nagpurpolice Chapter 30: Dawn in Blackrock Town
Chapter 30: Dawn in Blackrock Town
When that green light exploded over Blackstone Town, the eastern horizon had just begun to lighten with a bluish-green hue, like faded, grayish stones worn down by young women, yet carrying a chilling undertone. The wind still carried the dampness of the night, licking at people's faces, clinging to the scent of withered grass and cooking smoke, making even breathing feel heavy and sluggish.
Zhang Bo was squatting by the whetstone in the backyard of the blacksmith's shop, his rough hemp trousers stained with half a foot of mud, the knees worn smooth and shiny. He clutched a blackened rag in his hand, its weave studded with coal ash, his fingers blackened from rubbing it, yet he unconsciously and repeatedly wiped a newly forged wood-chopping knife. The blade was made of freshly forged refined iron, not yet sharpened, reflecting the gradually brightening daylight, a chilling sight, yet it couldn't reflect the surging bloodshot veins in his eyes—thick bloodshot veins like unyielding scabs, the mark of staying up all night.
He hadn't slept a wink all night, his ears constantly trembling like a rabbit's, so startled that even a stray dog sneezing outside the courtyard wall would make his hands shake. The wind from the direction of Canglang Mountain carried the stench of demonic wolves, the cries of the townspeople, and the memory of a displaced person's daughter being dragged away, her fingernails split from gripping the threshold. So when that dull thud, not loud but clear like a copper awl piercing wood, came, he jerked his head up, his cloudy old eyes instantly blazing with a light more intense than the fiercest fire in the stove.
A green glow floated above the dark rooftops, like will-o'-the-wisps rising from a grave, but a thousand times warmer—that warmth trickled down his eye sockets, burning his nose and making even the old skin on the back of his neck taut. "Done!" he roared, his throat as dry as if he'd swallowed a handful of ashes. He slammed his wood-chopping knife down on the millstone with such force that it shook, not sending a spark flying, but numbing his hands and fingers.
He abruptly stood up. He'd been squatting for too long; blood rushed to his head, and his vision blurred as if shrouded in thick smoke. But he didn't care. He stumbled and fell to the courtyard wall, his knee slamming into the blue bricks, the excruciating pain unbearable. A bronze gong leaned against the corner, rusted and browned, its edges frayed. The jujube wood mallet, however, was worn smooth and shiny—an old heirloom passed down from his father. His hands trembled as he gripped the gong, his knuckles white, causing the gong itself to quiver.
"Bang—!!!"
The first gong strike shattered the pre-dawn stillness. The deep, muffled sound, carrying the brute force characteristic of a blacksmith, crashed against the sky above Blackstone Town, causing the old dust from the eaves to fall and tickle his neck. The dogs at the east end of town barked wildly, their voices filled with panic, but were quickly drowned out by the second and third gong strikes—these were no longer muffled, but urgent, like the drumbeats of a firefighter, extremely penetrating, echoing between the eaves of the low houses, loud enough to be heard even in the dilapidated shacks of the refugee camp at the west end of town.
Uncle Zhang, bare-chested and with muscles taut like old tree roots beneath his bronze skin, his temple veins throbbing as if about to burst, roared as he pounded the gong with all his might. His voice, hoarse as if sanded, was louder than thunder: "Rise up—!!! The demon wolves of Canglang Mountain are finished—!!! Corporal Lin has succeeded—!!! Gather in the town center—!!! Those with grievances, plead your cases; those with grudges, seek revenge—!!!"
The sounds of gongs and shouts mingled together, like sparks thrown into boiling oil. The silent town froze for a moment, then rustling sounds came from behind countless wooden doors—the creaking of beds, the muffled groans of women covering their children's mouths, the tapping of old men's canes. Candlelight flickered behind paper windows, first tiny specks, timid as if afraid the wind would extinguish them, then gradually spreading out. Someone pushed open a crack in the door, peeking out half a face, eyes swollen, just awakened from a nightmare; someone huddled in a corner, clutching a child, hand to the child's mouth, teeth biting their own lip, the taste of blood spreading in their mouth; and yet another, their eyes gradually igniting with the same light as Uncle Zhang's—a spark worn almost extinguished by the days, hidden beneath the ashes, now finally illuminated by the wind.
