Chapter 102: Treating the Addicted and the Rules

Chen Qing looked at the wallet he had pilfered, his mouth curling into a grin—a smile that looked exceptionally foolish.

He could only smile; he felt powerless to make any further movements. Leaning against a shelf, he drove a metal skewer deep into his own shoulder. He chuckled softly, his fingertips trembling so violently that he could not open the wallet.

The world before his eyes grew distorted, like the flickering static on an old television screen. A dense layer of hallucinations blurred reality. Looking through this veil of static, the wallet no longer resembled a wallet; it looked like an octopus, baring its fangs and brandishing its claws as it sprawled across his palm. He was exhausted, his eyes aching intensely.

He wanted to see the world clearly. With his other empty hand, he rubbed his brow, but it was useless. The world remained blurred, with halos of light radiating from the electric lamps. That light spilled outward, making the world seem bright and warm.

He pinched a corner of the wallet, his arm trembling slightly. With weak hands, he finally pried open the hole-ridden wallet, and its contents tumbled to the floor.

Clink, clatter.

Two coins, a business card, and a metal skewer stained with dried blood and a yellowish fluid—that was all the wallet contained.

He struggled to crouch down, but because he was leaning against the shelves, the skewers hanging from them had pierced into his flesh. The blood flowed down the skewers and along his arms; it was viscous, reflecting layers of blood-red halos.

He lowered his head, staring at the skewers that impeded him. He reached out, and suddenly, he heard the blood speaking to him.

"Stay! Just stay! You belong here!"

The blood was wailing.

"Eat! Enjoy yourself! No one should have to pay for indulgence!"

The blood clamored, picking up the merchandise from the shelf and smashing it against his face. The packaging was silver-white, but now it turned crimson, stained by the blood that held it.

He looked at the packaging. It became transparent, allowing him to see the food inside.

Food. Perhaps it really was food.

He swallowed his saliva, watching hundreds, thousands of tiny, dense maggots crawl across a skull. They gnawed at the thin membrane of flesh on the scalp, growing in an instant into fat, alluring white grubs. In the next heartbeat, they transformed into pupae, struggling to burst forth from their shells, churning within the small package and making the silver plastic bag tremble in Chen Qing’s hand.

It was just like a fresh fish or shrimp, twitching and writhing, looking incredibly fresh.

He should gently pinch the head of this jumping sea shrimp, then suck out the pale yellow and orange-red pancreatic fluid within, just as he had torn open the package, grabbed the churning moths inside, snapped their necks, and drank their immature glands.

Next, he should break open the shrimp shells, where the snow-white meat—no different from those large white grubs and un-metamorphosed maggots—awaited to be delivered to his mouth.

He looked at the opened package, squinting. For some reason, the numbness in his shoulder seemed to diminish; it no longer ached, nor did it tremble.

He inhaled the scent before him, and it felt as if all obstacles had vanished.

The halos of the world disappeared, objects became distinct, and the wounds on his hands healed.

He marveled, his fingertips beginning to reach slowly into the package.

"..."

In that instant, in the moment when his mind held nothing but the urge to feed, a new life suddenly manifested within his consciousness.

It was watching him. It was staring at him.

Chen Qing froze. He looked around in a daze, his hand still inside the packaging.

But there was no one there.

He stood stunned, yet the sensation in his mind refused to dissipate.

"Turn around."

He heard the words in his mind, but when he turned, there was nothing behind him.

He was startled, yet the voice was incredibly familiar.

"Who..."

His hoarse throat uttered the word; he hadn't even realized his voice had become like this. He could feel that the sound was appearing directly within his mind.

But who was it?

He stood frozen, and before he could ask, the voice spoke again.

"See your path clearly. See who you are."

"Turn around!" This time, the voice became a shrill, hateful shriek, as if she wanted to tear apart the person she was trying to persuade.

"See what you are doing!"

His gaze faltered. His blood-stained hand, for reasons unknown, picked up a skewer from his side and plunged it fiercely into his own chest.

Yet, somehow, his body twisted slightly, and the skewer pierced his lung at an angle.

"How..." he stammered, his eyes wandering. He looked at his arm leaning against the shelf, his blood-soaked hand, his hand reaching into the package, his hand picking up the ID from the floor, and the hand clutching his chest to shift his body. "What is... happening?"

He looked askance toward the shelves, while another eye looked toward the floor. He watched the direction the blood flowed, and the direction of his own chest cavity.

He had dozens of gazes that could turn independently. He had dozens of eyeballs rotating individually.

"What has... become of me?"

He struggled, those dozens of eyes instantly observing every item in the shopping carts present: food, tissues, daily necessities.

He walked forward, his footsteps turning into a wet, slapping sound.

He was too weak to look down, and he dared not look down. He feared seeing his feet transformed into dozens of viscous tentacles, unable to move forward.

"Food. Food."

He watched what the others were taking—nothing but food.

Every time they took an item from the shelf, two more would appear to replenish it until the stock was full. When the number of items consumed was odd, no replenishment occurred.

He looked at the shelves before him, each with its own unique display.

"Is it the merchandise? Is there something wrong with the goods?"

He watched the shopping carts pushed by the entities, seeing those silver-white items, and suddenly he froze.

He walked to a shelf. At the very top, dozens of chocolate bars in brown packaging were lined up.

It was not full; it was not even half-full.

Next to the chocolates lay a knife, about thirty centimeters long.

The blade glinted, looking exceptionally dazzling beside the brown chocolate.

He raised his hand and, without knowing why, picked up the knife.

But once he held it, he realized why he had raised it.

He closed those two eyes, using his remaining gazes to stare at the kitchen knife.

He watched the tip of the blade draw closer and closer. He could feel a trace of soreness in his brow, but he kept those other eyes open, using the blade to reach in and carve out the extra gazes one by one.

Then, he opened his eyes. In their place, six or seven blood-and-mucus-covered eyeballs lay on the floor along with a pair of eyes.

He looked at his arm, tucked the knife under his armpit, and gave a gentle tug. The extra arms fell to the floor.

He lifted his foot, and as he set it down, those tentacles—those sticky, slapping appendages—dropped to the ground.

He had returned to himself, back to his original human form.

He took a deep breath. The scent of blood in the air made him feel incredibly comfortable.

He closed his eyes, took the chocolate he had previously felt an aversion to from the top shelf, tore open the package, and put the chocolate into his mouth.

As the trace of bitterness spread across his tongue, he realized that the allure of those living, fat grubs had diminished.

Gritting his teeth, he put two pieces of chocolate into his pocket. After taking a deep breath, he began to walk toward the gathering point.