Chapter 1: Eating Fish

Tianbao, Year Ten, July.

Cheng’an County.

Dark clouds rolled in the sky, the world gloomy and cold.

On the scorched earth, a withered tree stood alone by the roadside. Upon the tree, a crow cocked its head, gazing eerily ahead.

A man stood by the road, his whole body stained with mud, pitch black all over. His matted hair covered his head, hiding his features, and his hunched body betrayed no age.

His thin and filthy body was exposed, completely naked, ribs nearly breaking through the skin of his abdomen.

His legs moved unnaturally, shuffling forward bit by bit, the shriveled thing between his legs swaying as he moved.

From afar came the heavy sound of hooves, the ground trembling slightly.

The man turned his head.

Three tall, robust warhorses, carrying their masters, galloped down the road.

The warhorses were clad in heavy armor, plates of iron chain woven together, even their heads covered in iron, topped with a fan-shaped piece of metal.

As the horses ran, the chains clanged heavily.

The riders, too, were clad in heavy armor, three black feathers atop their helmets, faces covered by masks—bronze masks, twisted into eerie grins.

Utterly chilling.

As they met, the knight drew his ring-pommel saber, turning sideways, poised to strike.

"Slash!"

"Craaaaw—"

The crow let out a sharp, piercing cry, flapping its wings and soaring into the sky.

The knight sheathed his blade and vanished down the road.

Only a headless corpse remained, standing in the distance, blood weakly spurting from its neck, then kneeling, and finally collapsing heavily.

The crow flew across the road, countless scenes flashing in its eyes, until finally, what was reflected in its gaze was a river with a raging current.

The Zhang River.

A lone fishing boat struggled desperately on the turbid waters of the Zhang.

Four or five older children stood on the boat, hauling in the fishing net.

The current was swift, waves constantly battering the battered boat, which groaned and rocked ever more violently.

Yet the children stood firm, shouting loudly at one another.

The Zhang River was a murky yellow-gray, making it impossible to see what lay beneath.

It was as if unspeakable shadows passed around the boat, splashes of water spraying onto the deck.

The children strained to pull up the net, their catch meager. They hurriedly dug through the mud, small fish flopping, slapping the planks, their dull gray eyes cold and lifeless.

Brian Bolton squatted in the middle, digging through the mud, grabbing a big fish.

He was about to say something with a smile, when suddenly, something caught his eye.

"Ah!!"

He flung the fish to the ground in terror, stumbling back two steps, his feet slipping, and fell toward the Zhang River behind him.

Everyone was startled by the sudden turn, frozen in shock.

A strong hand grabbed Brian Bolton by the neck. The hand was so large it could cover Brian's entire face, and it yanked him back up.

Once pulled up, Brian knelt on the deck, clutching his throat, gasping for air.

He looked up and saw his rescuer.

The man was young, not yet twenty.

He was tall, taking up the space of three or four people, his short jacket bulging, muscular and powerful. In his left hand he held a fishing spear, his chiseled face dark and rough. The boat rocked beneath him, but he stood steady as a mountain, unmoving.

At that moment, he looked down at Brian Bolton.

"What happened?"

"Brother Taozi... the fish... that fish..."

Brian Bolton pointed at the net, trembling.

Grace Foster glanced at the net and spoke, "Head to shore."

The children obeyed at once, grabbing the oars and paddling desperately for the bank, but the Zhang River clung to them, unwilling to let them go.

They rowed for a long time, flustered and frantic, until at last the boat reached the shore.

Once the boat was secured, the group quickly disembarked.

Grace Foster alone dragged out the net and flung it hard onto the ground.

Brian Bolton stood aside cautiously, pointing out the big fish. Grace Foster picked it up and examined it closely.

He yanked something from the fish’s mouth.

A severed, curved finger.

Grace Foster set the finger aside and continued searching through the mud.

Soon, the spoils piled up.

Fingers, ears, and even a half-eaten human head. The head was small, only slightly larger than Grace Foster's fist.

"Ugh—"

The boys around could hold back no longer, bending over and vomiting.

No one knew how long Grace Foster searched. At last, he stood up and looked to his left, at the pile of human remains.