The head chef’s voice was low and gravelly. “Scheming little brat…”
The agony and madness in his eyes vanished instantly, replaced by a complex gaze—a thick layer of loathing mixed with a hint of helplessness. It was the look one gave a particularly troublesome younger relative.
A second later—
“Ugh!”
The composure on Wang Ziming’s face shattered. His eyes bulged as his hands clawed desperately at his own neck. An invisible, massive force had seized his throat, lifting him off his feet and suspending him in mid-air. The lack of oxygen caused his face to turn a deep shade of purple, his legs kicking wildly in the void.
The Awakened Ability inside him remained unresponsive, as if it had been completely sealed away by something.
Did I guess wrong!?
Wang Ziming’s heart sank. As expected, a Weirdness was a Weirdness; one couldn’t be entirely on human logic. He had played his hand and lost. Just as he thought his neck would be snapped by the invisible grip, the chef moved.
He didn’t tighten the hold. Instead, with an expressionless face, he raised a foot clad in a black leather shoe and kicked out fiercely at the empty space beneath Wang Ziming.
“Brat, I’ll kick your sorry ass to pieces!”
Bang!
Wang Ziming felt as if a thousand-pound weight had struck his backside. The pressure on his neck vanished instantly, and he was sent flying backward, hurtling straight toward the hotel’s main entrance.
Ah!
Seeing the engraved brass doors approaching at high speed, Wang Ziming closed his eyes in despair. At this velocity, hitting them would turn him into a puddle of gore.
However, the agonizing impact never came. The moment his body touched the doors, he passed through them without resistance, and a soft counterforce neutralized most of his momentum.
Thud.
Wang Ziming landed hard on the bluestone steps outside the hotel, rolling twice before coming to a halt. Outside, the biting night wind howled, and the black mist churned.
“Cough… cough, cough…”
He gasped for air, his body drenched in cold sweat. Trembling, he scrambled to his feet, rubbed his aching rear, and whipped his head around to look at the doors.
He was alive. Truly alive.
A smile of relief from a near-death experience spread across his face. He hadn’t guessed wrong; although the chef’s kick was brutal, it was a deliberate act to let him go.
Standing in the black mist, Wang Ziming did not venture further. The fog created by the Rift was still thick; wandering blindly was a death sentence. He leaned against the hotel entrance, planning to wait until dawn for the mist to clear.
Straightening his crooked glasses, his gaze drifted back toward the interior of the hotel.
“I managed to get out, but it’s a pity about those subordinates I worked so hard to train.”
“Still… those two women pushing the bicycle.”
He recalled Little Frost’s staggering punch and the special treatment they received when entering.
“If it’s them, they might actually survive.”
Inside the hotel’s main hall, there was a deathly silence. Everyone remained frozen in their terrified poses, staring blankly at the spot where Wang Ziming had vanished.
Had he escaped to safety after being kicked through the door, or had that door sent him into some horrific dimension to be utterly erased? No one dared to make a sound.
He isn’t dead; he escaped.
White Night’s voice echoed in the minds of her two aunties. She had seen it clearly; that kick carried no killing intent. It was powerful, yes, but not lethal.
Wang Ziming was certainly full of schemes, actually using the identity of the person in the photo to play his hand. While White Night admired his wit, another thought occurred to her.
Since he could use the identity of the young man on the right to escape, what about her?
Her appearance was similar to the young girl in the photo, which was likely why she had received special treatment upon entering. Judging by the positioning in the photograph, that girl was the center of this twisted family—perhaps even the object of their doting affection. If she stepped forward, escaping would probably be much easier than it was for a nuisance like Wang Ziming.
But—
White Night’s perception swept to her left and right. Little Frost sat to her left, one hand resting inconspicuously on the handlebar. She wasn’t just holding it; she was protecting it. Her fingers tightened slightly, and the warmth of her palm seeped through the metal, carrying a reassuring strength.
Mu Yingying sat to her right, her body leaning in slightly, her hand pressed against the rear seat.
