Chapter 8: 7, Little Kid, Stomachache

7, Little Kid, Stomachache

Zhou Sanji looked at Zhou Chang with affection, unfastening a string of keys from his waist and handing them to Zhou Chang. “These are the keys to our room—you know where we live, right?”

After you leave here, walk west.

The place we live is called ‘Qingyi Village.’ Once you get there, ask any villager where Lao Duan lives—they’ll point you the way…

The old man gave Zhou Chang meticulous instructions, as if delivering his final testament.

He heard the barking grow closer, his expression suddenly sharpening as he fixed his gaze on Zhou Chang: “You can move now—Grandpa can leave in peace—”

“Where to?” Zhou Chang frowned, guessing Zhou Sanji’s intention.

The man had still been swayed by Sun Yanshun, preparing to sacrifice himself to summon a deity to help Zhou Chang pass through.

Zhou Chang lowered his eyelids, speaking in a hushed tone: “I told you—I have a way. Maybe I can help us escape Li Xiamei’s pursuit.”

“What way could you possibly have?” Zhou Sanji spoke faster. “Don’t you understand? As long as we’re breathing, as long as we can move, Li Xiamei will smell us, hear us, and chase us down!”

Only by borrowing the power of a deity can we mask our movements, disperse our scent! Only then can you escape!”

Zhou Chang froze at the words.

He had heard similar words from Sun Yanshun before, but hadn’t paid attention then.

He recalled how Sun Yanshun’s thin disciple had panicked and wet himself halfway—after Zhong Kui ceased shielding them, the thin man’s urine-soaked pants emitted the strongest odor, and when Li Xiamei appeared, she killed him first!

Zhou Chang fell silent for a moment, then raised his eyes to Zhou Sanji, his gaze utterly black: “It doesn’t matter. My way is to kill Li Xiamei—once she’s dead, she won’t be able to smell living flesh or hear our footsteps anymore.”

Zhou Sanji stared at his young grandson, barely three steps away, mouth slightly open.

Looking at the boy before him, he could not reconcile him with the grandson he remembered.

This ‘Zhou Chang’ felt alien to him.

That sense of alienation had already stirred in Zhou Sanji’s heart before, but he had managed to rationalize and conceal it—until his argument with Sun Yanshun just now, when every detail he had ignored and suppressed suddenly became glaringly clear—he could no longer hide anything.

“You—” Zhou Sanji’s lips trembled, his low voice suddenly rising in intensity, “Why won’t you listen?

I told you—you can’t kill a Xiang Mo!

It’s a ‘Xiang Mo,’ a ghost born of thought! Don’t think you can slash it with a knife in the real world—you can’t even scratch it!”

Zhou Chang’s expression remained unchanged.

He knew well that the knife in his hand alone could not kill a Xiang Mo.

His true reliance was the garment covering his entire body.

The Xiang Mo was born from thought, yet its power could act upon reality. This transparent silk garment existed only in Zhou Chang’s mind, yet it too could act upon reality.

Real-world objects cannot harm a thought-born ‘Xiang Mo.’ Perhaps this thought-born garment can.

“What chance do you have of summoning a deity?”

“And what chance do you have of ensuring the deity will help us?” Zhou Chang stared into Zhou Sanji’s eyes and asked.

Zhou Sanji lowered his eyelids, clearly hesitating.

He did not answer Zhou Chang’s question, but countered: “And what chance do you have with your method?”

“Zero percent,” Zhou Chang answered frankly. “You have zero chance with yours too—both are desperate gambles. Then try mine first.”

He said no more to Zhou Sanji, suddenly lifting his foot and kicking Sun Yanshun, who had been straining to eavesdrop.

Zhou Chang’s broadsword swept across Sun Yanshun’s shoulder—blood gushed instantly!

The sudden turn took Sun Yanshun off guard—he screamed several times, struggling to escape, but Zhou Chang’s foot pressed firmly on his chest, pinning him down!

He stared at Zhou Chang’s pale face, terror gripping him like facing a primal enemy. “Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me!”

Zhou Chang’s eyes were cold. He knelt on Sun Yanshun’s chest, dropped the broadsword, seized Sun Yanshun’s flailing arms, flipped him over, and bound his wrists and ankles with rope.

He performed these actions clumsily.

But his strength was immense—his hands like iron clamps—and in moments, he had bound Sun Yanshun as tightly as a mountain goat.

Sun Yanshun writhed like a fish out of water, blood soaking half his shoulder.

The thick stench of blood filled the air, sharp and nauseating.

The thin man had been the first killed because he had wet himself; now Sun Yanshun, half his body drenched in blood, was most likely to be the first target Li Xiamei locked onto.

Zhou Chang picked up the broadsword and hid behind a tree a few steps away with Zhou Sanji.

The barking echoing around them suddenly fell silent.

A mist rolled over the wild woods, within which shadowy figures loomed.

Those slender figures dragged long strands of hair, swaying unsteadily in the mist.

