The drums of Chang'an West Market were beating at the third watch, and the lid of Yizhuang's coffin suddenly made a soft clicking sound.
Lu Zhaoming's fingertips were hanging between the eyebrows of the seventh corpse, and his Guanming pupils were glowing blue in the night - this caravan guard whose throat was cut had ink demonic lines seeping out from under his skin, climbing along the meridians towards the heart like a living creature.
The copper bell in his sleeve trembled slightly. It was the Jianling Pavilion token that his father had given him before his death. It was making a scream that only he could hear, like fingernails scraping against bone stubble.
"Sir, have you noticed something strange again?" The clerk squatting at the door shrank his neck, and his face turned green under the light of the lantern. "There have been seven cases this month. The dead were all walking around, and each one looked more sinister than the last..."
Lu Zhaoming said nothing.
He took off the cowhide wine bag from the deceased's waist and pressed his fingertips on the wine-stained animal patterns.
The moment the blood mist exploded in front of his eyes, he heard the last scream of the deceased - not a human voice, but some kind of strange scream with the sound of scales rolling in the throat.
The moonlight slanted in through the broken window and shone on the newly engraved small characters on the inside of the wine bag: "Twenty years ago, the demon ate the dragon fetus."
It leaked and dripped for another half moment.
