Chapter 15: Endless Flow

The villagers, who had locked themselves inside all night, finally came out to check the almanac—does that mean the Snake God is no longer causing illness? Feng Yu asked, listening to the noisy footsteps beneath the roof.

Maybe, Ning Zhe replied without elaboration.

Perhaps because today was taboo for offerings, the villagers who came to the ancestral hall didn’t light incense for the Snake God after checking the almanac, let alone place fruits, vegetables, or meals on the lotus platform as they usually did.

But strangely, though the throng of people who had gathered at the ancestral hall didn’t make offerings, they also didn’t leave.

They simply stood motionless in place.

What’s going on? Feng Yu cautiously pulled out her phone and glanced at the lock screen.

The time was 05:51 in the morning; the sun had just risen above the horizon, and the surroundings were still dim, overcast.

Ning Zhe’s gaze swept across the surroundings—the labyrinth of narrow alleys and broad streets around the ancestral hall were packed with people; every path, whether incoming or outgoing, was filled with shadowy figures, standing motionless beneath the gloomy sky.

Behind every open door along the streets, strange figures veiled in yellow paper shuffled forward slowly.

Their bodies were tangible yet blurred; their steps were perfectly synchronized, like clockwork.

He Shunsheng, He Youlin, He… the names written on the yellow paper covering their faces differed—each was clearly a distinct person—yet all stepped forward at the exact same moment, placing the same foot onto the damp stone pavement.

This grand yet eerie spectacle made Feng Yu extremely tense; her hands instinctively gripped the red cloth draped over her legs so tightly her knuckles turned white, and her face grew pale.

But when she turned to look, Ning Zhe’s expression remained unchanged.

His demeanor was unnervingly calm, his hollow eyes like stagnant water, utterly still—as if a profoundly bored man lounged lazily on the grass, looking down from above at a swarm of busy ants.

Seeing Ning Zhe’s indifference, Feng Yu’s earlier panic gradually subsided.

N-Ning Zhe, what are they doing? Feng Yu whispered softly.

Ning Zhe shrugged: I suppose it’s some kind of ritual, or maybe a wedding or a funeral.

A ritual? Feng Yu froze: But isn’t today taboo for offerings?

That’s why I said it’s just a guess.

Ning Zhe murmured: In a village like this, there are few occasions that draw everyone together—either festivals and celebrations, collective worship of deities, or weddings and funerals.

And now they’ve gathered at the ancestral hall—there’s a strong chance they’re holding a collective ritual.

But if it is a ritual, something is odd.

Why would these people risk breaking the taboo to offer to the Snake God today? This question began to linger in Ning Zhe’s mind.

As he pondered, two children holding hands suddenly emerged from a corner of the street and rushed clumsily into the crowd.

Ning Zhe’s sharp gaze fixed on them—the two children, one boy and one girl, wore dried yellow paper over their faces like the other villagers, each bearing a different name.

The boy’s paper read: He Jingyan. The girl’s read: He Yiyi. Their arrival seemed to trigger a switch—when He Jingyan and He Yiyi vanished into the crowd, the silent villagers gathered inside and outside the ancestral hall knelt down.

Rows of figures fell in unison, like rice stalks flattened by a typhoon; their foreheads slammed against the ground inside the hall and into the muddy puddles of the wet street, the yellow papers bearing names soaked through with dirt.

They knelt toward the interior of the ancestral hall; now that their faces were lowered, the lower halves of their features were visible. If one leaned close, one could see their mouths moving in succession—a faint, murmuring whisper rose from the crowd: [Liangshan wangtu, bu po bu dong.]

[Jiu ren xin jiu, wei zang wei yi.]

[Bai bi wu xia, yue yuan you que.]

The murmurs, thick as mud and fine as rain, continued without end, carrying an indescribable religious weight, making the words sound hazy and indistinct.

The villagers spoke the ritual phrases so softly, so faintly, barely louder than their own breath—almost incoherent, as if muttering to themselves.

Ning Zhe strained to focus, trying to discern the exact words; the fragmented phrases gradually sharpened in his ears:

[Youyou yaoye, jiji wu zong…]

[Yingying si shui, huanghuang ruo yang…]

[...Zhaozhao xi, qinghua lielie huang tian guang…]

[...Miaomiao xi, yan yun mangmang yi you long…]

Ning Zhe’s brow slowly relaxed; the confusion and wariness he’d felt earlier gradually dissolved into calm.

These obscure yet clear phrases didn’t seem to enter through his ears—they arose directly within his mind. The strange syllables evoked an indescribable sensation.

Vast, grand, profound, boundless, minute… Ning Zhe could think of too many words to describe the feeling echoing within his soul and mind, yet none captured it fully.

It was as if, once spoken by the villagers, these obscure words ceased to be mere phrases—instead, a higher, transcendent presence was responding to their prayers.

Thick, viscous time flowed slowly with each whispered incantation; it was now 06:30 in the morning.

Ning Zhe saw that the villagers, who had been kneeling and murmuring without pause, finally moved again—the dozens kneeling at the ancestral hall’s entrance rose to their feet, clearing a space before them.

Two sturdy young men emerged from within the hall, jointly carrying a long wooden table to the cleared space at the entrance. Had it not been for their stiff, puppet-like movements, the scene might have seemed solemnly sacred, fitting for a religious rite.

Is this…? Feng Yu instinctively pulled the red tablecloth tighter around herself. She realized—the table the villagers had carried out was the very same altar table Ning Zhe had used to conceal Lin Zhiyuan’s body.

The cloth now covered her, yet the table itself had been brought out—did that mean the villagers had discovered Lin Zhiyuan’s corpse? Don’t panic, just watch quietly, Ning Zhe said, raising a finger to her lips, which had parted in alarm.

Below the roof, several villagers stepped forward and placed three sheets of white paper on the table—two long, one short.

Then, an elderly man with a bald scalp and streaks of white hair approached the table; others immediately handed him brush and ink.

The old man picked up the brush and wrote in blood-red characters upon the stark white paper:

Upper couplet: [Ba She an shang zhu yu tong zheng zu]

Lower couplet: [Hehua tang qian zisun gong tian xiang]

Horizontal banner: [Yuan yuan liu chang]