That Dropped Chinese Novel’s Useless Me Says No to the System

Chapter 118 Eye for Eye?

My heart lurched. I lowered my voice despite myself.

“Then… what happens after they drink it?”

I suddenly remembered the cook could only answer yes or no, and for a moment I found myself at a loss for how to frame the question.

Fortunately Hua stepped in, and when he moved, it was with the seasoned instinct of the Blood-Lotus Sect’s Left Protector.

“If the wine doesn’t make them sick and doesn’t kill them,” he said, “then it contains something that keeps them hooked. Addictive, isn’t it?”

This time, the cook deflated entirely. His face went ashen, his eyes glossed with tears, and in the end, he nodded.

The room fell unnaturally silent. Outside, only the wind scraped against the eaves.

So the seemingly ordinary wine at Spring-Come Inn… was drugged. Addictive.

My throat went tight.

“No wonder people come and go from that place all day.”

Hua snorted.

“A leash around the neck. Just invisible.”

I pressed on.

“The people carried out on stretchers—were they dead?”

The cook flinched hard, clamped his lips shut, hesitated for a long time, then finally nodded.

Cold sweat slid down my temples. My palms were slick.

Hua had unfolded his fan again at some point, waving it lazily, though his expression was hard as forged iron.

I gritted my teeth.

“Were they… killed by you?”

The cook shook his head so fast it was a blur, terrified of being implicated.

“Then do you know what killed them?”

A long hesitation—then another shake.

I narrowed my eyes.

“You don’t know? Or you can’t say?”

More sweat beaded on his brow. His gaze quivered. But he still shook his head.

I changed angles abruptly.

“Their deaths… do they have anything to do with that eye? And the headaches? The nightmares?”

The moment the words left my mouth, the cook’s entire body jolted. His lips trembled. After a long delay, he gave a small, heavy nod.

A chill crawled up my back.

So it circles back to that eye again.

But there were still questions unfinished. I pushed down the cold weight in my chest and kept going.

“Besides the dead… are there some people who didn’t fully die?”

He hesitated, eyes flickering wildly—then nodded.

“Where?” I almost blurted out, then caught myself.

Instead, I asked, “In the back courtyard?”

He nodded.

“In the side rooms?”

Another nod.

A picture snapped together in my mind, bleak and complete:

Spring-Come Inn was no ordinary inn. Those “fine wines” had been laced from the beginning. Not enough to kill outright, not enough to make one obviously ill—but enough to hook people without their knowing. And the inn’s staff—from the boss to the lowest runner—were no different from Su the bookseller: first came the relentless nightmares, then the eye itself. That cold, ever-watching eye. One by one, they broke—some dying, some half-alive.

“What is that eye exactly?”

A curse? A punishment? A warning?

Cold crept up my spine. It felt as if a pair of unseen eyes were indeed staring at me through the night.

I cut myself off abruptly. My chest tightened until the air was trapped.

The cook curled into himself, shrinking smaller and smaller. His eyes were vacant. The last ember of his pipe had gone dark.

Hua and I exchanged a glance. Neither of us spoke. The air itself felt dead.

We stepped out of the cramped kitchen. Night had already settled; the moon stretched our shadows long across the ground.

“This is off,” I said as we walked toward the side rooms. I laid out the pieces I had pieced together. “I think I see the shape of it now—Spring-Come Inn’s people were punished for drugging the wine. Su from the bookstore is one example. The nightmares came first; the eye was the final punishment. But why did he pass that book to Juan…?”

“Punishment?” Hua chuckled softly. Under the moonlight, his face looked like that of a fox, pale and inscrutable.

“You make it sound very mystical.”

“It’s not me making it mystical.” I frowned. “The cook practically confirmed all of it. They drugged the wine. Everyone in that inn must’ve known. And the eye—tell me that isn’t strange. Don’t tell me it’s not some curse. Ordinary people don’t have that kind of ability.”

By then, we had reached the side rooms.

The moment I pushed the door open, a damp chill surged out.

Inside, several pallets lay scattered. Bodies sprawled across them—some with pale lips, some with eyes half-closed, breaths faint as spider silk.

In the corner were a few newer pallets. The bodies there were stiff, covered with white cloth. Obviously gone.

Hua and I locked eyes. Both of us sank a little inside.

My voice dropped. “That eye… it shows itself to people who’ve done wicked things? If this keeps up, every villain in this city will be dead before long.”

The moment I said it, I froze. A chill spilled down my spine like someone had poured a bowl of ice water straight into my chest. I had seen that eye before—at night, in dreams—its stare crawling up my back, splitting my skull with pain.

“No way…” I murmured. “I mean—I’ve… I’ve seen that eye too…”

Hua had annoyingly sharp ears. He caught my slip instantly. “Well, well, little Gong, you’ve seen it too? No wonder you’ve been acting all haunted lately.” He grinned, looking every bit like a fox that had cornered its prey.

“Quit gloating. I don’t believe you haven’t seen it yourself.” Heat rose to my face as I shot him a glare. “This isn’t something to joke about.”

“But what does any of this have to do with people being unable to speak?” Hua tilted his head, half-serious, half-teasing. “Those who saw the eye—some were scared stupid, some injured, some dead. But everyone else? They’re acting like their tongues got cut out, terrified to utter a single honest word. Is that the eye’s doing too? Yet we—”

He tapped his own chest. “Look at us. We’ve talked plenty since entering the city, and we’re fine. Does the eye pick its targets?”

“If it really picks its targets, then wouldn’t that mean we also…” Halfway through the sentence, it hit me that the three of us weren’t exactly paragons of virtue. A shiver crept up my back.

Hua didn’t care at all. He shrugged, lazy as ever. “If the eye really punishes people, then why aren’t we affected? It’s not like we’re good people.”

I ground my teeth. “At least you know that much.”

“To deal with the wicked, you can’t stay virtuous.” Hua spread his hands, feigning innocence. “Come on. We’d better go see Senior An. Maybe he’s heard something new.”

I nodded, though the unease in my gut only tightened.

We hardly spoke the entire way.

The night wind cut at our faces, sharp with cold. The moon at the horizon was thin as a sheet of paper; under its pale light, everything looked deserted.

Senior An’s small courtyard lay deep inside the alley. Usually, even from afar, you could hear the rhythmic clunk-clunk-clunk—that wooden contraption of his fetching water and chopping firewood. I used to think it was amusing.

But tonight was different. Strangely still. Not even a trace of the usual noise.

Hua stopped at the gate, narrowed his eyes, and knocked lightly. “Senior An? Are you there?”

No response.

He knocked again, twice. His expression darkened. He turned to me, voice firm. “Something’s wrong. He might be in trouble.”

My stomach lurched. I rushed forward and kicked the door. A loud thud—and nothing. The door didn’t budge.

“Are you kicking it or giving it a massage?” Hua rubbed his forehead, exasperated. “Forget it. I’ll do it.”

Without another word, he placed a hand on my shoulder, jumped lightly, and vaulted us both over the wall into the courtyard.