Back at the dorm, taking advantage of the fact that his coworkers hadn’t returned yet, Song Nanxing quickly showered and went straight to bed. The day’s exhausting and tense work had left him so drained that he fell asleep as soon as he hit the pillow.
He didn’t even wake when the others returned.
So naturally, he didn’t know that, after night had fallen and everything was quiet, someone was standing at his bedside, gazing at him with shadowed eyes.
This time, Shen Du maintained his human form. The tentacles that hadn’t been released twisted in protest in his shadow.
For beings like them, the human form was far too small and fragile. If not for the fact that all other forms seemed to be highly rejected, Shen Du wouldn’t have chosen to imitate a human to get close to Song Nanxing.
He stood by the bed, almost blending into the darkness, silently observing Song Nanxing.
Song Nanxing didn’t sleep well—his blanket had been kicked to the foot of the bed, and his long limbs were sprawled out carelessly.
It was the first time Shen Du had truly studied this human body.
The exposed skin was very pale, his build slim and long but not sickly, with evenly distributed fat over his frame, making him look healthy.
His messy, slightly wavy black hair stuck out in all directions, framing the smooth contours of his face; beneath his eyebrows, his eyes were tightly shut, and his thick lashes cast an upward-tilted shadow at the outer corners.
From a human aesthetic, this was a very attractive shell.
But what drew Shen Du in even more was the slightly parted lips—full, softly pink, looking extremely tender.
Last night, Shen Du had already tasted them. They were wonderful, but also bit back.
Shen Du’s Adam’s apple bobbed—he missed that thrilling sensation.
He leaned down, pressing his fingers gently against Song Nanxing’s lips. They were just as soft as he remembered; with a little pressure, his fingertip sank into the parted seam.
A faint warm breath brushed his fingertip.
That strange, unfamiliar sensation urged Shen Du to slip his finger inside, where he touched the soft, warm, wet tongue, and two rows of very neat, smooth teeth.
Human teeth were blunt, not much use for attack.
But last night, those same teeth had bitten through his tentacle.
Shen Du found it novel, stroking them gently. These seemingly blunt teeth were somehow cuter than ordinary human teeth.
He touched the soft, slick tongue again, but just as he caught it, Song Nanxing frowned and turned his head, as if waking up.
Shen Du could only regretfully withdraw, his figure melting into the darkness.
Leaving the dorm, Shen Du heard a muffled “wa-wa” sound in the distance, like a frog’s croak, yet also like a human baby’s cry—only much deeper and more grating, like rough stones rolling across the ground, making one’s heart restless.
He looked toward the source and saw, above the Exchange Center, a brownish-green creature poking its head out from the clouds.
Its triangular head was covered in a dozen bulging eyes—no whites, only blood-red pupils swirling. Its mouth was wide and split clear across its face, with a drooping scarlet tongue that forked into countless strands, all coated in a layer of yellow-green pus.
It hadn’t noticed Shen Du’s presence, seemingly struggling to break free from the clouds. But its massive, ugly body seemed blocked by something, unable to escape, only able to let out that bizarre, grating “wa-wa” cry.
The tentacles behind Shen Du writhed, discussing excitedly: “Fresh.”
“Doesn’t look tasty.”
“Lots of meat.”
“…….”
The human body twisted and warped, countless black tentacles surging like a tide toward the monster in the clouds.
The summoned creature was still trying to break through the barrier when, caught off guard, it was ensnared by countless black tentacles and dragged deep into the clouds.
*****
“Strange, there was a response just now—why did it suddenly disappear?”
“Did we mess up the ritual? Try again.”
The two quickly repeated the ritual, but still got no response.
One of them quickly grew terrified: “Is it because we failed our task and the god has abandoned us?”
“Impossible! The god would never abandon His followers so easily.”
“Maybe the ritual offering was wrong, or the timing’s off—that’s why we couldn’t summon the god’s messenger. We’ll prepare a new sacrifice in a few days and try again.”
*****
Work in the fresh food section was terribly monotonous.
Every day, Song Nanxing was glued to data entry and stamping, and after a few days, he was already numb.
His coworkers weren’t faring much better. At lunch, Song Nanxing overheard someone complain, “I used to think our department’s inspections were a pain—having to check every product’s background and source. Now, compared to the fresh food section, our work seems interesting.”
Another chimed in, “I feel like I’m turning into a machine. And that ink is so fishy and foul. After sitting there all day smelling it, my head’s spinning and I feel half out of it.”
Guan Jing, sitting beside Song Nanxing, looked up in confusion. “Huh? Did your ink go bad? Mine doesn’t smell at all.”
Song Nanxing paused, chopsticks in mid-air, and turned to her. “Your ink doesn’t smell?”
The two who’d just been talking looked over as well.
Guan Jing was baffled. “Yeah, just smells like normal ink, nothing fishy. Why are you guys all looking at me like that?” She frowned as she saw their strange expressions. “Do all of yours stink?”