In the refugee camp on the west side of town, the shacks were made of rotten straw and rags, crooked and swaying in the wind, as if they might collapse at any moment. Shi Hu, with his one arm, stood at the entrance of the largest shack, like a flag that hadn't fallen. He wore a thin shirt that exposed his elbows, the sleeve of his severed arm tied with hemp rope, clinging to his body. His exposed arm was covered with old scars, and new wounds were still bleeding, covered with a layer of dark red scabs. Behind him, twenty-three men stood silently, their weapons varied: sharpened bamboo spears, the bamboo shavings cutting their hands painfully; gleaming machetes, their blades gleaming coldly; and several rusty waist knives, taken from the warehouse of the Demon Suppression Bureau, their scabbards rotten, yet they were gripped tightly.
Most of them were emaciated, with prominent cheekbones and sunken eyes, but now their eyes no longer held the numbness of the past—that numbness, like a layer of ash, had covered them for three years, but now that green light had burned it away completely, leaving only icy hatred and a desperate, resolute determination. They had all seen the green light; Lin Yan and Su Qingyao had said it was a signal, that the appointed time had arrived.
Shi Hu's gaze fell into the depths of the shack, where a trembling figure huddled in the tattered cotton quilt—Wang Po. When this old woman was "invited" here last night, she had tried to throw a tantrum, but Shi Hu had tapped her knee with the back of his knife, and she had gone limp. Now she was curled up like a frightened old mouse, muttering over and over, "It's not my fault," "It was all Master Chen's fault," her cloudy old eyes swollen, tears and snot streaming down her face, which was covered in grime and looked as dirty as a rag.
Shi Hu stepped forward, his only remaining right hand reaching out to grab Wang Po's collar like an iron clamp, lifting her from the cotton quilt. Wang Po's bones were as light as firewood; as he lifted her, her feet dangled in the air, and she screamed and kicked wildly, her nails scratching Shi Hu's arm, but not even breaking the skin. "Shut up," Shi Hu's voice wasn't loud, but it was like a frozen stone hitting the ground. "If you shout again, I'll send you down to meet the people you've killed."
Wang Po's scream caught in her throat, turning into a terrified sob, saliva dripping from the corner of her mouth. Shi Hu stared at her, his eyes cold as knives: "Speak, besides sacrificing three people every month, what else have Chen Fuhai and Zhao Mang done? How much benefit did that Liu, the head constable of Qingzhou Prefecture, take? How much of the demon-suppressing grain did they resell? Tell me clearly, and I'll give you a quick death. If you conceal even one word..." His empty sleeves fluttered in the wind, as if pointing to the mass grave behind him, "The mass grave behind the refugee camp doesn't need you."
The musty smell in the shack, mixed with the rancid odor on Wang Po's body and a faint, lingering stench of blood, completely overwhelmed the old woman. She broke down, tears streaming down her face, her confession spilling from her mouth like filthy water. It wasn't just about sacrifices and embezzlement; there was something even more ruthless—how she selected "disobedient" townspeople for the sacrificial offerings, like Zhang Shouli, who had cursed Master Chen three years prior; how she colluded with merchant caravans to replace the imperial government's demon-suppressing grain with moldy rice, splitting the price difference 30/70 with Zhao Mang, taking 30% for herself, which she used to help her son get married; how Zhao Mang extorted money under the guise of demon-suppression, burning down Li Shoucai's oil press when he refused to pay, driving him to suicide; how Liu, the head constable, came every three months to collect "tribute"—blood crystals and fifty taels of silver, all squeezed from the townspeople…
Beside him stood a literate young man named Zhou Wen, originally a scholar from Qingzhou Prefecture who had fled famine. His hands trembled as he used charcoal to write down Wang Po's words, one by one, on a torn piece of cloth. The cloth was coarse linen, painful to the touch, and the charcoal was soft, breaking with every stroke, yet he dared not stop. With each sentence he wrote, his face paled further, his hand holding the charcoal trembled even more violently, but the fire in his eyes burned ever brighter—his younger sister had been sacrificed as a "virgin" last year, and Wang Po had even come to comfort his mother, saying, "It's a blessing; it will protect the town."
