At the edge of the fishing village. A small, ramshackle courtyard woven from bamboo strips.

A man in a grey short jacket, both arms bare, grinning with contempt, had his arms spread wide like a hawk dropping on a chick — blocking a small woman in a blue floral top from getting past.

“A widow having a bastard child — my brother Yang would be humiliated.”

“Go to hell — he was never your brother Yang, you and that village master father of yours are exactly the same, rotten through — get your filthy hands off me!”

The woman held a child barely two years old, jaw set, something ferocious in the small, cornered stillness of her.

“Ha!” The man — Meng Xian — seemed energized rather than put out by the cursing. “What’s the matter? Others can have you, but Meng Xian can’t even touch? Let me tell you straight — I wouldn’t want you stripped naked, you dirty thing, but that kid — hand him over.”

He reached for the child.

The woman’s face twisted. She bit down, no hesitation—

Outside the bamboo courtyard, a young man sat in the dirt with blank, wandering eyes. Filthy all over — clothes with holes patched over other holes, grass sandals worn through to nothing, one foot bare, fingernails caked dark, shins coated in something unpleasant and black.

“Heh heh… fight… fight…”

He watched the two of them struggle, smacking the ground with his palms, mouth open in laughter. Something was clearly not right with him.

“Hss!“

Meng Xian’s expression shifted. He yanked his wrist back, staring at a deep set of tooth marks going red. His good humor evaporated.

He stopped playing and swung — one flat, open-handed blow that sent the woman staggering backward and dropping hard onto the ground, eyes dazed.

“Yes! Hit her!” The filthy young man clapped with genuine delight.

“Shut up, you idiot.”

Meng Xian glared at him and turned back, grabbing the crying infant. He sneered down at the woman. “No luck in this life — you unlucky filth. Once your little bastard goes into the water, he’ll ride back on the river’s waves to bring you to happiness.”

“Your mother should go into the—”

The disheveled woman came at him headfirst. Meng Xian’s eye twitched and he raised his foot to kick her flat — then someone grabbed his arm.

He turned in irritation. Surprise crossed his face. “Father?”

The village master said nothing, expression dark. He slapped his son hard across the face, snatched the child, handed it back to the woman, and said: “Come home. Now.”

Meng Xian was rubbing his cheek, still trying to say something, when he glanced down the lane and his entire body locked up.

He ran. Fast. Without looking back. “Hell — those black-coat people—”

Around the corner, a figure in ink-black brocade had followed the sounds and was approaching — one hand resting on the scabbard, clear eyes holding something that had gone faintly cold.

Shen Yi had been winding through the fishing buildings when he found the source of the noise.

He stopped at the bamboo gate, looked at the empty lane ahead, closed his eyes to listen for a moment, then kept walking.

The widow came out of the courtyard with her son, pushing her hair back. One side of her face was already bruising. Her split lip pulled when she spoke.

“I thought the old dog was pulling back — so it was the Commander who came. Please, come in.”

She said it easily, and stepped into his path as she did.

“…”

Shen Yi looked at her quietly. “Does it not hurt?”

If it hurt. If she was angry. Then why stand in his way — was the river deity worth more to her than her own son?

The widow blinked. The question seemed to have landed somewhere she hadn’t expected. She looked down for a moment, then managed a small, tired smile.

“You haven’t been with the Division long, have you?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Come in and sit.” She carried her son into the courtyard, dragged a bamboo stool out with one hand. “Because everyone in Linjiang Prefecture knows — the Demon Suppression Division slays evil and shields the innocent. The best people there are.”

Shen Yi hesitated, then sat at her invitation.

The widow looked up. Something moved behind her eyes. “But they—” she tilted her head toward the village, “—the majority — they are the people.”

A short, self-deprecating sound. “My husband and I — we were the wicked ones.”

At husband, Shen Yi glanced at the child in her arms, something off about the math. He was about to look away.

The widow didn’t seem to care. She spat once. “I had him with a dog.”

She set the child down, went to the well, wrung out a cloth, and came back outside. She kicked the madman once, not gently, looked at the bleeding scrapes covering his arms and shins beneath the dirt, and crouched down to clean them.

She cleaned and scolded simultaneously.

“Useless thing — when there’s something that needs doing you vanish for seven or eight days, why didn’t you just starve out there, what good are you to anyone, sitting there drooling—”

“Go wash your hands. Food soon.”

Shen Yi watched this with a quiet attention.

The widow explained without being asked. “He used to be one of them. Married at fifteen or sixteen. His family’s turn came up — their turn to send a child into the water. His wife was too young when they made her have it. Difficult birth, she barely survived.”

“Village master took her anyway. Not a proper maiden, but close enough — she went into the Yangchun River as the female offering. He went mad.”

Another kick. Not angry — just habitual.

Then, with a certain flatness: “Nobody wants their turn to come. But when someone else’s turn comes, you don’t want to give up what you’re owed either. It’s been this way for generations. Calling it an offering to a deity is just the polite version. What it really is — is revenge on the families that sent their children into the river before yours did.”

“My husband — the kind who refused to have a child at all. The river took him and left nothing. Evil punished by evil, they said.”

“That’s why the Division doesn’t intervene. Everyone’s a victim. Everyone’s doing terrible things. Four hundred years of these debts — even if the river deity were gone tomorrow, they’d hold the grand offering anyway.”

“Grand offering! Kill! Kill! Kill!” The madman bared his teeth, eyes flooded with red, laughter cracking into something raw. “Kill me first! Kill me first!”

He scraped across the ground toward the young man’s feet, fingers closing around the dark scabbard at his hip.

Shen Yi didn’t move. He watched those dirt-blackened hands grip the blade and leave prints across the black lacquer.

He reached down. Five fingers moved through the madman’s tangled, nest-like hair, then closed — gently.

The widow had been turning to fetch the fish soup from inside. She stopped. Something frightened came into her face. “Sir — he’s — he’s already lost his mind — he can’t be a person, can’t be one of the wicked — just let him live as a mad dog—”

“Kill!” The madman’s eyes went enormous, nearly bulging out, voice tearing from his throat, saliva stringing at his mouth. The pure animal sound of something broken.

Shen Yi looked at his face.

The pressure in his fingers eased, and he began to smooth the man’s hair back — slowly, the way you’d settle a frightened animal.

The madman shuddered. Gradually, the sound stopped.

Then he heard a quiet voice, and his whole body went rigid as if lightning had struck it.

“Thank you.” Shen Yi’s lips barely moved. The cold had settled fully into his face, but his eyes stayed clear. His voice was level as still water. “I won’t let it go to waste.”

Seven or eight days missing.

A bloodstained identity token, left at the Linjiang Prefecture yamen with no explanation.

All of it had been working toward one thing — getting a message to Qingzhou.

There is a demon here. A great demon.

In the village itself.

(End of Chapter)