She started doubting herself. “Could it be my ink that’s the problem?”
Song Nanxing studied her anxious face, frowning as he thought.
He’d felt the ink’s smell was odd these days, but couldn’t pinpoint why. Now, hearing Guan Jing’s words, he realized there really was something off about this ink.
But what exactly, he still couldn’t figure out.
He’d have to check again.
After lunch, Song Nanxing hurried back to his desk. He took out the ink bottle, opened the cap, and sniffed—sure enough, the smell was awful, a fishy stench like rotting, fermenting flesh.
He found a disposable cup and carefully poured a little ink into it.
The black ink ran down the side of the cup, and at the edges there was a faint greenish sheen. Song Nanxing watched for a long while, but couldn’t see anything unusual.
He tried dipping his fingertip in the ink and rubbing it. The texture wasn’t oily like ordinary ink, but had a weird, slippery, grainy feel.
It was hard to describe exactly.
Unconvinced, Song Nanxing tried again, rubbing the ink between his fingers, and after a long time, finally found a close description: it felt like pinching fish eggs.
But after running the ink through a test, nothing abnormal turned up.
With no leads, Song Nanxing could only set the ink aside for now and get back to work.
Just before the end of the shift, a terrified scream suddenly erupted from the desk across from him.
“Zhou Yi, what’s wrong with your face?!”
The voice was familiar—it was Guan Jing.
Song Nanxing looked over and could only see Guan Jing recoiling in horror; Zhou Yi’s back was to him, so he couldn’t see her face.
But judging from the horrified faces of those around, something terrible must have happened to Zhou Yi.
She herself seemed oblivious. “Guan Jing, what are you screaming about? What’s wrong with my face?” As she spoke, she touched her face and felt a handful of slimy mucus. “What’s this?”
She looked up at the others in confusion. Her once-cute face was now covered in a brownish-green film, dotted with dense, lumpy bumps.
Guan Jing was so frightened she hit the emergency alarm.
Song Nanxing hurried over, just in time to see Zhou Yi staring at her arm in confusion, her reactions noticeably sluggish. “There’s something on my hand… Can you guys take a look?”
She pulled up her sleeve and held out her arm. The once pale and smooth skin was now bulging with grotesque blue veins, pulsing as if something was crawling inside.
Zhou Yi pressed hard on a vein, as if trying to push it down, her voice dull. “It kind of hurts. What is this?”
No one dared answer her—someone started running for the door.
Zhou Yi stared blankly at the fleeing crowd and asked Song Nanxing, who hadn’t moved, “What’s wrong? Why are they running?”
Song Nanxing asked, “Do you remember touching anything this afternoon?”
Zhou Yi shook her head slowly. “I was working the whole time. So tired.” She winced and clutched her arm. “Feels like something’s crawling in my veins. It hurts.”
Song Nanxing said, “Maybe you should sit down and rest?”
Zhou Yi replied “Okay,” went back to her desk and sat, still grumbling, “It’s not even the end of the shift, why did Guan Jing and the others leave? Didn’t even wait for me.”
Cautiously, Song Nanxing moved closer. Taking advantage of the moment when she lowered her head, he quickly activated the protection shield device.
The fixed shield at the desk instantly rose, trapping Zhou Yi inside.
Zhou Yi seemed startled, pounding on the shield. “What are you doing? Let me out!”
Song Nanxing said, “Security and the staff from the Mental Health Center should be here soon. You’re not in a good state—you should rest for now.”
Zhou Yi stared at him blankly, as if only now slowly realizing something was wrong.
At that moment, Guan Jing and a few other employees who knew Zhou Yi arrived with security.
The security guards gasped at the sight of Zhou Yi.
The atmosphere grew tense; no one dared speak casually.
Zhou Yi’s gaze swept over everyone’s faces, and suddenly she grew agitated, pounding on the shield and screaming, “Let me out! Let me out!”
Guan Jing covered her mouth, choking back tears. “Zhou Yi, don’t get upset—the people from the Mental Health Center will be here soon. You’ll be okay.”
Zhou Yi went wild inside the shield, pounding and throwing herself against it.
The brown-green color on her face had spread down her body, and the blue veins on her arms were now swollen and bulging, crawling up her face.
Suddenly, she clutched her head and cried out in pain, “My head hurts! Help me, someone help me…”
But the staff from the Mental Health Center and the Special Action Bureau hadn’t arrived yet. No one dared approach the shield, much less let her out.
Zhou Yi’s cries grew higher and sharper. In the end, she dropped to her knees, smashing her head against the floor again and again.
With each blow, her skull caved in a little more. By the end, a quarter of her head had collapsed, red and white fluids streaming down her face, but she seemed oblivious, pressing her ruined face against the shield, bulging eyes fixed on the people outside, repeating over and over, “My head hurts, someone help me…”