Auntie Ying was being a bit much again; the rear seat was technically White Night’s bottom…
The two of them sandwiched her in the middle, one on each side, leaving no gaps. Even though White Night was currently just a bicycle—without flesh, blood, or body heat—they protected her naturally, as if shielding a frightened little girl.
White Night was touched. She remembered the blank void of her memory when she first woke up—the disorientation and terror of not knowing who she was or if anyone cared.
But now, someone cared.
Auntie Frost’s palm was steady. Auntie Ying… well, though she was a bit much, her hand was very warm. She couldn’t bring herself to let her two aunties leave alone.
‘If I step forward alone, the chef will most likely only let me go.’
White Night calculated silently in her mind, then immediately crushed the thought without hesitation.
‘Then what happens to Auntie Frost and Auntie Ying?’
No. If they were leaving, they were leaving together. She would never abandon them.
‘There must be another way. The rules of this hotel aren’t unsolvable. There must be a path that lets all three of us out alive.’
White Night forced herself to calm down. Her perception moved past the nauseating dishes on the table and returned to the oppressive black and white photos on the wall. She scanned them inch by inch, scouring for every detail she might have overlooked.
Little Frost seemed to sense White Night’s tension. She leaned down slightly, her fair face brushing against the seat. This was a sensitive spot for White Night. It wasn’t accidental; the movement was light, yet carried an indescribable tenderness.
Little Frost whispered softly, “Don’t be afraid. Auntie is here.”
White Night’s soul wavered from the photos. …Auntie Frost was really playing unfair. She quickly dragged her attention back, staring intensely at the photos for clues.
Tap, tap, tap…
While everyone was still immersed in shock, a crisp tapping sound snapped their nerves back to reality.
The chef, his body hunched, walked forward and stopped where Wang Ziming had just been standing. His fingers, covered in calluses and scars, tapped the golden round table—once, then twice. Those dark eyes slowly scanned the room.
“It seems you are not quite satisfied with the appetizer I prepared.”
The chef’s raspy voice echoed through the hall, its calmness sending chills down everyone’s spines. Everyone held their breath, expecting him to fly into a rage and slaughter everyone on the pretext of wasting food.
However, the chef did not get angry. He rolled his eyes, his shriveled lips curling into a hideous smile.
“It doesn’t matter. Appetizers are just for whetting the appetite. Seeing how hungry you all look… I have already prepared the final main course. I guarantee each of you will leave full.”
He paused, a strange sense of gravity creeping into his tone.
“This is my specialty—authentic, handmade pork and cabbage steamed dumplings.”
He clapped his withered hands twice.
Clap, clap.
The doors to the transparent kitchen opened once more. Over a dozen waitresses in red lined up, each carrying a high stack of large bamboo steamers, walking out soundlessly.
The steamers were placed one by one on every golden round table. The moment the lids were lifted, thick white steam billowed out. There was no stench of blood, no smell of rotting corpses, and no sourness. What wafted through the air was the pure, savory aroma of pork and scallions mixed with fresh cabbage.
Plump, white dumplings were lined up in the steamers. Their skins were so thin they were nearly transparent, offering glimpses of the tender pink meat filling and emerald green cabbage leaves, radiating a glossy warmth. They were thin-skinned, generously filled, and smelled incredible.
“Gulp…”
Someone, somewhere, swallowed hard. It was the uncontrollable instinct of a starving body reacting to normal food. But after the brief temptation, a deeper fear surged.
It was too normal. After experiencing those horrific dishes earlier, a platter of perfectly prepared pork and cabbage dumplings was suddenly served? This was weirder than the dark cuisine itself.
At the next table, a survivor’s voice trembled as he stared at the dumplings, not daring to move his chopsticks. “Is this… is the filling really pork?”
No one dared to eat. Who knew what was wrapped inside food made by a Weirdness? Who knew if their stomach would explode after eating it? For a moment, no one moved.
Mu Yingying tilted her head slightly, her lips nearly touching the rear seat, her voice incredibly low and soft. “Little White Night, do you sense anything?”
To an outsider, this beautiful woman appeared to be talking to herself, but her tone was gentle, like she was coaxing a frightened child.
