Chapter 22: Child

To be honest.

With time this tight, it’s not entirely fair to blame Shi Ji.

Wu Xian could clearly feel that daytime had become shorter than before.

As their survival time extended, the difficulty of the Blessing Ground kept rising; soon, they would face a situation where they had no choice but to confront evil spirits head-on.

“Want some? Replenish your strength.” Shi Ji handed Wu Xian a strip of dried large intestine.

Wu Xian rolled his eyes.

Whether from tension or actual heat, Wu Xian and Shi Ji began to feel exhausted.

Wu Xian’s mind raced furiously, and soon his gaze locked onto one thing.

That damn Shi Ji had gotten lucky—Wu Xian had given him his only chance to worship a deity today, just to keep him from dragging them down tonight, and he’d actually gotten something good.

The coin sword was stuck at his waist, but Wu Xian felt no heat from it, meaning the coin sword couldn’t break the current crisis.

“There must be something—look, think faster!”

Wu Xian suddenly started running a thick, yellow mucus like severe cold, leaving him dizzy and foggy; he went through wad after wad of tissue. Perhaps because of the runny nose, his breathing grew labored, as if dirty mucus had glued itself to his lungs…

Wu Xian felt he’d been infected by Shi Ji—otherwise why would he suddenly need to piss and shit so often? Three urgent needs aren’t easily ignored, so the two had to take turns fighting over the toilet.

His body’s abnormalities pushed Wu Xian to the brink of madness.

Wu Xian slapped himself hard—he realized now wasn’t the time to analyze causes; escaping the crisis was paramount, or soon, perhaps in the next instant, he’d sink back into it.

“Ah, ah, I can’t take it!”

Time crept forward.

This waiting eroded the soul.

“I’d rather die than live like this.”

The clock’s hands moved slowly; a night without internet was unbearable.

Every hair on his body stood on end, as if electricity surged through him; his heart felt gripped by a cold hand, and cold sweat poured down.

But the worst pain was in his lower back—the coin sword had seared his flesh.

Bad breath.

Shi Ji’s toothbrush was half-bald, his mouth full of blood foam and broken bristles; his gums were completely shredded, some tooth roots exposed—each time he jabbed inward, he scraped out chunks of bloody tissue.

“No, no—first, save your life!”

That knife—that was the breakthrough, the only path to survival!

Wu Xian threw himself with all his strength toward the Child’s Urine Peacekeeper, his movements sluggish, as if he’d smashed through several invisible spiderweb-like barriers—but he finally touched it before his consciousness faded.

The instant he touched the great sword.

We’ve been struck!

Both he and Shi Ji had unknowingly been struck!

Forget the danger—these runny noses were the top priority.

Wu Xian felt searing pain, as if his entire body had come apart; his skin, mouth, nasal passages, abdomen, lungs—all burned with agony.

With this divine blade, even Shi Ji could wield formidable combat power.

“How’s it going? Clean yet?”

Child’s Urine Peacekeeper!

Wu Xian remembered: after dark, Shi Ji had first held a long knife, then set it aside briefly to drink water—and never picked it up again.

“What’s there? What can break this deadlock?”

His mouth reeked—though he’d brushed his teeth just hours ago, it now smelled like a rotten egg left for forty-nine days in a warm, damp place.

Shi Ji clapped Wu Xian enthusiastically: “Small world, you’re brushing too? Check my toothbrush—does it look clean? I keep thinking my teeth look yellow.”

Yet even then, he pulled up his lips to show Wu Xian his mouth, crimson with blood.

He needed to brush his teeth.

As he thought, Wu Xian felt unbearable nasal congestion—as if a massive clot of mucus was about to burst free; he wanted to jam the coin sword into his nostrils just to breathe.

Wu Xian drew the coin sword and scanned the surroundings.

They kept sweating profusely; their skin looked greasy and filthy, as if they hadn’t bathed for days. They had to drink vast amounts of water to replenish fluids and constantly wipe themselves clean.

That wasn’t all.

Wu Xian froze, then nearly vomited.

…

He might brush himself to death—or, to stop sweating, rip his own skin off!

Shi Ji was useless now.

Wu Xian snapped, turning impatiently—his pupils dilated instantly.

But when had this started? What evil spirit was deceiving him?

Was it a dream?

Was it an illusion?

After a brief rest, they sat back-to-back on the floor. With daytime shortened, they felt no drowsiness at all; knowing tonight was critical, they resolved to stay awake through it.

Outside was eerily quiet—somehow, no sounds came from beyond the door; Yin Hua didn’t knock, and the child spirits didn’t attack.

“Tell me now—if it’s not clean, I’m brushing again!”

He’d just muttered that.

It had tried its best to warn him, but Wu Xian’s senses were blocked—he hadn’t even felt the piercing pain.

“It stinks!”

Wu Xian rushed into the bathroom, found his toothbrush, squeezed half the tube of paste, and brushed again and again—until the bristles curled and frayed, his mouth’s delicate skin tore, and blood stained the foam.

Suddenly, Wu Xian brushed too hard, his arm bumping Shi Ji.

He’d even forgotten the danger lurking tonight—he had to cleanse himself, become clean again.

“Don’t interfere with my brushing!”

Gurgling, gurgling.

He worshipped the deity named “Water Official Guangde Dragon King,” and received a great sword—this sword’s name was “Child’s Urine Peacekeeper!”

Originally a foreign blade capable of slaying great demons, it had been lost in the urinal of a primary school boys’ restroom, soaked day and night in child’s urine, transforming in mysterious ways.

His mouth remained in that state, still not conscious—meaning pain had no effect on this anomaly; there was no point in self-harm.

One abnormality after another made Wu Xian furious—he was young, why had he suddenly turned into an old man?

Shi Ji’s grotesque appearance made Wu Xian’s mind jolt.

Not long after, their stomachs rebelled too.

Wu Xian’s blood ran cold.

Inside Room 402, the walls were coated in reddish-brown filth, like a flesh-and-blood hell.

The floor, walls, and ceiling were covered in yellow-white skin, each with huge, chaotic mouths and nostrils that pulsed and opened endlessly; all furniture was stitched together from what looked like human lungs; intestines of varying thickness hung like spiderwebs around the room; the air reeked of suffocating stench…

(End of Chapter)