[Vol. 1, Fragment V: Mirror Demon Division ? Operational Guidelines]

  "Upon encountering Filth, kill without pardon. If encountering unkillable things, seal them. If encountering things that cannot be sealed... please contact that scavenger from the Directorate of Astronomy. Note: Remember to bring money. He doesn't accept banknotes, only silver or tribute wine."

  — Mirror Demon Division ? Internal Circulation Manual

  [Internal Note / Directorate of Astronomy] "Cooperation": Usually refers to: I do the dirty work, you write the report, in the end we split the credit, and you take the blame.

  The carriage bumped along the bluestone road, making a gug-gug-gug sound that crushed the last shreds of pre-dawn tranquility.

  Shen Wu sat opposite Xie Bi’an, holding the dead-weight golden cat, Xianchan, in his arms. He wore a black combat uniform embroidered with cloud patterns, a leather belt cinching his waist to outline a figure as upright as a pine. The ring-pommel saber lay across his knees, its black scabbard faintly flowing with cold light.

  This outfit should have been a symbol of slaughter and ruthlessness—the "Black Impermanence" that could stop a child’s crying in Jiankang City.

  But right now, the cold-faced Commander was frowning, using two fingers to gingerly pick a golden cat hair off his lapel.

  One hair, two hairs, three hairs...

  The cat was shedding at a heinous rate. And there was a suspicious wet spot—drool left by Xianchan while sleeping—slowly permeating the expensive cloud-pattern brocade.

  "Xie Bi’an."

  Shen Wu finally spoke, his voice teetering on the edge of a breakdown. "Your cat is using my 'Cloud Pattern' robe as a scratching post. This fabric was a tribute from the Suzhou Weaving Bureau last year. It’s worth a thousand gold."

  "Bear with it."

  Xie Bi’an leaned against the carriage wall, examining his newly recovered right hand in the morning light. The rosiness had returned under the skin, but the bone-deep chill remained, like a piece of cold jade that refused to warm up.

  "This fatty is very picky. Usually, he only scratches rosewood. If he’s willing to scratch your clothes, it means your fabric is good; it has 'spiritual energy'." Xie Bi’an said casually. "Being graced by a Prison-Guarding Divine Beast is a blessing for your clothes."

  A vein throbbed on Shen Wu’s temple. He took a deep breath, deciding to change the topic. Talking about cats with this man would shorten his lifespan.

  "The incident at White Horse Temple... how should I report it?"

  Shen Wu rubbed the hilt of his saber, his tone turning serious. "According to the Mirror Demon Division’s code, the appearance of a 'Meat Buddha' is a sign of the Heavenly Dao crumbling and the cosmos leaking. I should petition the Imperial Preceptor to order a purge and return all phenomena to origin. And all witnesses... having seen such a great evil, should be eliminated to preserve the Heavenly Secret."

  "Eliminate everyone?" Xie Bi’an raised an eyebrow, his look playful. "Including me?"

  "Originally, yes." Shen Wu spoke the truth, looking at Xie Bi’an’s hand with complex eyes. "But you turned it into Liuli. That isn't called 'Filth losing control.' That is called... 'Auspicious Signs descending to earth'."

  Xie Bi’an smiled.

  This Shen Wu looked cold, but his brain turned fast. In officialdom, knowing how to "treat a funeral like a wedding" was the secret to a long life.

  "Then write it like that," Xie Bi’an said lazily. "Say the Buddha’s light shone upon White Horse Temple, the flesh became saintly, transforming into a golden body of Liuli. This is Heaven moved by the Emperor’s sincerity in seeking the Dao, sending down a special auspicious sign."

  "As for that Receptionist Monk..." Xie Bi’an pointed at the cat in Shen Wu’s arms. "Say he 'accidentally ate unclean food,' went mad, and returned to his hometown to recuperate."

  Xianchan cooperated by rolling over in Shen Wu’s arms and smacking his lips, seemingly savoring the aftertaste of his earlier meal.

  Shen Wu was silent for a moment, then nodded. "Fine. I’ll write this memorial."

  From this moment on, the Commander of the Mirror Demon Division became an accomplice to the Gleaner of the Directorate of Astronomy. It meant Shen Wu had transformed from an absolutely rational violence machine into a "human" with secrets.

  The carriage stopped at the entrance of a dilapidated alley.

  It wasn't far from the Imperial Palace, yet it seemed like a corner forgotten by prosperity. The walls were mottled, overgrown with moss. The air was filled with a damp, moldy smell and... an indescribable earthy stench.

  It smelled like freshly dug grave soil mixed with the rot of old paper.

  A courtyard hanging a plaque reading "Directorate of Astronomy ? Miscellaneous Division" stood lonely at the end of the alley. The plaque was crooked, covered in a spiderweb that looked like a single eye coldly watching the visitors.

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  "We're here."

  Xie Bi’an jumped off the carriage and stretched. "Welcome to my... mailroom."

  Shen Wu followed behind, holding the cat, his brow locked tight.

  He couldn't imagine that an expert capable of casually sealing a Meat Buddha actually lived in a place like this. And it was too quiet here—there wasn't even the sound of insects.

  "Come in, don't mind the mess. Although it's broken, it has its merits... the Yin energy is heavy, keeps it cool."

  Xie Bi’an pushed open the creaking rotten wooden door.

