shaky.

Another gust of wind swept through the clearing, and Ding Yi instinctively squinted, turning her head to shield her eyes. When the wind died down, they stood once more before the disturbed earth of the open grave.

“Let’s go. It’s getting late.” Qin Yuan tossed his bloodied iron shovel back into the pit with a clatter, shrugged off his stained suit jacket, and took the lead, walking away with a newfound lightness in his stride.

Ding Yi glanced at the discarded shovel. She wasn’t swayed by his casual dismissal of the weapon. The threat in this place wasn’t limited to the mindless skinless horrors. Clutching her own blood-soaked shovel tightly, she followed.

“Aren’t you coming back?” Qin Yuan called over his shoulder, turning his head slightly.

Ding Yi shook her head, a lie born of pain and a growing unease. “I’m right behind you.”

The injuries on her body were screaming.

Searing, relentless pain.

A strange, burning sensation radiated from the wounds, an unsettling heat that had nothing to do with exertion.

Ding Yi followed Qin Yuan, her steps uneven, one foot sinking deeper into the soft earth than the other. The edges of her vision began to blur, the world around her losing focus. Just as her consciousness flickered, threatening to abandon her, Ding Yi slammed the iron shovel in her hand into the ground, the sudden jolt anchoring her momentarily. Through the fading light, she saw a hand extended towards her.

But this time, the owner of the hand didn’t heed Ding Yi’s mumbled assurances that she was fine.

“This isn’t a short stroll, and who knows if those things will decide to pay us another visit if we dawdle.” Qin Yuan’s voice was firm, brooking no argument.

His hand was steady, strong. Before Ding Yi could protest, she found herself lifted into a princess carry, the world tilting precariously. She still clutched the bloodied iron shovel tightly in her hand, her vision now a hazy blur. From her disoriented perspective, she could only make out a sharp, pale profile against the fading light.

“You’ll probably want to throw that away,” Ding Yi mumbled weakly, gesturing vaguely with her free hand. “It’s okay… I have another one.”

Qin Yuan saw through her flimsy attempt at bravado but didn’t comment. “Yes, well done,” he said instead, his tone surprisingly gentle.

The journey back was indeed not short, as he’d predicted. Carried in his arms, Ding Yi’s eyelids fluttered shut, the relentless pain in her body a chaotic symphony of agony and a strange, unsettling clarity.

It wasn’t until she heard Yan Ming’s anxious voice echoing in the distance that a shaky sigh of relief escaped her lips.

She had finally left that cursed place.

As if on cue, the Wishers who had been anxiously waiting outside the ancestral hall for the overdue guide witnessed a bizarre and unsettling scene. Emerging from a narrow, overgrown path, a man covered in blood carried a girl whose own blood-soaked state made it impossible to discern if she was alive or dead. The girl clutched a bloodied iron shovel in her hand, her arms and waist bearing gruesome wounds. Her usually vibrant face was now ashen, tinged with an unnatural cyan hue.

The two figures materialized as if from thin air, walking slowly towards them under the stunned, silent gaze of the assembled Wishers.

Everyone: … What fresh hell have these two unleashed now?!