nagpurpolice Chapter 6 The Refugees' Night Cries
Chapter 6 The Refugees' Night Cries
The patrol on North Street ended in a deathly, oppressive silence. Lin Yan led Wang Ergou and his five men, scouring every narrow alley three times—the rat holes at the base of the walls, the collapsed woodsheds, even the edge of the dry well—he bent down to examine the traces of moss on them. Apart from the section of the wall that was in terrible disrepair, they found no trace of demons. But that thorny feeling, like spider silk clinging to the back of his neck, just wouldn't go away.
"Sergeant, are we... are we on night duty again tonight?" Wang Ergou rubbed his hands, which were red from the cold, and asked in a low voice, as if afraid of disturbing something. According to the rules of the Demon Suppression Division, the night patrol was divided into two shifts: the dusk shift stayed until Hai Shi (9-11 PM), and the midnight shift stayed until dawn. But last night, they had been robbed by demons, and nearly half of the soldiers had been killed. The remaining soldiers were all distracted and their eyes were unfocused.
Lin Yan glanced at him. Wang Ergou's leather armor was still open, revealing a patched coarse cloth shirt underneath. The cloth was washed to a pale white, with a dark patch sewn on the shoulder, the stitches crooked and uneven. He didn't dare to look directly at Lin Yan, his eyes constantly darting to the ground, his toes unconsciously grinding a piece of broken tile.
"You all go back to your rooms and rest." Lin Yan's voice was flat and even. "I'll come alone for the midnight shift."
"That won't do!" Wang Ergou blurted out, but realized his mistake as soon as the words left his mouth. He quickly forced a smile, his lips curving upwards, but his eyes remained downcast. "Sergeant, you are a noble person. How can I let you take the risk alone? How about... how about I accompany you?" As he spoke, he took a half step back with his left foot, the sole of his boot scraping against the bluestone slab, making a soft rustling sound.
Lin Yan didn't reply, only staring at him silently. His gaze was like water from a deep well, cool and penetrating, making Wang Ergou feel uneasy. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing, and finally stammered, "Yes... I'll carry out the order."
He led the other four men away, his steps initially steady, but quickening as he rounded the corner, until they almost jogged and disappeared into the alley. The hem of his coarse cloth clothes fluttered with his movements, like a startled sparrow flapping its wings.
Lin Yan stood alone at the entrance to North Street. Dusk was pouring in from all directions, turning the roof tiles, stone steps, and crooked tree branches a dark blue. He wasn't trying to be a hero—solitude was the best way to do his own thing. His Soul-Devouring Body needed to be nourished by demons, but openly hunting demons in the town would inevitably arouse suspicion. He needed to figure out the town's secrets and find the clue hidden in the shadows.
All the loose ends were in the hands of the refugee camp.
---
Blackstone Town was as quiet as a tomb at night. The stench of blood from last night still lingered in the air, mingling with the cold wind as it swept through the streets and alleys, seeping into the holes in the paper windows. Every household had bolted their doors tightly shut, not even the dogs barked. The entire town was pitch black, except for the town mayor's mansion and the Demon Suppression Office in the town center, which were still lit—the dim yellow light shining through the paper windows cast two long, trembling shadows on the stone pavement, like two lanterns beckoning souls.
Lin Yan returned to the courtyard and bolted the door. He first took off his conspicuous black leather armor, the plates clinking softly against each other. Then he dragged an old wooden box from under the bed. Opening the lid, he found a coarse cloth garment folded inside—left by the original owner's parents. It was faded from washing, patched at the cuffs and hems, the fabric worn soft and thin, feeling like touching a withered leaf. He changed into it; the garment felt loose, clinging to his body in the wind, outlining his thin frame.
He wrapped his long sword in three layers of old hemp cloth and slung it diagonally across his back. He walked to the stove, where ashes from last night's fire still lingered. He reached out and grabbed a handful; the ashes were fine as powder and still warm. He rubbed them on his face, his neck, and then on the back of his hands. A figure appeared in the bronze mirror—his once fair face was now dull and rough, his eyes and cheekbones covered with a layer of grime, making him look exactly like a refugee who had just escaped from the mountains, his eyes still holding the embers of fear.