White Night concentrated her senses on the steamer.
‘It seems to be normal food…’
She was a bit uncertain. ‘At least on the surface, these dumplings are clean. But something feels wrong; it’s too abnormal. Don’t move yet; let’s wait and see.’
Mu Yingying gave an imperceptible nod, her hand giving the rear seat another little squeeze. Little Frost hadn’t said a word, but her grip on the handlebar tightened—not out of nervousness, but to pull White Night even closer to her.
White Night: “…”
Could her two aunties please stop with these flustering little gestures during a life-or-death crisis?
Why is no one eating?
The chef looked at the motionless crowd, tilting his shriveled head. Then, as if suddenly realizing something, he spoke. “Oh, how can one have dumplings without dipping sauce? They are indeed tasteless on their own.”
He turned and waved toward the kitchen. “Everything is ready. Bring it out.”
Rumble—
The sound of heavy wheels grinding against the floor filled the room. Two waitresses pushed a heavy flatbed cart out from the depths of the kitchen. On the cart sat a massive brown ceramic vat, the kind commonly used in the countryside for pickling vegetables.
As the cart reached the light in the center of the hall, everyone saw what was inside. It felt as if the air had been sucked out of the room.
“Urgh!”
This time, even Mu Yingying covered her mouth. The vat didn’t contain pickles. It contained a man.
More accurately, it was a man who had been turned into a human jug. His limbs had been severed at the joints, the wounds cauterized or stopped by some bizarre method, and his mangled torso had been forced into the narrow ceramic vat. The man was emaciated, his cheekbones protruding sharply, and his eyes bulged from extreme hunger and pain, crisscrossed with scarlet veins.
The vat was filled with a thick sauce, bright red like blood, emitting a sweet, metallic scent. Half the man’s body was submerged in it, his skin already rotted and oozing pus from the soaking.
A thick iron pipe was welded to the rim of the vat, with a ring of rusted wire extending upward, biting deep into the man’s forehead. The wire was embedded in his flesh, and blood trickled down his face, dripping into the vat to mix with the sauce.
“So hungry… I’m so hungry…”
The man’s lips were cracked and turned outward; his expression was wooden as a faint, raspy groan escaped his throat. He instinctively tried to lower his head to lick the red sauce within reach, but the wire on his forehead held his head in a death grip. Every time he tried to bow his head, the wire sank deeper, and the blood flowed faster.
He could neither live nor die.
Several people in the hall with weaker mental defenses collapsed into their chairs in terror. Little Frost lowered the hand covering her mouth and returned it to the rear seat, stroking it again.
White Night had been terrified as well, but being constantly touched by the eccentric Auntie Ying, she was now both scared and embarrassed…
“Little White Night, are you alright?”
Little Frost was also badly shaken, but she was more concerned about White Night’s condition. Seeing her “expression” seem off, she asked with concern.
“Auntie Frost, I’m fine,” she whispered into Little Frost’s mind, her voice much softer than she had intended.
“Don’t be afraid. Auntie will protect you.” Little Frost’s hand stroked the seat before she turned her nervous gaze back to the chef. She was frightened too, but she was forcing herself to stay calm to protect White Night.
“This is a special, high-grade tomato sauce I have spent years researching,” the chef said, standing by the ceramic vat and tapping the rim with a withered finger. The sound was a dull thud, thud .
His voice remained low and raspy, a sickly pride evident on his pale face. “It is blended with fresh, fermented essence. The flavor is rich with a long-lasting aftertaste. It is the perfect pairing for cabbage and pork dumplings.”
He looked at the crowd. “I hope our guests will be satisfied.”
The cloying, sickeningly sweet scent of blood filled the air, washing over everyone.
“Begin distributing the sauce,” the chef commanded with a wave of his hand.
The red-clothed waitresses moved immediately, each carrying a stack of pristine white porcelain saucers toward the ceramic vat. They pressed a miniature valve connected to the iron pipe.
Squelch—
The thick, bright red “special tomato sauce” was squeezed from the pipe, landing on the white saucers. The waitresses carried the dishes with elegant strides, distributing them table by table.