The drifting figures sang in thin, soft voices: “Little kid, stomachache, find Old Feng.

Old Feng’s not home, find his three women.

Find Li Xiamei, grab the peach inside the belly, twist, pull, yank—

When the peach falls, little kid, belly’s all better…”

Like a mother humming a lullaby, the song drifted softly through the woods.

The gauzy mist followed the song, drifting over Sun Yanshun’s body.

The mist obscured Sun Yanshun’s form—Zhou Chang could only see blurred shadows on the other side.

The song, once clear beside Zhou Chang and Zhou Sanji, now grew even softer, its breath barely audible, almost gone.

Zhou Sanji’s expression gradually calmed with the song.

Even Zhou Chang’s mind grew still.

His face was blank, still gripping the broadsword, as he manipulated fine, translucent white threads, winding them layer upon layer around the blade.

These threads did not make the broadsword clumsy or heavy—each strand stretched taut, densely covering the blade, lending it an aura of razor-sharpness, capable of slicing through hair and cutting iron.

It seemed capable of severing anything—this was the result of Zhou Chang’s will, channeled through the threads, imprinted upon the blade.

“Little kid, stomachache, find Old Feng…”

The song drifted slowly.

A woman in black satin robe, long hair trailing, stood silently behind Zhou Chang and Zhou Sanji.

She raised her sharp knife.

Zhou Chang, as if expecting it, turned around at once.

With him turned the broadsword, wrapped in translucent threads—it spun half a circle through the air, slicing across Li Xiamei’s neck faster than her own knife could fall!

Shhh!

A head rolled to the ground!

Li Xiamei stood motionless, knife still raised, her neck cut cleanly and smoothly.

The surrounding song abruptly ceased; the mist slowly dissipated.

Li Xiamei had been beheaded by Zhou Chang’s single stroke.

And Zhou Chang’s head exploded in sudden pain!

That strike had drained every ounce of his strength—his entire spirit focused into that one blow.

The cost was equally brutal.

It felt as if an iron spike was being hammered repeatedly into his brain—the translucent white threads wrapped around his broadsword had turned to ash, blown away by the wind without a trace.

The threads that had once fully covered his body now covered only half.

His body trembled uncontrollably; his vision swam and blurred.

Yet the cost had been worth it—

Li Xiamei’s headless body stood frozen, dead.

The dark sky slowly brightened; the black winds swirling through the woods gradually stilled.

Zhou Sanji, belatedly turning, saw the headless body mere feet away—his pupils contracted, and he leapt backward in shock!

“Dead! Li Xiamei’s dead!” Zhou Chang’s expression eased slightly as he called out.

Zhou Sanji now noticed Li Xiamei’s severed neck—he looked from Zhou Chang’s broadsword to the smooth cut on her neck, eyes filled with disbelief: “Dead?

A Xiang Mo… just like that?”

“This isn’t right…

Come on, come on! Things look better now—let’s go, quick!” Zhou Sanji grabbed Zhou Chang’s arm, pulling him to run.

Zhou Chang swayed his head, following Zhou Sanji past Sun Yanshun’s body.

Sun Yanshun lay face-down, motionless.

Blood pooled beneath him—he had become a corpse, when Zhou Chang did not know.

Zhou Chang turned back to look—Li Xiamei’s headless body stood still in the woods.

The black satin robe could not conceal her swollen belly.

In that instant, Zhou Chang thought he saw Li Xiamei’s belly swell violently—he froze.

Zhou Sanji, pulling him forward, suddenly stopped.

Zhou Chang heard the old man’s mumbled whisper: “Little kid, stomachache…”

He shuddered, scalp prickling—he turned back to see Zhou Sanji facing him, face twisted in terror, lips tightly shut, yet sound poured from his eyes, nose, and ears.

The song began as Zhou Sanji’s own voice, then shifted into a soft, feminine tone: “Old Feng’s not home, find his three women…

Grab the peach inside the belly, twist, pull, yank—

When the peach falls, little kid, belly’s all better…”

As the song poured endlessly from Zhou Sanji’s eyes, ears, and nostrils, viscous, shimmering, illusory mist streamed out—carrying Zhou Sanji’s screams of fear, horror, and madness—all rushing toward Li Xiamei’s headless body in the black woods!

“Li Xiamei’s coming back to life!”

“It’s over! It’s over!”

I told you long ago that you can't kill a Thought Demon—you just wouldn't listen!

Let me summon the deity instead; I'll summon it, and you run fast!

Run! Run now, my little grandson—has he even stopped being my little grandson?

Li Xiamei’s abdomen swelled further, bursting all the buttons on her black satin jacket—as all the illusory, colorful qi poured through her navel and flooded into her belly!

The colorful qi surging from Zhou Sanji’s eyes, ears, mouth, and nose were Zhou Sanji’s chaotic thoughts!

All these noisy thoughts became food for the Thought Demon!