Once everything was ready, he flipped over the courtyard wall like a leaf, landing silently. With a light touch of his toes on the bluestone slab, he slid about ten feet away, heading towards the shantytown in the west of the city.
---
The shack area in the west of the city was located outside the west gate, right next to the mass grave. Even before approaching, the wind carried the smells—the stench of decaying earth, musty straw, and a faint, lingering sour odor of people who hadn't bathed in a long time. There were no walls here, only tree trunks as thick as an arm driven into the ground, crookedly forming a fence, with gaps wide enough for a person to squeeze through. Hundreds of shacks were crammed together, mostly constructed of rags, thatch, and rotten branches, so low that one had to bend over to squeeze inside. Moonlight shone down, making the thatched roofs of the shacks gleam a ghastly white, like rows of desolate graves.
When Lin Yan squeezed through the gap in the fence, it was already completely dark. There were no lights, only a few campfires shivering in the cold wind—flames licking dry branches, crackling softly, their dim yellow light barely illuminating a few steps around. The firelight illuminated faces: an old man huddled in a corner of the shack, wrapped tightly in tattered cotton, only the tips of his gray hair showing, trembling with each shiver; a woman cradled her child, the child crying from hunger, the sound barely audible before being covered by her hand, turning into muffled sobs, like a wounded animal; several young men squatted around the campfire, their heads close together, speaking in hushed tones, the firelight dancing in their sunken eye sockets as their lips moved.
Lin Yan found a sheltered earthen slope to sit on, buried his face in his knees, hunched his back, and pretended to shiver. But his ears were perked up, trying to catch every sound carried by the wind.
"...Have you heard? Nearly thirty people died yesterday at the refugee camp." The voice was hoarse; it belonged to an old man.
"Thirty? I heard from Granny Wang that there are so many people who collect the corpses that they can't even count them all. They just drag them to the mass grave, dig a big pit, and pile dozens of people together like they're burying livestock." The one who spoke was a younger man, and his tone was numb.
"We're alright here, there's a fence to keep us out of trouble..."
"Block my ass!" A gruff voice suddenly broke in, filled with anger. "Last time the lynx spirit broke in, the fence was as flimsy as paper, and it still managed to snatch three dolls! They didn't even find all the bodies, just a little shoe, with a plum blossom embroidered on the toe..."
The murmurs subsided, broken only by the crackling of the firewood. Despair washed over everyone like a tide, chilling them to the bone.
Lin Yan listened, feeling as if a stone was pressing on his heart. These people had all fled from the north, their hometowns trampled into a wasteland by demons, their relatives either dead or scattered. They begged their way south, thinking that they could catch their breath when they reached a human town, but little did they know that they had jumped into another pot—a pot where the firewood of their own kind was burning at the bottom, and what they were boiling was their own flesh and blood.
Just then, a sobbing sound drifted from afar. The sound was extremely soft, intermittent, like the trembling of a kite string about to snap. It was a woman's voice, choked with sobs, each word laced with tears, yet she dared not speak aloud, only letting it escape through her teeth, which was then dispersed by the wind.
Lin Yan's heart skipped a beat. He crouched low, using the shadow cast by the shack as cover, and moved silently toward it. His footsteps were so light that there wasn't even a crisp sound of a blade of grass breaking under his feet.
The crying came from a relatively tidy shack—a frame made of broken planks nailed together, covered with a thick layer of thatch, letting in drafts from all sides, but at least providing some shelter from the rain. Inside the shack, a woman in her thirties stood with her back to the door, embracing a boy of about seven or eight. The woman's shoulders heaved, the shoulder seams of her coarse cloth clothes taut and loosening with each movement. The boy was shockingly thin, his neck as thin as a reed, topped with a head that seemed excessively large. He looked up, his eyes shining in the darkness, wiping his mother's tears with his dirty little hands: "Mother, don't cry, Xiaobao isn't hungry, really."
The woman hugged him tighter, her voice trembling and incoherent: "Little Bao... Mother is so sorry... Tomorrow... Tomorrow it will be our turn..."
Lin Yan suddenly stopped in his tracks.
Is it your turn?
