Chapter 14: The Hundred-Eyed One Who Takes Heads from Afar
1290 Words
Hexing Street, named for its proximity to the mighty Dadu River that cuts across Sanxiang City, saw heavy foot traffic at dawn and dusk, when fishermen would sail downriver to dock at the pier and sell their catch at the fish market.
Residents of the western districts came here for seafood, and even people from other parts of the city would ride carriages to visit.
The fish market by the pier was indeed unique.
At daybreak, the fish on display were the freshest, still flopping in their basins, beloved by wealthy families and fine restaurants.
By dusk, however, the fish had spent the entire day in wooden tubs—most had floated belly-up, their value reduced to a tenth.
Common folk would sift through the dead fish for a cheap but decent meal.
Once night fully descended and dinner time passed, the number of stalls dwindled.
Fishermen began steering their little boats out of Sanxiang City, heading for the villages on the outskirts—traveling the river by night was no easy task.
As the sunset bathed the city, the market grew eerily deserted.
Zhang Dou hurriedly packed up his stall. He nearly missed his chance to leave while trying to earn a few extra coins to buy ink and brushes for his child’s schooling.
He noticed a nearby stall still standing, with no signs of being packed up.
Zhang Dou glanced at the setting sun on the mountainside and walked over quickly.
He recognized the vendor from a few brief encounters and couldn't help but call out, “Wang Bingquan, it’s time to go. It'll be dangerous to travel the water route soon.”
“Hehehehe…”
Wang Bingquan let out an eerie, inexplicable laugh. His head was noticeably larger than most, with bulging veins across his face.
Zhang Dou stepped back instinctively, but quickly composed himself.
He looked at the stall—inside the wooden tub was a dead silver carp, belly up, with both eyes missing. It hadn’t sold due to its terrible appearance.
“Wang Bingquan, if no one buys the fish, just take it home and make some soup…”
“Hehehe… How about you buy it?”
“Who wants your lousy fish? Kindness wasted on a dog,” Zhang Dou muttered under his breath.
Wang Bingquan didn’t get angry; he just kept laughing that bone-chilling laugh.
Suddenly, Zhang Dou recalled a tragic tale—one that involved Wang Bingquan.
Wang Bingquan’s village had five fishermen. They took turns fishing and selling their catch, watching each other’s backs.
But a few days ago, while casting their nets in the Dadu River, all but Wang Bingquan perished.
The corpses pulled from the river were mutilated, with gaping holes where their eyes had been.
Rumors said it was the work of water ghosts.
A pang of pity hit Zhang Dou—Wang Bingquan must have gone mad. No wonder he lingered alone in the empty market.
He sighed. “Wang Bingquan, I’ll buy the fish. Go home early.”
Wang Bingquan raised his head, staring directly at Zhang Dou with a grotesque grin.
“Three wen.”
Zhang Dou grimaced, pulling out his money pouch and handing over a few coins without counting.
Wang Bingquan threaded a grass rope through the carp’s mouth and handed it over.
“Pan-fry it. The meat is tender. And the eyes—absolutely divine.”
Just as Zhang Dou was about to take the fish, someone snatched it away at the last second.
Startled, he turned to see a yamen officer standing beside him, though he hadn’t noticed his arrival.
“You…”
Ren Qing had no intention of returning the fish. Instead, he offered a solemn warning, “Get on your boat. Think of it as spending three wen to buy your life.”
Fear of the authorities forced Zhang Dou to swallow his frustration. Still, confusion swirled in his mind.
Why the tug-of-war over a rotting fish? And what did “buying your life” mean?
He headed for the dock in a daze, glancing back toward Wang Bingquan.
The two men had just disappeared into a side alley.
The more Zhang Dou thought about it, the worse it felt. Wang Bingquan looked less like a man and more like a ghost seeking vengeance. He hurried to push off.
Ren Qing strolled down the alley with the fish in hand, eyes scanning the surroundings carefully.
He had investigated the headless corpses in secret, noticing that many victims had lived near water sources, eventually tracing a pattern to Hexing Street.
All these people had one thing in common: they bought a dead fish before their deaths. Soon after eating it, their eyes began to hurt—and they ultimately died headless.
The other victims had different circumstances, which meant the Hundred-Eyed One never showed its face, killing through subtle means.
Ren Qing waited at the alley's end, where no light reached—complete darkness.
He stood there for a while, and gradually, a pair of glowing green eyes approached. Faint, disjointed whispers filled the air:
“I didn’t want to kill them.”
“They deserved it. Deserved it.”
“How can they blame me? They mustn’t blame me.”
“Die, die, DIE!”
Wang Bingquan stepped out of the dark, his twisted face full of hatred.
“I’m here to return the fish eyes…”
Ren Qing sensed something was wrong. He looked at the carp in his hand and saw its scales falling off—beneath them were countless human eyes.
In that moment, the dead fish came alive, leaping like it had just emerged from the water.
He swallowed hard.
His dual pupils spun, dispelling the illusion in an instant.
He squeezed the carp, feeling a foreign object inside. Cutting it open, a human eye tumbled out—still moving.
Ren Qing crushed it underfoot and advanced toward Wang Bingquan.
The man was mumbling to a wall, trembling in terror as he dropped to his knees.
“Don’t kill me—I did what you asked. I fed eyes to the living every day. I didn’t even spare my own villagers!”
Then his voice turned frantic, “I didn’t kill them! I only hid the eyes in the fish. If they bought it, they deserved it!”
Ren Qing drew a short blade from his waist and stepped forward.
Wang Bingquan’s head turned bright red, his eyeballs bulging—but his gaze never wavered.
The Hundred-Eyed One’s power was illusion. Manipulating minds was easy. Wang Bingquan was clearly just a puppet.
Ren Qing turned to the wall.
Other cultivators, even those with night vision, wouldn’t be able to see it clearly—but his dual pupils revealed everything.
A snail crawled along the wall, with a human eye between its antennae, staring back at Ren Qing with a chilling gaze.
Before he could act, the snail exploded into a pile of sludge.
Wang Bingquan’s throat made a gurgling sound. He clutched his torn neck in pain as his head dropped to the ground.
It rolled with the wind, quickly bouncing out of the alley.
Ren Qing gave chase.
Given the Hundred-Eyed One’s methods, it was no newly-risen monster. It had likely hidden in Sanxiang City for a long time. These murders were not for practicing some “Eyeless Cultivation Technique.”
Maybe it was gravely wounded and needed healing. Or maybe it was dying, trying to extend its life.
If so, then it had to have used an uncanny relic to become a half-corpse.
But to truly ascend, it would need to consume the Hundred-Eyed Demon Lord’s relic—an act with a ten-in-one chance of death, and far from easy to find.
- Writer
