Chapter 63: The Banquet of Vengeance

After the chef had carefully prepared the dishes, he slowly wiped his hands clean and stood off to the side, quietly watching the diners sample his creations.

After committing the murder, the killer had slipped back into the crowd, sneaking back to the scene and touching the police tape strung in front.

Li Zhuiyuan didn’t know which of the two he resembled—perhaps neither.

He was still far from reaching the point where he could draw emotional value from others.

Yet faintly, deep within his heart, he felt a flicker of fire, weak but undeniably burning.

Just like the lightness and immersion he felt when painting the Dead Sinkers at home, right now, he was in high spirits.

He had inherited Li Lan’s illness—emotionally barren—but even deserts could grow cacti.

And even his own withered emotions could be stirred by the Dead Sinkers.

This discovery was hard to explain to outsiders. They wouldn’t understand. They’d think he was mad.

That was fine. Ah Li would understand.

Li Zhuiyuan decided that when he saw the girl again in Shan City, he’d share these feelings with her in detail, letting her partake in the joy of his slow recovery. This was their little secret.

At this moment, all the Dead Sinkers’ gazes were fixed on Li Zhuiyuan.

The boy knew—they could see him.

But he didn’t feel fear. The disappearance of the white frost under his and Runsheng’s feet earlier had already made their stance clear.

At least for now, they still retained some clarity. They knew who was helping them get revenge.

As for what they would become after that revenge was complete—whether they could still remain rational—even Li Zhuiyuan had little hope.

The ancestors of the Qi Clan had left behind countermeasures, but they could never have foreseen that beneath this village would one day lie so many violently deceased corpses.

Once he altered the feng shui layout here, blessings turned to curses. Coupled with this mass of Dead Sinkers, more unpredictable changes were bound to occur.

Traditional Dead Sinkers would dissipate once their revenge was fulfilled, but here, that process would become vastly more difficult.

Thankfully, he’d already had Runsheng destroy the exit. These Dead Sinkers wouldn’t be able to spill out and wreak havoc.

The only potential danger now was if, in the future, some seasoned practitioner came by, saw the idyllic mountains and waters, and decided to sit cross-legged and “walk the shade” for fun. Their end would be unspeakably tragic.

Even Li Zhuiyuan himself only dared to admire this feast of vengeance at this very moment.

After today, he wouldn’t dare walk the shade into this place again.

The Dead Sinkers hadn’t moved. The earlier “please come in” hadn’t persuaded them.

So Li Zhuiyuan urged again:

“Come on now. The food’s getting cold.”

The restaurant had opened. And it was buffet style.

At last, the Dead Sinkers accepted Li Zhuiyuan’s invitation and filed in one by one.

From inside came sharp screams of terror, mixed with a single gunshot.

Li Zhuiyuan straightened his clothes—a pointless gesture in the walking the shade state.

But just as Grandpa Shan taught Runsheng to peel sweet potatoes before eating—life needs a bit of ceremony.

He walked back to the ancestral hall, like stepping into a demon’s lair.

Li Zhuiyuan walked calmly, passing through it.

He had visited this ancestral hall many times, both in reality and in this spatial rift. Yet each return brought new feelings, like a scenic spot shifting through the four seasons.

Splatter…

A splash of red and white landed on his shoe.

Li Zhuiyuan stopped, instinctively bending down to wipe it, but then realized—it couldn’t actually dirty him.

He lifted his foot. The shoe was still clean.

He walked into the main hall and sat on a bench, facing the courtyard.

It wasn’t over. Not even close.

The flames of revenge needed to burn long to produce enough light to offer even a sliver of comfort to the victims.

If these blood-soaked executioners died too easily, that would be letting them off cheap.

Li Zhuiyuan rested his elbows on his knees, chin in hand, quietly watching.

Desperate wails, pitiful pleas, shattered screams—all these sounds intertwined in strange harmony, like a symphony conducted by a grandmaster.

The scene was chaotic, yet he didn’t want to speak, afraid to disrupt the performance on stage.

A smile curled at the corner of the boy’s lips.

Pity there were no “outsiders” here.

Otherwise, if someone stood at the ancestral hall’s door and looked in, they’d see—amid the gore and twisted terror—a boy sitting in the center, smiling. A composition of chilling beauty.

Time ticked by. There was no prelude, no buildup, no structured rise and fall. Just a high note from the start, ending abruptly.

Then, someone—or rather, half of someone—crawled to the boy.

It was the village chief.

Behind him stretched a long trail of blood, scattered with intestines and other organs.

By all logic, he should already be dead. Yet he was still “being alive,” hands strong enough to keep clawing at the ground. He still had the will to live.

Such targets of vengeance were often the most fun—too precious to let die in one blow. Better to chew them down piece by piece, like sugarcane, until every drop of juice was drawn.

Beside him, like walking a dog, Zhu Yang drove the village chief forward.

The chief had already crawled past, but Zhu Yang remained in place, looking at the boy.

Li Zhuiyuan, puzzled, pointed behind him. Zhu Yang didn’t move. Instead, he placed both hands on his belly and slowly peeled it open.

Like double doors, his chest cavity unfolded, and books spilled out.

Some were still relatively intact. Others were already pulp.

These cheaply printed bootleg books were poor quality. Once wet, the ink had stained Zhu Yang’s insides black, like they’d been smeared with stove ash.

Li Zhuiyuan stared, confused. But soon, he understood.

Wedged between Zhu Yang’s ribs was a book.

This book was astonishingly well preserved. Even soaked, it retained a luster and texture that felt familiar.

Li Zhuiyuan had books of the same material at home—Wei Zhengdao’s favorite… Buddha-skin paper.

Zhu Yang reached in, pulled the book free, the ribs jiggling with the effort.

He held the book out to the boy.

On the cover were the words: The Chronicle of the Qi Clan.

At first glance, the title resembled the famous historical Annals of Lü Buwei.

But Li Zhuiyuan knew: the Qi ancestors, whether their imperial tomb-crafting heritage or their later seclusion to study the spatial rift here—even a partial account of their history would be priceless.

But in this walking the shade state, he could touch things, not alter them.

He’d always disliked this bench’s placement. But it was immovable. And it was the only one still upright—everything else had fallen. So he had to make do.

Put simply, the boy couldn’t even perform the simple act of turning a page.

A bit of regret crept in. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so hasty in having Runsheng destroy the exit.

Then again, that regret was only emotional. His past self would never have risked unleashing the Dead Sinkers.

Zhu Yang didn’t chase the village chief anymore. Maybe his turn was done. The rest would be handled by other Dead Sinkers.

Everyone wanted revenge, but there were only so many perpetrators. They had to stretch the fun—like a long-legged centipede—so all could enjoy.

Zhu Yang sat in front of Li Zhuiyuan and placed the book on his lap.

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