Chapter Twenty-Two: Entry

Fang Mu followed the traveling merchant, leaving Jinglong County and entering a wild expanse. Ahead stretched a winding, dense forest; the merchant never looked back, pressing forward with his head down. The trees on either side seemed like monstrous, spectral hands, swaying eerily in the wind. The deeper Fang Mu ventured into the woods, the more unsettled he felt.

Gradually, the darkness receded, and the trees on both sides were tinged with a bloody hue. This blood was not congealed; it streamed ceaselessly from the tops of the trees. The sounds of birds and insects faded, and a strange hush fell over the surroundings.

After some distance, the silence was abruptly broken, replaced by the din of activity. It began as a faint murmur, growing louder the farther he walked, until it thundered in his ears. The merchant quickened his pace, and with only a few steps, vanished entirely—not simply out of sight, but utterly gone, as if swallowed by the shadows.

The clamor persisted, and when Fang Mu reached a certain threshold, the noise became palpable, almost tangible. The surrounding trees disappeared, and the scene clarified.

A bustling marketplace! On the noisy street, all manner of stalls lined either side, their owners hawking wares in a cacophony. Behind the stalls were shops ablaze with light and filled with commotion. Crowds milled about, stopping occasionally at the stalls.

What should have been lively and festive struck Fang Mu as anything but. Whether stallkeepers, shop attendants, or passersby, all had horrifying appearances. Every merchant bore a gaping, bloody hole in their chest—hollow, so that one could see straight through. The crowd on the street was even more grotesque, each differing: some had wounds at their throats, others missing limbs, some with bloodied holes where their eyes had been. The merchants’ wounds were uniformly in the chest, while the crowd’s injuries varied wildly.

In short, none of them were human.

The wounds of these merchants reminded Fang Mu of Butcher Zhao’s fate—heart torn out. He recalled a legend whispered in Jinglong County: the Ghost Market.

Humans have their world, and so do ghosts. Just as people gather in bustling markets, so too do spirits congregate in ghostly bazaars.

Here, ghosts could trade and bargain, behaving almost like ordinary people—except for one crucial difference: the Ghost Market forbids the living. Once inside, one could not tell who was a guest and who was merchandise.

The commotion continued; even after Fang Mu entered, no one paid him any heed. He took a few steps, and the strange beings politely made way, as if accepting him as one of their own.

After strolling a while, Fang Mu halted before a modest stall. It was small, lined with hooks laden with various meats. A middle-aged man wielded a butcher’s knife, chopping pork at the stall; a huge bloody hole gaped in his chest.

Fang Mu frowned. “Butcher Zhao?”

The man was none other than Zhao. He stared vacantly, mechanically chopping meat. At Fang Mu’s words, Zhao lifted his head stiffly, his dull eyes fixing on Fang Mu. The butcher’s knife paused, but Zhao said nothing.

Fang Mu pondered deeply. The dead Butcher Zhao appearing in the Ghost Market—an unsettling thought. Could it be that after the merchant killed his victims with the paper figure, those slain transformed into strange entities, arriving here in the Ghost Market? All the merchants bore identical fatal wounds.

Fang Mu slid his Ghost Dagger across Zhao’s body—it passed easily, causing no harm.

“No effect—another rule-based anomaly?”

As the dagger sliced through, Fang Mu made his judgment.

Zhao still gazed vacantly, but suddenly slammed his knife onto the chopping block, producing a loud, echoing thud.

“Money... money... money...” The monotonous chant escaped Zhao’s lips, and blood gushed ever more freely from his chest.

Fang Mu thought for a moment, then drew four blood-stained copper coins from his pocket. He’d given one away as a guide, leaving only four.

This gesture triggered an immense reaction. The once-bustling street fell silent in an instant. The surrounding anomalies froze, their greedy eyes fixed on Fang Mu’s coins.

Fang Mu reached out to touch the nearest anomaly, but his hand passed right through—no corpse-touching skill was activated.

“So, the rule remains unbroken.”

Rule-based anomalies must be dealt with by their own logic.

“Sir, what would you like?” Zhao’s gaze turned ravenous, staring at the blood-stained coins.

Fang Mu gave no answer.

“Sir, what would you like?” Zhao’s voice grew urgent, gripping the butcher’s knife tightly.

Fang Mu remained silent.

“Sir, what do you want!!!” Zhao pressed again, now leaning out from the stall, his knife inching closer, chest wound bleeding profusely.

Not only Zhao, but all the surrounding anomalies pressed in, encircling Fang Mu in layers. Their eyes gleamed with greed and malice, as if they’d pounce at any sign of weakness, stripping him of coins.

“Sir, what do you want!!!” Zhao demanded once more, his face twisted into a ferocious snarl.

Fang Mu raised one finger, and the crowd fell silent and motionless. Zhao retreated, his expression once again blank, awaiting Fang Mu’s reply.

If Fang Mu answered incorrectly, danger would follow.

“Chop me five pounds of meat—lean only, ground to a fine mince. Not a single speck of fat,” Fang Mu spoke calmly, tossing the coins in his hand. “Remember, not a single bit of fat.”

“Very well.”

Zhao nodded stiffly and retrieved a piece of pork from the hooks, skillfully separating the lean portions.

The butcher’s knife struck the block with relentless force, echoing again and again. Blood poured from Zhao’s chest, soaking the block and the meat.

Blood and pork mixed, becoming ever more disturbing. Zhao’s face grew paler.

After a moment, the meat was ready. Zhao wrapped it in a blood-stained oil paper, tied it with straw, and handed it to Fang Mu.

A blood-soaked hand extended, and the flat voice intoned, “It’s done. Pay.”