When Granny Wang recounted how, three years ago she witnessed Chen Fuhai and Zhao Mang capture a young couple trying to escape, beat the man to death, and sacrificed the woman and her infant to the demon wolf to be refined into blood crystals, the shack was so quiet you could hear breathing. Only heavy panting and the grinding of teeth could be heard—it was Zhou Wen, his teeth clenched so hard that blood seeped from the corner of his mouth.
Shi Hu closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again, his eyes bloodshot and seemingly about to bleed. He released his grip, and Wang Po lay sprawled on the ground like a rag doll, still muttering pleas for mercy. "Take her, and her confession," Shi Hu's voice was hoarse beyond recognition, as if it had been rubbed through by sandpaper. "To the town center."
***
Under the old locust tree in the town center, more and more people gradually gathered. The old locust tree was over a hundred years old, its branches gnarled and twisted like an old man's hands, shading most of the sky. At first, it was three or five bold ones who came following Uncle Zhang's gong, such as Butcher Li, who carried a pig-slaughtering knife with a piece of lard still hanging on it; then came a dozen or so, dozens... like streams converging into a river, finally gathering into a dark mass, silent yet exuding a surging energy.
Most of them were dressed in tattered clothes, patches upon patches upon patches. The men's hands were rough like tree bark, clenched tightly, knuckles white. Women held children, the children's faces thin and sallow, their large eyes staring at their surroundings. The old man leaned on a cane, his body trembling, yet he stood very straight. Everyone looked up at the makeshift stone platform under the locust tree—made of stones discarded by the Demon Suppression Bureau, uneven and like a judgment seat. In their eyes were fear, panic, and a glimmer of hope they themselves didn't even realize, like a star in the dark night.
Uncle Zhang stood on the stone platform, no longer striking the gong, his hands behind his back, like a black iron tower. Sweat streamed down his bare arms, dripping onto the stone and splattering a speck of dust. Butcher Li stood to the left of the platform, his butcher knife cleaver hot from his grip; Widow Liu stood to the right, her husband the sacrificed last year, now clutching a fire poker, her eyes fierce as if she wanted to devour him. Both their gazes were fixed on the edge of the crowd—where stood several soldiers from the Demon Suppression Bureau, Zhao Mang's men, dressed more neatly than the others, yet their eyes darted around, their feet shifting, trying to slip away, but their path was intentionally or unintentionally blocked by the surrounding townspeople. Those who had been walking with their heads down now looked up, staring at them like prey.
The atmosphere was oppressive, heavy like leaden clouds before a storm, even the wind seemed to have stopped. Just then, a commotion arose from the outer edge of the crowd, someone shouting "Make way! Make way!" the voice was forceful. Shi Hu, with his men, brought over Wang Po—she was practically dragged along the ground, her trousers torn, her exposed ankles covered in blood. They parted the crowd and walked to the foot of the stone platform, where Shi Hu handed Zhang Bo the confession written on the tattered cloth.
Uncle Zhang took the cloth. The words on it were crooked and uneven, yet every stroke was glaring. He scanned it, the veins on the back of his hand throbbing, and his face, dark red from a lifetime of exposure to the furnace fire, instantly turned purplish-red, like red-hot iron. He took a deep breath, his chest heaving, as if he wanted to say something, but in the end he just clenched the cloth tightly in his hand, his knuckles turning white, and his gaze fell on the town entrance—the morning light was growing brighter, illuminating the long street in a white glow, as if covered with a layer of frost.
Two figures walked along the long street, their steps treading on the layer of white frost. Leading the way was Lin Yan, his blue robe stained with blood, a large, dried, dark red patch on his left lapel, stiff as an iron plate; a scratch on his cheek, oozing blood, couldn't dim the light in his eyes, which shone brightly. Beside him, Su Qingyao, equally travel-worn, her hair disheveled and clinging to her sweat-dampened forehead, stood ramrod straight, like an unyielding bamboo. She clutched a bulging cloth bundle, bound tightly with hemp rope.
