Xing Ye felt as if he were trapped in a chaotic time and space.

 

Xing Ye put his hands behind his back to stop the middle-aged woman from snatching the scissors from him and said to her, “You’ve had a miserable life, but why not kill the person who made you suffer, instead of someone even weaker like me?”

The half-crazed woman, upon hearing this, actually stopped trying to grab the scissors and sat on the ground, dazed, tears streaming down her face: “Da Mao, Er Mao, and Da Niu are all down there. I’m afraid if he goes there too, he’ll bully them.”

Xing Ye was stunned by her words.

He looked at the woman in silence for a long time. She was extremely thin, her complexion sallow, her arms just skin stretched over veins and bones.

In contrast, the body Xing Ye now inhabited was completely different. Though his arms weren’t plump and fair like modern children’s, they at least had some flesh. He wasn’t too short either. Judging by the condition of this utterly impoverished home, the child had actually been treated decently.

Xing Ye always rose to meet the strong, but when faced with a woman so broken in both body and spirit, he truly didn’t know what to say.

He didn’t know how to comfort her, how to change things, or even how to escape.

He could have left while she was under hypnosis, but if he left, what would this woman have left?

“I’m hungry. Is there any food?” Xing Ye suddenly asked.

The woman stood up in a daze, wiped the tears from her face, and said in a panic, “Yes, I need to feed Xiaomao. You can’t travel on an empty stomach. If you're full, you won’t be bullied when you get there.”

With that, she stood up and ran to the kitchen. Calling it a kitchen was generous—it was just one of two rooms in a mud-brick house. One room had a kang bed for sleeping, and the other had a stove. The stove was connected to the bed so that cooking heat would warm it—an efficient way to save firewood.

Though the house was dilapidated, it was not dirty or messy. Clearly, the woman was diligent; even in such dire conditions, she tried to keep things decent.

She opened the rice jar, stared blankly at the bottom, and silently began to cry again: “The two jin of polished rice I earned from labour yesterday—I was saving it for Xiaomao.”

The ladle in her hand slipped weakly from her grip. She stared blankly at the empty jar, dazed for a while, then took out a wooden bucket and said, “Xiaomao, mama’s going to borrow some grain. Be good and stay at home.”

“Wait,” Xing Ye said. He had already searched the house thoroughly—there wasn’t even rice husk left. “I’ll go with you.”

He had to get out of the house and understand what kind of world this was.

One child every three years meant six children over eighteen years. The village must have enough population to sustain such a supply. Judging by the woman’s childbearing record, it wasn’t impossible. But what about marriage? What was the outside world like? He had to know in order to determine whether this “mountain god” was a superstition born of ignorance or part of an actual fantasy world.

“You can’t go out, Xiaomao,” the woman cried out emotionally and hugged Xing Ye’s head, burying him in her arms. “They’ll target you.”

This woman might truly have gone mad. She sincerely believed that dying would be better than living, and didn’t see killing Xing Ye as a mistake. She thought she was taking her son to a better place.

At the same time, she genuinely loved Xiaomao. Just one “I’m hungry” from him was enough to snap her out of her madness and send her running to cook or borrow rice.

“Why would I be targeted? I’m already a sacrifice. What’s left to target?” Xing Ye asked.

He meant to remind her that, as a chosen sacrifice, he would likely be well-treated and looked after by the village—at least until the ritual. Of course, his freedom would be restricted. But for now, he could use the status of “sacrifice” to try and get more food.

Xing Ye wasn’t hungry. He just wanted to coax the woman into cooking something for herself. She was too thin.

The woman, hearing his words, seemed to recall something and said, “Back when Da Mao was chosen as a sacrifice, the village gave us money. I had just bought rice, and the rest of the money was taken by that bastard to gamble. It was all gone.”

“And after that?” Xing Ye asked.

“Er Mao and Da Niu were offered to pay off debt—no money was given. You’re the same.”

The woman grew sorrowful again as she remembered her children.

“No,” Xing Ye shook his head. “You said before it was to repay debts that your own child was traded for someone else’s. That money should have been used to repay the debt. Even if the payment wasn’t enough to cover it, the village would still have given the money to the family, who would then use it to repay the debt. There’s no reason they wouldn’t give any money at all.”

