The setting sun, red as blood, spills over the withered village of Liulin, sucking away its last trace of warmth and leaving only a chill that seeps into the bones. The wind slips through crooked fences and empty courtyards, lifting the gray-white spirit money from the ground and sending it whistling like a mournful wail. The air is thick with an indescribable stench of decay, mingled with the bitterness of burning cheap medicinal herbs and... the scent of death.
Liulin Village was dead.
It had not been slaughtered by weapons, yet what happened was even crueler. A mysterious “ghost fever” took root like a parasite, draining the life from this village of several hundred people in just half a month. At first came high fevers and chills, then full-body convulsions. Strange blue-black, web-like patterns appeared beneath the skin, and finally the victims died in unbearable agony, bleeding from every orifice. The bodies decomposed with astonishing speed. Often, in less than a night, they were swollen, blackened, and reeking.
The coroner and physicians sent by the authorities wore thick masks and took only a few glances from a distance before fleeing as if from snakes and scorpions. They hastily drew a circle at the village entrance and stuck in a few shabby wooden stakes to mark the quarantine, then never came back. Liulin Village became a forgotten island, a living hell on earth.
