When Xun Zhencang put the broken bowl into his coat pocket, the rain had just stopped.
The last train of Metro Line 3 was empty, and he stared at his pale reflection in the window. Tonight's commercial performance was messed up - two guitar strings were broken, and the bald sponsor in the audience's face was as black as the bottom of a pot.
There was a sudden panic in my pocket.
He took out the bowl. Under the pale light of the subway, the crack along the edge of the bowl seemed to be breathing.
"What the hell," he muttered, wiping his thumb over the dusty bowl.
The sting came unexpectedly.
Blood beads emerged from the fingertips and rolled into the bottom of the bowl. Xun Zhencang took a breath of cold air and was about to throw away his hand——
The bowl comes alive.
Dark red lines exploded from the cracks, like blood vessels or tree roots, instantly covering the entire inner wall. Those lines were twisting, reorganizing, and finally solidifying into characters he had never seen before. It's not seal script, it's not oracle bones, it's some kind of... Living writing.
There was a "bang" in his mind.
Countless scenes exploded: the earth was torn apart, the sky was bleeding, and mountains of flesh with eyes were crawling on the ruins. There was a voice that cut directly into the skull: "They are awake... Right behind the wall... In the concrete of your subway tunnel..."
Xun Zhencang raised his head suddenly.
