Era of Magic and Martial Arts

Chapter 392 - 376: Don’t Make Trouble for Yourself

On the other side of the city, the old canning factory was shrouded in a curtain of rain.

The cold chain truck slowly drove in, its tires rolling over puddles, spraying water that glistened with an eerie sheen.

The truck door opened, and driver Old Zhang and porter Wang jumped out. Rain hit their raincoats with a dense "pitter-patter" sound.

"Creak—"

Accompanied by an ear-piercing "creak," the cabinet door slowly opened, and a bone-chilling cold air rushed from the depths of the compartment, carrying with it the scent of cold and stillness.

The deep hum of the refrigeration unit inside the compartment was magnified several times, as the cold air lingered and condensed into a thin mist.

The glass walls were covered in frozen blood frost, forming strange patterns, with their reflections mirrored in the frosted glass, faces suddenly terrified.

"Wha... what is that?"

Wang’s voice trembled, pointing at the flesh and blood pressed against the glass.

Old Zhang held up a flashlight, the beam cutting through the swirling cold air.

Among the pile of frozen fish, a round object lay silently.

It was a human head, with eyelashes and eyebrows covered in fine ice crystals, a hole blasted open at the back of the head, blood frozen on the remaining brain skin hair like a layer of dark red glaze.

More chilling was that the mouth of the head curled slightly upward, as if in an unfinished dream, or perhaps a mystery solved.

Old Zhang’s voice was dry, unlike his own: "Seems like... a human head..."

"No... can’t be, did you put that thing on our truck?"

Wang’s face turned pale, retreating while staring at Old Zhang, eyes filled with caution and distrust.

Old Zhang jerked his head back, his voice sharp with anger: "Bullshit! Why the hell would I load that thing!?"

Old Zhang’s flashlight trembled, the beam dancing on the head: "Could it be you who put it there?"

Wang’s breathing turned rapid: "Am I goddamned crazy? Load a head onto the truck?"

A short silence enveloped the two, with only the hum of the refrigeration unit echoing in the narrow space.

Wang’s hand trembled as he reached for his pocket. The phone screen lit up but was quickly held down by Old Zhang, the force nearly making Wang drop the phone.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Wang was stunned, staring instinctively at Old Zhang: "Reporting it, what else!"

"Report what?" Old Zhang almost squeezed the words through his teeth.

He held onto Wang’s wrist tightly, his gaze dim, lowering his voice,

"When the constable comes, can you explain it clearly? If they ask where the rest of the body is, can we provide it?"

Upon hearing this, Wang felt a chill run through his body, as if a stone were stuck in his throat.

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple moving with difficulty, and his voice was smaller than a mosquito’s: "Then... what should we do?"

"Just let it be."

Old Zhang gritted his teeth, his voice carrying a harshness,

"Just pretend we didn’t see anything. Hurry up, unload the goods, don’t cause trouble for ourselves."

Half an hour later, the assembly line in the workshop began to operate.

The mechanical arm fed the rock-hard "natural fresh meat" along with the frozen fish fragments into the waste mixer, with the huge gears starting to turn, emitting a deep rumbling sound.

The muffled sound of bone and flesh separating was completely drowned out by the noise of the machine.

The waste materials slowly flowed into the trash bin via the pipeline.

Beside the assembly line, female workers wore masks, their heads down, mechanically repeating their work, no one cared what was added to the trash bin.

Outside the window, the downpour continued.

Rain drummed on the tin roof, creating an urgent "pitter-patter," as if warning something, or like a whisper of despair.

The cold white light from the workshop’s overhead lights made the whole factory look bleak, casting light onto the outside wall of the factory.

Rainwater flowed along the walls, gathering into the drainage ditch outside the workshop, carrying away the shredded discharge, absorbed into the city’s vast bloodstream—its sewer system...

Near the old residential area adjacent to the canning factory, Feng Baoguang dragged his weary body, stepping through puddles, water splashing onto his pants, the chill climbing up his legs to his heart.

He kept his head down, his suit wrinkled, the briefcase firmly tucked under his arm, hand holding a tilted umbrella, yet the rain mercilessly soaked his face and shoulders.

He lifted his head, looking at the familiar scene around him, those mottled walls, wobbly windows, and rusty iron doors filled him with an indescribable irritation.

From childhood to adulthood, his entire family had lived under the shadow of the canning factory.

His father, mother, and later himself and his younger brother, all became factory workers. Day after day, mechanical labor.

The household table never lacked canned food, so much so that now the smell of it made Feng Baoguang nauseous; he’d never step foot into the factory.

After paying some price, he succeeded, he entered the Executive Government building, becoming a proud temporary worker in the prison system department.

"Damn prison department, treating me like livestock every day, even worse than the canning factory."

Feng Baoguang grumbled as he walked, whispering under his breath, his resentful tone mixed with helplessness,

"At least the canning factory gave out cans, these leaders only know how to..."

His voice was drowned by the rain, the cobblestone alley slippery and muddy, his polished shoes squishing in the puddles with a low "squelch".

His suit pants were already soaking, rainwater seeping through the fabric to his skin, cold and uncomfortable, but he couldn’t be bothered to stop and tidy up, just wanting to get home quickly, leaving this terrible night behind.

When he turned the third alley corner, his steps suddenly halted.

An exposed wire dangled in the middle of the road, like a venomous snake lying in wait, swaying slightly in the wind, its end occasionally spitting sparks, crackling dangerously in the rainy night.

The wire wasn’t too low from the ground, but the small puddle of rainwater beneath it seemed like a trap, ready to turn fatal if one were careless.

Feng Baoguang frowned, staring at the wire, mumbling to himself:

"These poles are always in disrepair; every rain someone gets electrocuted to death. What are the people in charge doing? Nothing, huh—"

He complained a bit angrily, reaching for his phone to make a call.

But he glanced at the screen, noticing only 3% battery left, and eventually sighed, putting the phone back.

"Forget it, let someone else report it,"

Feng Baoguang muttered to himself, shaking his head,

"Not like it’ll electrocute me."

Just as he was about to bypass the wire, an eerie whistling reached his ears.

The sound seemed to come from afar, yet also seemed to resound directly in his mind.

Feng Baoguang’s eyelids grew inexplicably heavy, his steps faltering.

Feng Baoguang snapped awake, a chill running through him.

However, it was too late—as he tried to steady himself, his shoe landed on a loose stone. He lost his balance, his body hurtling forward.

At the same time, the briefcase in his hand flew out, drawing an arc before crashing into a nearby telephone pole.

The metal thermos inside rolled out, skidding across the puddle with a fatal spin.

Feng Baoguang fell heavily into the puddle, mud splattering, instantly turning his suit into a mess.

He tried to get up, only to feel frozen in place.

Fear gripped his nerves, his pupils dilated in the dimness, reflecting the slowly rolling thermos—a grim gleam mirrored by the electric arc.

...