He held his breath, pressing his body against the dilapidated wooden planks of the shack. The planks were rough, and splinters pricked his clothes, causing a slight itch.
"Wang Po came this afternoon," the woman's voice was broken, like autumn rain beating against withered lotus leaves, "and there's one 'spot' for our family this month."
"Mom, what is a quota?" the boy asked, still holding his little hand on his mother's cheek.
The woman didn't answer, but buried her face in the child's thin shoulder, her cries muffled, turning into suppressed, animalistic moans.
Lin Yan's heart sank. Quotas—quotas for human sacrifices. Uncle Zhang said that three living people had to be sacrificed every month; so that's how it came about. The people in the refugee camp were like pottery jars on a shelf, picked and chosen by a pair of hands. Once selected, a red paper was pasted on them, and they waited to be taken away for sacrifice.
He quietly retreated, his shadow disappearing into the night. His eyes turned cold, as if covered with a thin layer of ice.
Wang Po is most likely Chen Fuhai's spy here, specializing in selecting "sacrificial offerings" from the refugees.
---
Lin Yan slowly wandered around the shantytown. He was hunched over and walked with a dragging gait. When he encountered a kind-looking refugee, he would approach him and ask in a hoarse voice, "Uncle, can I have some water? I just escaped here and can't find my way."
At first, no one paid him any attention. Their eyes were wooden; they glanced at him and looked away, as if he were a stone. But when he squatted down beside a few children, took out a few hard wheat cakes from his pocket—his rations for the day, with the coarse aroma of bran—and broke them open to distribute them, the children's eyes lit up. They eagerly grabbed them, stuffing them into their mouths and gobbling them down.
An old man sat on a haystack not far away, watching his grandson nibble on a pancake, his Adam's apple bobbing. Lin Yan walked over and handed him the last half of the pancake. The old man hesitated for a moment, then reached out his withered hand and took it. He broke off a small half and gave it to his grandson, then held the rest for himself, nibbling slowly, as if savoring some delicacy.
"Young man, you just escaped here, didn't you?" The old man swallowed the bread and spoke, his voice like a broken bellows.
Lin Yan nodded and sat down next to him: "We came from the north. The estate is gone."
"Take my advice," the old man lowered his voice, leaning closer, his breath still carrying the dry aroma of wheat cakes, "If you can leave, leave now. This Blackstone Town is more man-eating than the demons in the mountains."
"Uncle, what do you mean by that?"
The old man looked around, then lowered his voice even further, almost whispering, "Every month we have to 'send' people into the mountains, supposedly to mine. But none of them ever come back. Everyone knows they're feeding demons, but nobody dares to say it."
"Mining?" Lin Yan frowned.
"You're kidding me!" A man in shorts next to him spat, spittle landing on the grass. "That place, Canglang Mountain, is nothing but rocks and demons. What kind of mine would they open? They're clearly treating people like livestock, sending them to be devoured by wolves!"
"Then why didn't you run away?" Lin Yan asked.
"Escape? Where to escape to?" The old man gave a bitter smile, his wrinkles crinkling into a knot like dried walnut shells. "To the south is Qingzhou Prefecture, and I've heard the demons there are even more ferocious, eating people without spitting out the bones; to the north... we've lost our home, going back is also a dead end. Staying here, at least I can breathe and scrape by."
"And there's no escaping it," the man continued, his tone indignant. "Wang Po counts the people every day, and if one is missing, she locks up the entire camp, cutting off their food and water. Last time, a family tried to sneak out at night, but they were caught and their legs were broken in public. The next day... they were 'sent away'."
Lin Yan's fist slowly clenched inside his sleeve. Chen Fuhai's move was truly ruthless—keeping the refugees here made it convenient to select sacrifices while simultaneously controlling their lives. These people had become sheep in a pen, waiting for three to be led away each month, while the rest lived in fear, hoping it wouldn't be their turn next time.
He asked more questions in detail. Granny Wang's real name was Wang Guihua, a distant cousin of Chen Fuhai. She used this relationship to bully and oppress the refugees in the camp. Every month, Chen Fuhai would select three refugees to hand over to the Demon Suppression Bureau, and in return, he would give her food and silver. Those chosen would be taken away by soldiers in black at night, heading towards Canglang Mountain, and never heard from again.
