Chapter 57: Would You Like a Piece as Well?

Dim, damp, and cold, with not a trace of light.

Little Lin He was brought by Mr. Mo into a small, dilapidated room. A single candle flickered, casting a faint glow over the cracked walls. There was only a battered wooden table, a worn wooden chair, and nothing more.

“I have never liked forcing others. It’s against my principles. So, I will ask you one last time,” Mr. Mo said. “Are you truly resolved? The path ahead will be hard, painful, and bitter. You may even lose yourself.”

Clad in his usual dark robe and a black bamboo hat, Mr. Mo’s hoarse voice revealed neither gender nor sentiment, his thoughts unreadable.

“It will be hard, painful, and bitter…but you said you needed me.” Little Lin He raised his head slightly; once lifeless and hollow, his eyes now held a flicker of hope.

“Yes, I need you. That is why I hope you can keep up with me.” Mr. Mo gently patted his head.

Lin He watched that hand rest atop his small head. It was a sensation he had never experienced—warm and comforting.

He smiled.

“I will. I will follow closely behind you, so please, please don’t abandon me,” he said.

“Sit down.”

Lin He watched as the hand left his head, feeling a trace of longing and desire. He walked over and sat on the wooden chair.

He caught a faint scent of blood.

He saw Mr. Mo take out a book, its cover black as night, with faint traces of blood staining its surface.

“Do you know what this is?” Mr. Mo gently stroked the book.

Lin He shook his head.

“This is what will make you whole.”

“Do you know what it means to break before you can be remade?”

Lin He shook his head again.

“Learn it, understand it, and then forget it. Etch it deep within you. Only then will you discover its wonders—if you can endure.”

“Lin He, don’t die. I’ll be waiting for you outside. You have only one day.”

“I’ve arranged everything at the Lin household, so don’t die.”

Mr. Mo placed the book on the table and left the room. He gave Lin He a long, searching look before closing the door.

Lin He sat there, surrounded by oppression, dampness, cold, and the faint scent of blood—yet somehow, he felt at peace.

Perhaps Mr. Mo was right; perhaps he truly was different.

This was what happened after he killed his mother.

“One day? And after that?” Lin He murmured.

He opened the book, turning page after page…

But there were no words. Only blood—bloody handprints, fingerprints, shadows—some stamped, some drawn. The scent of blood was overwhelming, the red stains vivid, almost blinding.

Lin He kept turning the pages, confused, unable to grasp the meaning as time slipped by. Over and over, he searched, but there was nothing but blood.

Until the candle burned out, plunging the room into utter darkness. One day passed.

Lin He heard sounds—clinking, scraping. He thought Mr. Mo had returned. He sat still, waiting.

Perhaps there would be an apology, or a scolding. Even these would remind him he was alive.

The little room was silent, cramped, oppressive, the air stiflingly thick, the darkness absolute.

The sounds grew louder, closer—iron chains dragging against the floor, sharp and grating.

Then the door opened. Another candle flared, illuminating the room. Lin He squinted, struggling to adjust.

And then he saw someone.

A butcher, drenched in blood.

The stench of blood assaulted him. After a day without food, Lin He retched.

“Who are you?”

Only heavy, labored breathing replied.

Lin He looked at him—a face full of coarse flesh, a greasy body, a thick iron chain in his hand, stained with blood, much like Lin He himself.

“Who are you?” Lin He asked again, a rare flicker of unease crossing his face.

The butcher said nothing, instead, he began pulling objects from his clothes.

Scrapers, whips, bloody cloths, fine needles…

“Are these the toys for you?” The butcher, breathing heavily, set his instruments upon the table and spoke in a thick, excited voice.

“What do you want? Where is Mr. Mo?” Lin He tried to suppress his unease, that primal human fear.

“Mr. Mo? Who’s that?” The butcher seemed puzzled, then dismissed the thought.

“I’m going to find Mr. Mo.” Lin He tried to rise and leave.

“Leave?” The voice suddenly sharpened. The butcher seemed enraged, growing violent.

He snatched up the chain and bound the child to the chair. Lin He struggled in vain; he was powerless.

“What are you going to do?” Lin He shouted, though his voice wavered.

“Do?” The butcher pondered seriously, then grinned. “I’m going to play.”

His face twisted into a strange smile—both innocent and savage.

“Mr. Mo! Mr. Mo!” Lin He shouted, genuine fear gripping him for the first time.

After all, he was still a child—six or seven at most—even if he had already killed.

“Ha…Ha ha…Ah ha ha…” The butcher laughed, winding the chain tighter and tighter around him.

The cold iron bit into his flesh. The pain was sharp.

Lin He could feel the butcher’s breath, and he struggled desperately.

Then, he had no choice but to give up.

“Ah! Ahhh!” A sudden scream split the air.

It was agony.

He lost an arm. Blood dripped steadily, each drop ringing out with crystalline clarity amid his cries.

His arm had been torn off, ripped away by brute force.

“Louder! Scream louder! Ha ha ha!”

Laughter, screams, the drip of blood.

“Not enough. Still not enough.” The butcher wiped at the blood pooling on the floor, soaking a dry cloth until it was sodden red, then pressed it to Lin He’s face.

Breathing became difficult.

“Why? Why are you doing this to me?”

The small room echoed with Lin He’s anguished roars, muffled beneath the blood-soaked cloth.

The chains rattled on the chair, sharp and clear.

He didn’t understand, he was bewildered—Mr. Mo had said he needed him.

Then why was this happening? Was he being deceived again?

“Don’t die. Don’t die! There’s still so much fun to be had!” The butcher said, voice brimming with excitement.

He picked up a scraper—a small, razor-sharp blade.

Lin He felt the cool blade glide over his cheek, his chest, his abdomen.

“Ah! Ah! Ahhh! Ahhhhh!”

“The first piece, how beautiful.” A slice of flesh gleamed on the blade, translucent and glistening.

“Ah! Ah! It hurts, it hurts!” The suffocating sensation grew stronger.

“Where should the next piece come from?”

Again, the familiar, chilling touch.

“Ah!” His voice grew hoarse, breath coming in gasps.

“This one, too, is beautiful—so clear, so desirable.”

“You really are different.”

The pain began to blur, the blood-soaked cloth turning his world crimson, breath fading at the edge of suffocation.

“Am I really different?”

He lost consciousness.

“Hey, don’t faint! How boring!” The butcher’s coarse voice was anxious.

A basin of cold water—filthy, reeking, vile—drenched him, making him retch.

Lin He gasped for air, greedily inhaling every foul breath, desperate to live.

“He’s awake! He’s awake! Wonderful!”

He heard the butcher’s gleeful shout.

Half-conscious, he caught the scent of roasted meat.

A slice of charred flesh skewered on a scraper, the candle beneath it burning.

“Hungry? I forgot—playthings don’t get hungry. But I do.”

The butcher mumbled, sitting cross-legged on the floor, savoring every bite as if it were the finest delicacy in the world.

Lin He saw—the man was eating his flesh.

It smelled…delicious.

“Would you like a piece as well?”