The woman’s eyes brightened a little after hearing this, less murky than before. The more she thought about it, the more it didn’t seem right. Finally, she screamed, “It was him! He went to the village chief behind my back to get the money, then gambled it all away! That bastard!”

“Don’t get angry just yet,” Xing Ye calmly held her down. “When is the money being handed out this time? Let’s get there before he does.”

When he woke up, the woman had just tried to kill him. That meant she had just learned the news—it should still be early enough to claim the money. Even if it was too late, that sorry excuse for a father wouldn’t have had time to spend it all. They could get it back.

Xing Ye held the woman’s wrist—it was all bone. His slightly soft palm was actually poked by her bones. Just how thin was she?

“You’re not afraid of death, are you?” Xing Ye asked, looking at her.

The woman touched Xiaomao’s soft little face and shook her head firmly: “As long as I’m with Xiaomao, I’m not afraid of anything.”

Xing Ye said, “If you’re not afraid of death, there’s no need to fear a scumbag. Take your scissors, your kitchen knife—let’s go get the money. If he already took it, find out where he went. If you don’t want to kill him, that’s fine. Wounding him is enough to take it back. That money is the price of my life. We’ll fill our stomachs with it. No way he gets to squander it!”

The woman looked at Xing Ye and said softly, “Xiaomao, you didn’t use to be like this. You were so timid, always crying when Fatty from next door bullied you.”

Xing Ye wasn’t afraid of her suspicion. She was half-mad already, and Xiaomao had just experienced a traumatic event. A drastic change in behaviour was perfectly reasonable.

So Xing Ye, with his childish face, said, “We’re going to die anyway. What’s there to be afraid of—Fatty?”

He clenched and unclenched his fists several times, mentally preparing himself, and said, “I want to eat well with mama and go on the road happy.”

The woman, hearing this, was a little less suspicious. She was, after all, someone who had already resolved to die. Whether her son changed or not didn’t matter anymore—they were going to be sacrificed to the mountain god anyway.

So she took her son’s hand and walked out the door.

It was only then that Xing Ye realized this village was actually quite prosperous—it was just that his own family was terribly poor and rundown. The neighbours lived in proper brick-and-tile houses.

No matter how you looked at it, this didn't seem like the Republican Era, but it didn’t feel like modern society either.

Xing Ye had seen what modern rural areas looked like—they were far more developed than this. The neighbour’s yard was big, but there were no tractors or other modern farming equipment.

This place is strange, Xing Ye thought.

It was broad daylight and summer. Walking along the road, he could see people working in the fields. Every household had a yard, some smaller ones planted vegetables, larger ones grew grain.

Xing Ye had seen corn and rice fields before. A few years ago, he’d done an on-site inspection for an investment in a rural development project. He looked at the corn in the yard and thought it didn’t look like a high-yield hybrid crop.

Someone passing by noticed the woman and him and said, “Auntie Yang, are you going to collect the money? Hurry, I just saw your man heading to the village chief’s house.”

The middle-aged woman, Auntie Yang, immediately pulled the kitchen knife from her waist and charged toward the village chief’s house like she was ready to kill someone.

Xing Ye frowned slightly. These villagers didn’t seem to care at all about the sacrificial offering. They even reminded Auntie Yang to collect the money.

The village looked quite large—when Xing Ye looked out, he couldn’t see the end of it. He had a rough idea of the population and figured it could indeed sustain a system of one child every three years.

But the mountain god only needed one offering—so why were five being sent? This village wasn’t just ignorant; there was something deeper going on.

After hearing the news, Auntie Yang began walking faster and faster. Eventually, finding Xing Ye too slow, she slung “Xiaomao” onto her back and broke into a sprint.

She ran like she was burning through the last of her life force—shockingly fast.

Xing Ye frowned. With her frail body, could she really handle that speed and exertion?

They dashed all the way to the village chief’s house and arrived just in time to see a man receiving money from the village chief.

Auntie Yang roared, “You damned bastard! That’s my son’s blood money—you’re going to gamble it away again!”