"Besides giving them away, Mayor Chen has an even darker heart!" The old man finished the last bite of his pancake, wiped his mouth, and said in a barely audible voice, "Every year the imperial court allocates 'demon-suppressing grain,' supposedly to save us from demons. But what we get is all moldy, rotten rice, some even covered in green mold—even pigs wouldn't want to feed it!"
"Moldy rice?" Lin Yan's eyes narrowed. Demon-suppressing grain was a special resource allocated by the imperial court; to withhold or resell it privately was a capital offense.
"That's right!" the man exclaimed excitedly, his voice rising slightly before he quickly covered his mouth. "Last month, I helped the town mayor's office move things, and I personally saw grain carts carrying top-quality white rice into the manor, the sacks even bearing the official stamp. The next day, what was taken out of the warehouse was moldy, coarse rice, covered in dust when shaken off. That good rice must have been secretly sold for a fortune!"
"And there's Commandant Zhao!" the old man added, his withered fingers twisting together. "He's no saint either. The wealthy households in town have to pay a 'protection fee' every month, ranging from three to five taels to more than ten taels. Those who pay get priority protection from the Demon Suppression Division; those who don't, if a demon enters their home, the soldiers dawdle, and by the time they arrive, the person is already dead!"
Lin Yan recalled that when the demons attacked the town last night, Zhao Mang led his men to guard the wealthy area in the town center, while the refugee camp and the poor alley were completely ignored. So that's how it was—one was greedy for money, and the other was profit-driven, treating Black Stone Town as their own money pot, and the lives of the people were like copper coins in the pot, clinking and stained with blood.
He lingered in the shack area for another half hour, asking all the questions he needed to before quietly leaving and heading towards the town center.
---
The town mayor's mansion stood in the brightest part of the town center, a grand three-courtyard residence with blue bricks, gray tiles, and upturned eaves. Large copper nails, the size of bowls, gleamed brightly in the moonlight on the vermilion gate. Two guards stood at the entrance, dressed in black, long swords at their waists, hands on the hilts, their eyes like eagles, scanning the empty street.
Lin Yan went around to the opposite side, chose a roof with low eaves, climbed up like a raccoon, and lay down on the tiles. He suppressed his breathing, slowed his heartbeat, and became like a stone melting into the night.
Although it was late at night, the lights were on in the backyard of the town mayor's mansion. A dull thud came from the direction of the warehouse, like sacks falling to the ground, followed by hushed voices.
"Hurry up! Be quick, we have to finish packing before dawn!" came the gruff voice urging.
"Don't worry, boss, this batch of goods is destined for Qingzhou Prefecture. We have people to meet them on the way, so there won't be any problems. Once we sell it and make money, all the brothers will benefit!" another voice echoed obsequiously.
Lin Yan squinted and peered down in the dim light of the lanterns under the eaves—several burlap sacks were being carried out of the warehouse and piled onto a cart. The sacks were official government-issued, made of gray cloth, with the three black characters "Demon Suppression Division" printed on them. They were bulging, and the men were bent over as they carried them.
As expected, they were reselling demon-suppressing grain.
He carefully memorized the appearances of the men—one had a thick beard, another was missing half an ear, and the third walked with a limp. The carriage shaft bore the character "Chen," freshly painted and gleaming in the light. After observing for a while, he realized the town mayor's mansion was more heavily guarded than expected—besides the visible guards, several other figures lurked in the shadows of trees and corners, their breathing deep and even, indicating they were at least mid-stage Body Tempering martial artists. He couldn't force his way in; he had to proceed cautiously.
Lin Yan silently slid off the roof and turned towards the Demon Suppression Office.
The Demon Suppression Division was quiet, with only two soldiers dozing by the door, their heads bobbing and their snores soft. He went around to the backyard, climbed over the wall, and landed silently with a light touch of his toes. He remembered Zhao Mang's residence—a separate room in the east wing, with brand-new cotton paper pasted on the window frame, letting in a warm yellow light.
He crouched down on the roof and gently lifted a tile. The gap was small, just enough for one eye to peek down.
