Chapter 22: Fragments of a Dream 3

He hurriedly pressed the Bright-Eyed Jade Pendant against his chest. A cooling sensation washed over his entire body, and the manic hatred in his mind gradually began to subside, yet Wu Que still furrowed his brows deeply.

As the sound of the flute emerged, everyone throughout the pavilion went mad, tearing at and beating one another.

Mist slowly exhaled from the mouth of the golden snake hanging on the first floor. It dispersed rapidly, instantly filling the entire great hall.

Looking down through the mist, the originally bustling figures were obscured, appearing semi-transparent, like small, pixelated characters.

Enveloped by the thick fog, people could no longer clearly see each other’s faces, which only stripped away any remaining restraint upon the hatred in their hearts.

With crimson eyes, they scrambled to climb the scales of the golden snake, their goal none other than the "White Fairy" standing at the very top.

Their eyes glowed with a scarlet light in the mist. Cursing and piling atop one another, they climbed upward in a frenzy.

Those standing on the pavilion balconies lost their reason and began jumping off the railings one after another.

Those who fell on their heads had their blood splatter five paces away; those who landed on their limbs felt no pain, using their broken bodies to crawl toward the golden snake, only to be submerged in the crowd and instantly trampled into pulp.

Watching this scene of an Avici hell, Wu Que dared not delay. He gripped his blade with both hands, pressed his back against the snake’s tail, and watched the tide of humanity below with nervous intensity.

Fortunately, the golden snake was not easy to climb. The puppets, driven by hatred, no longer understood courtesy; consumed by intense malice, they began a new round of attacks on one another.

They wielded wooden planks, hairpins, and vases—using whatever they could get their hands on to begin this chaotic, ruleless slaughter.

Before reaching even halfway up, many fell like overripe apples, yet even so, more and more people continued to climb the scales.

Wu Que dared not relax for a moment, his gaze locked firmly below. Before long, a semi-transparent, somewhat stout man with red eyes lunged at him.

Thanks to the "Blade Master" buff, Wu Que’s grip on his weapon was even more powerful.

He timed the man’s lunge, struck with a single blade, and heard the sound of steel sinking into flesh. The man became wedged in the scales, thrashed twice, and then went still.

No sooner had he dealt with the first man than several bloody hands reached up from below. There were simply too many people in the brothel, and Wu Que was forced into a continuous battle with the endless stream of puppets.

The flute music seemed to provide a soundtrack to the slaughter. As Wu Que listened, he felt increasingly exhilarated, and his own eyes began to be overtaken by a crimson hue.

***

Elsewhere, in the reception room, Hong Lei was relentlessly pursuing the Madam. His movements were ghostly, launching a cannon-like punch that carried a gale of force.

The Madam could not parry; she took the strike with her left arm, and her massive frame was sent flying. Hearing the deep, haunting flute music from below, she gritted her teeth, a trace of resolve entering her eyes.

"Hong Xing, if you dare to deceive me, I will not let you go, even as a ghost!"

Using the momentum of Hong Lei’s punch, she slammed straight into the door of the reception room. The door shattered, and the Madam took the opportunity to fly backward.

"Trying to run?"

Hong Lei was also affected by the flute; his head grew hot, and he followed the trail of black mist, flying out. When his vision cleared, he found himself outside the brothel.

Glancing at the fleeing Madam and then at the sun in the sky, he knew he didn't have much time left, so he took to the air, flying straight toward her.

"Disciple, I am spread too thin to help; you must be careful."

Hong Lei’s speed was clearly superior to the Madam’s. Within a few breaths, he overtook her. Hong Lei pressed the attack, and the Madam fought while retreating, leaving a trail of flying sand and stones in their wake.

Although he held the upper hand, the black mist covering the Madam’s body was so dense that Hong Lei could not see anything beyond two steps. Fortunately, the Madam was only focused on fleeing, and in her panic, she revealed a flaw.

Hong Lei’s body erupted with a sea-like, surging internal energy. He concentrated this force into his fist, suddenly pulled his arm back, and delivered a heavy punch laden with gale-force power.

Seeing no way to dodge, the Madam had no choice but to condense her own fist-wind and meet him head-on.

A series of cracking sounds echoed as bones shattered, with shards piercing through the skin of her arm, which then went limp at a visible rate.

The black mist slowly dissipated. The Madam knelt on the ground, gasping for breath, beads of sweat the size of beans sliding down her greasy body. Hong Lei looked at the street before him, a grave expression creeping between his brows.

The Madam had appeared to be in a desperate state, but her true goal had been to lure him to the Chuma Street.

Clearly, she had succeeded.

On the stage of Chuma Street, a familiar figure was performing with all their might.

The figure gradually blurred, eventually diffusing into the shape of a circle of light.

The scene focused on a new residence.

The young girl had changed into plain clothes, adopted many stray cats, and was doing some embroidery work. Though the table held only simple meals, it was enough to keep her fed and warm.

(I am satisfied with this life. Perhaps I will live like this for the rest of my days.)

The scene switched to a night, the lens focused on the gate of the house.

"Thump, thump, thump, thump..." A rhythmic knocking sounded.

"...Who is it?" The girl draped a garment over her shoulders and walked to the door, but no one responded outside; they just stubbornly kept knocking.

She pulled open the gate, and what met her eyes was her mother’s aged face.

"Hehe... hehehe, Nizi, I’ve been looking for you for three days and three nights, three days and three nights!"

"Nizi, we mother and daughter must never be parted again."

The scene froze on the dining table once more, still simple food, only now there were two portions. Occasionally, medicine packets would appear on the table, but the stray cats were nowhere to be seen.

Slowly, the furniture in the house grew scarcer, and the jewelry box became empty.

(Mother’s illness is like a gluttonous beast, demanding endlessly.)

The scene switched; the mother and daughter were still embracing.

The camera focused on the mother’s face; she was smiling obsequiously.

In the frame, the mother and daughter were still hugging.

"Nizi, can you go back to doing that work? Mom is old and useless now. It was my fault for abandoning you back then; can you please not abandon Mom?"

(I don't want to go back, and I am no longer the young, beautiful girl I once was. But I know that when I was a child, Mom did this work to raise me; now, it is my turn to do this work to raise her.)

The scene slowly shifted, finally freezing in front of a bronze mirror and a vanity.

Wu Que watched this scene, feeling a sharp, visceral pain.

The frame locked: Xu Jiabai sat before the mirror, using dried rouge to smear her face again and again, then wiping it off repeatedly. She looked at herself in the mirror, crying one moment and laughing the next.

The scene turned to the entrance of the brothel. Xu Jiabai wore the heaviest makeup and the most revealing clothes, a foolish smile on her face, as she slowly pushed open those doors.

The Madam did not receive her. The other girls who followed Hong Xing threw her food on the ground, pinched her with sharp fingernails, and spoke contemptuous, insulting words to her.

She was thrown into a dilapidated shack. No one was willing to enter her room. She sat on the bed in the shack, accompanied only by a dim lamp.

Unknown how much time had passed, the door of the shack was pushed open slowly, and a drunken, cross