Not far out the door, something appeared on the gravel road of the street, moving in their direction.
A boy. Mu Yingying was the first to see it and stopped in her tracks.
“What is that?”
White Night poked half her head out of the bike basket and followed her gaze to find a boy of about ten years old, wearing a faded plaid shirt.
His hair was messy, and there was some mud on his face. But he was nearly three meters tall.
The distance of one of his steps was the distance a normal person would cover in three steps.
His feet landed on the gravel, producing a muffled sound.
White Night focused her eyes and looked at his stomach.
That stomach was huge, abnormally swollen.
His entire abdomen was stretched as if about to burst; the skin was taut and shiny, and his navel was pushed out high.
The most unsettling thing was that something inside the stomach was moving.
It kept writhing.
You could see the surface bulging and subsiding, as if a living creature was tumbling inside.
“……”
Little Frost stared at that bloated stomach and silently raised her hammer two inches higher.
The boy walked closer and closer, both hands clutching his stomach, brows furrowed, face pale, his expression very pained.
He stopped in front of them, his nearly three-meter-tall gaze looking down at these people.
Then he spoke, his voice that of a real child, soft and whiny with a crying tone.
“My stomach hurts so much.” He said. “Can you help me?”
No one responded immediately. White Night, in the bike basket, stared fixedly at that stomach.
Inside, the thing moved again.
A curved bulge rose on the surface of the skin, as if a hand was pushing from the inside, then slowly retracted.
White Night’s soul body broke out in goosebumps from head to toe.
The boy’s gaze swept over the group and finally settled on the Tang Dao at Mu Yingying’s waist.
He shifted his steps, walking around White Peace and Little Frost.
He went directly to Mu Yingying, crouched down, and lowered his eyes to her level.
“Sister,” he said.
“Your sword is very nice. Can you use your sword to cut open my stomach for me?”
Mu Yingying looked down and met his eyes for a second.
“……”
She turned her head and looked at White Peace, who was standing where she was, looking at the boy’s stomach. Mu Yingying cleared her throat.
“Peace, what do you think? Is this thing a threat to us?”
White Peace looked at that swollen stomach for a moment before withdrawing her gaze.
“No,” she said. “Its combat power is basically zero. All his attention is on his stomach. He has no hostility toward you.”
She paused, then added, “Cut it open and see what’s inside. Treat it as a way to pass the boredom of the journey.”
“You really are treating this like a sightseeing trip.”
Mu Yingying looked down again at the boy.
His eyes were bulging, and he was still clutching his stomach.
The thing inside moved again, making him gasp in pain. Mu Yingying was silent for a moment.
“Fine,” she said.
“But let me be clear: I’m not a ripper, nor some dismemberment maniac. I’ll just make a cut for you. How you deal with what’s inside is your responsibility.”
The boy nodded vigorously.
“I’m not a murderer either,” Mu Yingying drew her Tang Dao as she continued helplessly.
“I’m a normal person. How did I end up cutting open a Weirdness’s stomach in the ruins?”
Little Frost stood nearby, expressionless.
“Right.”
“But, come to think of it—” Mu Yingying approached that bloated stomach and stared at the writhing skin for two seconds.
“I am actually a little curious.”
She raised the Tang Dao and took a deep breath. The blade fell.
Pshh—a wet, muffled sound.
The boy didn’t cry out in pain; instead, he let out a long sigh of relief.
He quickly pulled away his hands covering his stomach and took a step back.
The incision split open to both sides, and something sat up directly from inside.
It was an old woman.
She was about seventy years old, with graying hair tied into two small buns.
Her face was deeply wrinkled, and she wore a blue cotton-padded jacket with a floral print. The jacket was stained with some mucus, which she casually wiped off.
She sat on the ground, panting heavily for a few breaths, brushed the dust off her knees, then looked up.
The boy immediately bent down, his face a mix of grievance and surprise.
“Grandma! Grandma, you really were inside my stomach!”