Inside the room, Zhao Mang sat at the table. He had removed his armor, wearing only a light blue cotton undershirt, the bandage on his chest showing through, stained with faint medicine. His face was still pale, but his eyes were bright, and he held a wolf-hair brush in his hand, writing and drawing in front of an open account book.
"Li's Cloth Shop, five taels; Wang's Grain Shop, eight taels; Zhou's Restaurant, six taels..." He read aloud, laughing as he did so, his mouth agape to reveal teeth stained yellow from smoking. "These fools think they can rest easy after paying. If a real tough guy comes along, I'll be the first to run, and I won't care if they live or die."
He closed the ledger and then pulled a small booklet from deep within the drawer. The booklet had a black cloth cover, and the edges were worn and frayed. He opened it, and inside were densely written words, line after line, page after page.
"On the seventh day of the third month, Zhang, a refugee, was sent to Canglang Mountain."
"On the 14th of March, Liu, an old refugee, was sent to Canglang Mountain."
"On the 21st of March, Zhao, a refugee, was sent to Canglang Mountain."
Lin Yan's pupils slowly contracted. This wasn't a booklet; it was clearly the Book of Life and Death. Behind every name was a life, a life that had lived, cried, and starved, only to be sent into the mountains to become food for demons.
Zhao Mang turned to the latest page, picked up his brush, and dipped it in ink. The brush tip paused on the inkstone, the ink saturated and ready to drip. He wrote with his wrist suspended: "April 8th, Zhou family, mother and son, refugees..." He paused, then added two more words: "Sending off to the mountain."
The Zhou mother and son!
Lin Yan clenched his fist tightly on the roof tile, his knuckles turning white. It was the mother and child he had just settled in that day—the woman's rough hands, the child's bright eyes, the warmth of that half-eaten cornbread still lingering in his memory. Their names lay on this black book, the ink still wet.
After Zhao Mang finished writing, he blew on the paper to dry the ink before carefully locking the booklet back in the drawer. He stood up, walked to the window, and pushed it open halfway. Moonlight streamed in, illuminating his face, making his smile appear particularly chilling.
"Soon," he whispered to the moon, as if talking to himself, "After sending a few more batches of offerings, I'll have the Blood Crystal Stone the Wolf King promised. With that thing... reaching the Profound Realm is within reach. Then, this Black Stone Town will be mine to call the shots."
Blood Crystal Stone. Lin Yan etched this name into his heart. It turned out that the relationship between Zhao Mang and the Wolf King was not just about offering living people; there was also a transaction—exchanging the lives of their compatriots for cultivation resources.
Zhao Mang closed the window and blew out the lamp. The room went dark, with only the sound of even breathing remaining.
Lin Yan lay on the roof for another fifteen minutes to make sure he was sound asleep before leaving quietly, like a cloud shadow gliding across the night sky.
---
When they returned to the courtyard on North Street, the sky was already tinged with the blue of dawn. Lin Yan sat on the edge of the bed, without lighting a lamp. In the darkness, his eyes shone with an astonishing light, like two cold stars.
Human sacrifice. Reselling demon-suppressing grain. Extorting protection money. Blood crystals. Chen Fuhai and Zhao Mang, these two parasites, have gnawed Blackstone Town to shreds, every crack seeping with the blood of the people. And the demon wolves of Canglang Mountain are their vicious dogs, fed human flesh and fed their fangs.
He focused his inner energy on his dantian. The gray-black vortex slowly rotated, its true essence abundant, just a hair's breadth away from the peak of Body Tempering. But this was still not enough—facing the Wolf King, who was approaching the Profound Realm, his late-stage Body Tempering strength was far from sufficient. He needed to devour more demons and needed to break through to the next level more quickly.
But now, a more urgent matter looms before them. The names of Zhou and her son are already written in the Book of Life and Death. According to custom, they will be "sent" to Canglang Mountain within three days.
He had to save them before that happened.
Lin Yan stood up and pushed open the door. The morning light, like a thin veil, seeped in through the crack in the door and fell on the bluestone floor, cool and clear. He gripped the hilt of the knife at his waist; the rough scabbard wrapped in cloth was painful to the touch.
He would peel back the layers of darkness in this town, one by one. He would collect every single blood debt owed.
And all of this begins tonight.