The crowd parted automatically, like the receding tide revealing the bluestone slab in the middle. All eyes were on them, filled with surprise, expectation, and fear, like countless threads binding the two. Lin Yan walked to the foot of the stone platform, stopped, and slowly scanned the crowd. He saw the bloodshot in Uncle Zhang's eyes, the taut shoulder under Shi Hu's one arm, the tightly gripped knife of Butcher Li, the reddened eyes of Widow Liu, and countless other faces—Zhang Shouli's mother, her eyes swollen; Zhou Wen standing beside Shi Hu, blood still trickling from the corner of his mouth; and the little beggar who always picked up coal cinders at the blacksmith's shop, now standing in the crowd, clutching a stone… These faces, etched with the marks of suffering, were all looking up at him.
Lin Yan didn't speak, only nodded to Su Qingyao. Su Qingyao stepped forward, placed the cloth bundle on the stone platform, and untied the hemp rope—the rope had made her palms red from the tightness, and when she untied it, it snapped with a painful "snap." She first took out a yellowed booklet, a copy of the sacrificial contract stolen from the town mayor's mansion; the pages were brittle and trembled slightly in the morning breeze. Uncle Zhang took it, cleared his throat, his voice still hoarse, but he spoke each word loudly, reciting the clause, "On the first day of each month, three people shall be sacrificed to feed the demon wolves of Canglang Mountain with the essence of living people, ensuring the peace of Black Stone Town," word by word.
A commotion arose in the crowd, like wind blowing through a wheat field, with low gasps and gasps rising and falling. A woman covered her mouth, tears streaming down her face—her husband had died on the first day of the month, when Master Chen had said he had "voluntarily offered himself as a sacrifice."
Su Qingyao took out several ledgers, brought back from the wolf's den. The covers were made of cowhide, already worn through. Neatly written in calligraphy, they recorded the names and ages of those who offered sacrifices, as well as the production of blood crystals. Uncle Zhang turned to the page from last July and read aloud: "July 1st, Sacrifices: Zhang Junshan (male, 38 years old), Li Cuier (female, 14 years old), Wang Xiaobao (male, 5 years old), three blood crystals produced." Suddenly, a wailing sound came from below the stage. It was Zhang Junshan's wife. She threw herself to the ground, pounding the bluestone slab and crying, "My husband! My husband was kidnapped by them! They say he was carried off by demon wolves!"
The cries were like needles, piercing the crowd's restraint. Some joined in the weeping, others began to curse, the sounds growing louder and louder. Su Qingyao didn't stop; she took out more blood crystals—dark red, like congealed blood, gleaming eerily in the morning light, as if blood were flowing within them. She held them, her hands trembling slightly; each of these stones was steeped in human life. She said nothing, simply holding them up for everyone to see.
Finally, there was the recording stone. Lin Yan stretched out his hand, his fingertips glowing with a faint blue light, and infused it with a wisp of true energy. The recording stone instantly lit up, emitting a soft white light, projecting a clear image in mid-air—it was the town mayor's study, where Chen Fuhai sat in a grand chair, wearing a brocade robe, holding a teacup, with his advisor standing opposite him. Chen Fuhai's voice, usually arrogant, now carried a hint of malice: "That Lin Yan, always keeping an eye on the sacrifice. Whether it's him or not, he can't be allowed to live. Tomorrow night, take him with you in the sacrifice. Say the Demon Suppression Division sent him to investigate the demons, let him die in the wolf's den, his body never to be found."
In the scene, Chen Fuhai took a sip of tea, his tone nonchalant: "What does it matter if a few people die in the refugee camp due to the plague? What's the value of the lives in Blackstone Town? Once I've saved up enough blood crystals, I'll go to Qingzhou Prefecture and become a lord. It would be better if all the people here died." He smiled, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes crinkling together like cracks on old tree bark. "Tell Commander Liu to give him 30% more blood crystals next month. As long as he's willing to protect me, he'll have a share of mountains of gold and silver."
