Blood-Eyed Spirit Pact

The moon over Wujiao Village is always red. Under its light, the mottled bloodstains on the reef at the village entrance glow a dark crimson, as if steeped in centuries of injustice. Whenever the moon is full, the sea wind surges in, carrying a fishy stench and setting the wind chimes before Xuanling Temple clanging. Their sound is not clear and sweet, but more like wailing at a funeral. The copper pieces of the chimes are carved with densely packed incantations. As they collide in the wind, they sound like countless departed souls sobbing. The ancient trees around the temple stretch their branches toward the sky like withered ghost claws. As they sway, they creak as if struggling to escape some invisible restraint. Their shadows twist across the ground like eerie dancers, silently telling of the horrors of the past.

Chen Mo lay on a rickety wooden bed, the cracks in his palm beginning to bleed again. Beads of blood crept slowly along the lines of the character “Mo” and dripped onto the straw mat, where they formed a tiny glowing sigil. The edges of the mat were already soaked through with bloodstains, dark brown marks spreading like a spiderweb, silently telling of the horrors of the past. He closed his eyes, and the nightmare arrived right on cue...

A blade palanquin, its seat formed from thirty-six sharp blades planted point-down. Their cold light shimmered in the darkness, while beads of blood gathered on the tips and dripped to the ground with a steady patter. A barefoot boy danced upon the blades, blood spraying three feet high. With every step, a blade sank an inch into his foot, yet his face showed no pain, only a strange devotion. The boy's face was exactly like his own. At the far end of the palanquin, a statue of a god, its gold paint peeling, slowly opened its eyes. Blood seeped from its sockets, and its crimson pupils were as deep as an abyss. The statue spoke, its voice like a tidal wave: “The one who offers the sacrifice will, in the end, become the vessel.”