The old woman raised her hand and gave him a light slap on the top of his head.
“Where would I be? You ate me in,” she spoke, her voice hoarse but strong and clear.
“Where did you dig up my ashes?”
The boy lowered his head, his voice much softer.
“The box… the top shelf of the cabinet… that blue jar… I thought it was frosting.”
The old woman took a deep breath.
She raised her eyes and swept her gaze over the several stunned living people around, her expression normal.
Then, from the right pocket of her cotton jacket, she slowly took out an embroidery needle and a small roll of white thread.
The needle was already threaded.
She leaned over, twisted the thread end tightly to tie a knot, then said to the boy, “Crouch down.”
The boy obediently crouched down.
The incision on his stomach was still open, some fluid seeping from the edges, and he just looked at his grandmother with pleading eyes.
The old woman leaned in and began sewing.
Her technique was steady, stitch by stitch, pulling the thread, tying knots. It was like mending a torn cotton jacket, without any hesitation.
The boy flinched.
“It hurts.”
“If it hurts, then bear it. Who told you to eat random things?”
“Grandma, I won’t eat random things anymore.”
“How many times have I told you?” the old woman didn’t look up.
“I put that ash jar there for you to pay respects to, not for you to snack on.”
“I know, Grandma.”
“You say you know every time, and you forget in a couple of days.”
“This time I really know.” The boy buried his head in his chest, his voice very low.
“Because Grandma grew out of my stomach. It was so uncomfortable. I won’t dare do it again.”
The old woman’s sewing hand paused for a moment.
She didn’t speak, just continued sewing, but her stitches were a little slower than before.
Little Frost stood there watching this scene; she had already lowered her hammer.
White Night was in the bike basket, her soul body still leaning out, motionless.
Mu Yingying withdrew her Tang Dao and wiped the blade with her sleeve.
“I won’t dare eat ashes in the future: Grandma will grow out of my stomach.”
“That’s right.”
The old woman finished the last stitch and bit off the thread.
She patted her grandson’s belly, checked the neat stitches, and satisfied, put the needle and thread back into her pocket.
“Thank you,” the old woman thanked Mu Yingying, stood up, and patted the dust off her cotton jacket.
“This child is a handful.”
The boy, with his stomach sewn up, straightened up.
His nearly three-meter frame shrank into a ball in front of the old woman, his hands behind his back.
“Grandma, shall we go?”
“Let’s go.”
The old woman turned around and stepped forward, walking steadily.
The boy followed, taking very careful steps, one hand still protecting his freshly sewn stomach.
They entered the nearby ruins of a stairwell.
The sound of footsteps grew distant, and the two figures, one large and one small, disappeared into the darkness.
Mu Yingying watched them leave.
“A grandmother growing out of her grandson’s stomach. Is that right?” She repeated it, as if helping herself sort out her thoughts.
“Grandson ate the ashes. Grandma grew out of grandson’s stomach. I cut open the grandson’s stomach, and the grandmother came out. Grandma sewed up her grandson’s stomach, and the two went home together.”
She finished speaking and paused for a second.
“Truly worthy of being a Weirdness…”
Little Frost: “……”
White Night shrank in the basket, couldn’t help it, and said quietly, “Actually, that grandmother sewed quite well.”
“Indeed,” Mu Yingying nodded seriously. “The stitches are great, better than mine.”
White Peace had already turned and walked ahead, barefoot on the gravel, not looking back.
“Let’s go,” she said.
The group followed again and continued forward.
The dilapidated walls on both sides of the street cast long shadows.
The blood-colored sky light hadn’t changed, and the wind blew, carrying the musty smell from afar.
Same as before.
White Night looked back; the stairwell entrance was already quiet.
She didn’t know where the grandmother and grandson had gone.
She turned back, shrunk into the bike basket, and stopped thinking about it.
This world is insane, not distinguishing between Weirdness and the living.
Sometimes, you can’t even tell who is weirder.