The scene and the sounds were like a knife, peeling away Chen Fuhai's usual sanctimonious facade to reveal his black heart. Before the light from the photographic stone had even faded, Shi Hu pushed Wang Po to the front of the stage. Uncle Zhang took the confession and began to read it again. When he read, "Wang Xiaobao's mother was beaten to death by Zhao Mang and thrown into a mass grave," the cries and curses from below the stage were uncontrollable, like a flash flood.
Suddenly, the entire place fell silent—a deathly silence, even the cries stopped, only the rustling of locust leaves in the wind could be heard. This silence lasted only a moment, then was shattered by a scream. "You beasts—!!!" An elderly woman with gray hair rushed to the foot of the stone platform. It was Wang Xiaobao's grandmother. Her withered finger pointed at the light emanating from the photographic stone, her voice trembling uncontrollably, "My grandson… my grandson is only five years old! They said he had a sudden illness… so… so it was you heartless bastards who refined him into a stone!!!"
That shout was like igniting a powder keg. "My man! My man was sacrificed last March! They say he disobeyed orders!" "My daughter! My fourteen-year-old daughter! They say she's unclean! Actually, Zhao Mang took a fancy to her, and she refused!" "Moldy grain! My son died from diarrhea after eating moldy grain!" "That bastard Zhao Mang stole my money and burned down my house!" Cries, curses, and accusations mingled together, like a thunderclap, shaking the leaves off the old locust tree.
Three years of pent-up fear, three years of numbness, three years of swallowing one's anger—all erupted at this moment. People's eyes turned red, like bloodshot rabbits; their fists clenched so tightly that their nails dug into their flesh, drawing blood without them even noticing. A man rushed forward and kicked the soldier trying to escape, cursing, "You still want to run? Inform Zhao Mang?" The surrounding people immediately swarmed him, fists raining down on the soldier, whose screams quickly fell silent.
Standing on the stone platform, Uncle Zhang looked at the boiling crowd below, at the faces contorted with rage, at the light in their eyes—a light that was alive, a light never before seen. This old man, a blacksmith his whole life, a man accustomed to life and death, suddenly felt tears welling in his eyes. Tears streamed down his wrinkles, dripping onto his bare arm, cool and refreshing. He abruptly raised his arm and roared with all his might, "Fellow villagers! The evidence is here! Chen Fuhai and Zhao Mang colluded with demons, harmed our people, and embezzled our grain. They deserve to die! They don't treat us like human beings, how can we stand idly by? How can we let them harm us?!"
"No—!!!" A deafening roar erupted from the crowd, like a mountain collapsing, shaking the ground. "Charge to the town mayor's mansion! Capture Chen Fuhai!" "Go to the Demon Suppression Division! Kill Zhao Mang!" "Avenge our loved ones!" "Avenge! Avenge!" The shouts rose in waves, even shaking the clouds in the sky, letting in sunlight that shone brightly on people's faces, on the tears and blood.
Lin Yan stood by the stone platform, watching everything before him. The morning light had fully risen above the horizon, golden and radiant, illuminating the new leaves of the old locust tree, the bloodstains on the bluestone slabs, and every face. He saw Uncle Zhang raising his fist and shouting, saw Shi Hu brandishing his knife with one arm, saw Zhou Wen carrying a rag and following the crowd, and saw countless people rushing towards the town mayor's mansion like a surging river.
He knew this was just the beginning. Chen Fuhai and Zhao Mang wouldn't surrender easily; they still had people in the Demon Suppression Division, and Liu, the head constable of Qingzhou Prefecture, was an even bigger problem. But he remained calm. The Soul Devouring True Essence within him surged, like a warm and powerful fire burning within him. He slowly clenched his fist, his knuckles turning white—the moment of reckoning had arrived.
The dawn in Blackrock Town was no longer gray and white, but a golden-red hue stained with blood and fire, like the light of day breaking, dispelling all the darkness.