Afraid of hurting Xing Ye, she squatted down to set Xiaomao down first, then charged forward with the knife.

The man hadn’t expected Auntie Yang to be so bold. Unable to dodge in time, he was slashed in the arm and screamed in pain.

But he was quick too—at the same time he was cut, he kicked Auntie Yang in the stomach, sending her flying.

Xing Ye, whose strength was limited, couldn’t catch her. He could only watch as the woman crashed to the ground, unable to get up.

The knife was still in the man’s body, and he held the money in his hand, saying, “I was just planning to use this to turn my luck around. Who knew this crazy woman would flip out? Now I’ve got to waste money on a doctor.”

Xing Ye looked at the money in the man’s hand—it was silver coins.

What era was this, still using silver coins?

This village was utterly chaotic.

The man had a ratty, sharp-featured face, and the woman was skin and bones. Xing Ye had glanced in the mirror earlier and realized he actually looked quite good—not at all like the child of these two.

Xing Ye ran to help the woman and wondered whether he should use his skill to stop time and prevent the man from escaping. Just then, the fallen Auntie Yang suddenly crawled over and bit down on the man’s leg, tearing out a chunk of flesh.

Xing Ye: “…”

He looked at the village chief and asked, “Aren’t you going to stop them?”

The village chief looked like a stereotypical middle-aged farmer—wearing a tank top, his arms tanned red-brown from the sun. Hearing Xing Ye’s question, he chuckled warmly, “No need. This happens every year around this time.”

Even though Xing Ye had encouraged the woman to reclaim her rightful money, the way this was all playing out baffled him.

Then, the small mirror hanging from his chest moved. Xing Ye noticed the village chief was watching the fighting couple. Turning his back, he quickly pulled open his collar and glanced at the mirror hanging under his shirt.

The mirror displayed: Don’t act rashly. I think everyone in this village is off.

Xing Ye had originally sympathized with Auntie Yang, but now he too felt something was wrong.

He didn’t use his skills or QR code—just watched as the man pulled the knife from his own body and mercilessly stabbed it into Auntie Yang’s back.

She was only flesh and blood. That slash nearly ended her life. She turned to look at Xing Ye and said weakly, “Xiaomao… must never become a sacrifice again… no…”

As she spoke, blood gushed from her mouth.

Even then, she had the strength to speak. She glared at the village chief and declared, “If Xiaomao becomes a sacrifice, I won’t rest in peace—I’ll drag the whole village down with me!”

With that, she spat out a mouthful of blood and died.

The previously passive village chief was suddenly alarmed. Pointing at the man, he shouted, “He—he—he! Yang Dazhuang killed his wife! Grab him!”

Suddenly, from what had seemed an empty courtyard with only four people—Yang Dazhuang, Auntie Yang, the village chief, and Xing Ye—over a dozen strong men appeared out of nowhere. They tackled Yang Dazhuang, whose arm had been slashed in half, and pinned him down.

The village chief sighed heavily at Xing Ye and said, “Xiaomao’s mother cursed the village before dying. That’s a bad omen. We’ll have to call the village committee and discuss it.”

What?

Xing Ye and Lu Mingze (hiding in the mirror) both tilted their heads in disbelief. A village that still practised sacrificial rites to a mountain god, that used silver coins… had a village committee?

Xing Ye felt a deep sense of temporal confusion.

Back in the small house, Auntie Yang had seemed painfully real—like a desperate mother going mad before her final act.

But once they stepped outside, she had acted completely different—as if she were being controlled.

Her final words felt more like the beginning of a supernatural horror story.

And if the mountain god was so picky that it needed to choose one out of five children, why was it always choosing children from the same family?

What kind of body had the system given him? And what kind of world was this?

“Village chief, what do we do with Yang Dazhuang? Should we send him to the village entrance to see the doctor?” one of the strong men asked.

The village chief glanced at Yang Dazhuang and said coldly, “He killed someone. We’ll follow the rules for murder.”

Then he picked up the silver coins Yang Dazhuang had just received and said coldly, “Slash all four of his limbs a few times, throw him outside the village, and leave him for three days. If he survives, it means it’s the mountain god’s will. If not—then it’s just his fate.”

 

Translator : DarNan