  The moment Shen Wu crossed the threshold, his footsteps halted abruptly.

  His hand instantly tightened on his saber hilt, every muscle in his body tensing. An intense sense of crisis shot straight to his skull—the instinctive reaction of a warrior facing a natural predator.

  This chill surpassed... the cold of mountains of corpses and seas of blood.

  The dim room was densely packed with dark brown clay jars. Some sat on shelves, some were piled haphazardly in corners, and some were even used to prop up table legs.

  Every single jar was pasted with a yellow talisman paper. The cinnabar on the paper was dripping red, looking as fresh as if just painted.

  And in Shen Wu’s senses, every jar was "breathing."

  Hoo— Haa—

  Hoo— Haa—

  Countless tiny sounds converged into a low, bone-chilling resonance. It wasn't the wind; it was hundreds of sealed Filthy things simultaneously banging against the jar walls.

  In a slender jar on the left shelf, something soft seemed to be squirming, making sticky squelch-squelch noises. From a large-bellied jar on the right, green ghost fire flickered faintly. The jar propping up the table leg was the most terrifying—it emitted bursts of laughter that sounded like a crying baby, accompanied by the ear-piercing scratch of fingernails against clay.

  What made Shen Wu’s scalp go numb was that when he walked in with his aura of killing intent, a black jar in the corner labeled "Forbidden" suddenly vibrated violently. A raspy, greedy human voice mimicked from inside:

  "...Blade... fast blade... give me..."

  "Shut up."

  Xie Bi’an didn't turn his head. He backhanded a teacup lid from the table and smashed it precisely onto the black jar. Clang.

  "Embarrass me in front of guests again, and I’ll throw you into the septic tank." Xie Bi’an threatened coldly.

  The voice in the jar vanished instantly, shrinking back with a shiver. The other jars in the room quieted down simultaneously, like a group of primary school students being scolded by the head teacher.

  Shen Wu watched this scene, cold sweat soaking the back of his black uniform.

  This was the Miscellaneous Division? It was practically a ghost prison ready to explode at any moment. And this man slept amidst these things every day?

  "Don't stand on ceremony, sit anywhere."

  Xie Bi’an pointed to the only grand armchair—which was occupied by the aloof silver cat, Anu. "Oh, that's Anu's seat. You take the bench."

  Shen Wu sat stiffly on the bench missing a leg, his hand daring not leave his hilt.

  "Gleaner Xie." Shen Wu took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. "What is your purpose in collecting these things? Wouldn't killing them be cleaner?"

  "Kill?"

  Xie Bi’an poured himself a cup of cold water, his gaze drifting through the window toward the splendid Imperial Palace in the distance.

  "Commander Shen, you hold a blade, so you think beheading solves the problem. But in my view, Filthy Qi is like water. If you cut the flow, the water just splashes everywhere, or seeps into the soil to grow even stranger things."

  "The amount of dirt in this world is fixed. The Imperial Preceptor wants 'pure' immortality, expelling all the Filth. I don't kill them because I can't kill them all. If I kill a Meat Buddha today, a Thousand-Hand Guanyin will grow tomorrow."

  Xie Bi’an pointed at the room full of clay jars. "I bottle them up, classify them, seal them. This is to keep the city of Jiankang... from rotting so fast."

  He said this with a tone as calm as discussing how to pickle vegetables.

  But in Shen Wu’s eyes, this man who reeked of alcohol and lived in a garbage dump suddenly seemed tall, and dangerous.

  This was far more than collecting trash. More accurately, it was "feeding demons with one’s own body," repairing the guardrail on the edge of a cliff.

  Xie Bi’an’s mouth hooked into a mocking arc.

  From his sleeve, he pulled out the tattered book, Records of Strange Tales from the Great Wilderness, which he had brought from the Ghost Market. The book was emitting a faint heat, its cover—made of a material resembling human skin—writhing slightly, as if it had just drunk its fill of nutrients.

  "Commander Shen, hurry back and write your memorial."

  Xie Bi’an issued the eviction order, a trace of exhaustion flashing in his eyes. "Tell the Imperial Preceptor that White Horse Temple is very clean. Also..."

  He raised his still-cold right hand and grabbed at the empty air.

  "Help me investigate if any wealthy families in Jiankang have been secretly buying 'Liuli' recently."

  "Liuli?" Shen Wu paused.

  "Yes." Xie Bi’an’s eyes turned dark. "Meat Buddhas aren't born; they are raised. Someone is trying to imitate my 'craftsmanship,' but... the work is too shoddy."

  Shen Wu’s heart went cold.

  He stood up and bowed with clasped fists to Xie Bi’an. This time, it was a sincere bow between equals.

  "I understand. Farewell."

  Shen Wu turned and left, his black hem carving a sharp arc in the doorway, stirring up a cold wind.

  Only after Shen Wu left did Xie Bi’an collapse into his chair, letting out a long breath.

  "Anu, close the door."

  The silver cat jumped down and shut the door with her tail.

  The light in the room dimmed.

  Xie Bi’an looked at the room full of jars and the tattered Records of Strange Tales in his hand. The ease on his face vanished, replaced by deep gravity.

  He flipped to the last page of the book.

  The place originally covered in dried bloodstains had come alive because it had just absorbed the Filthy Qi of the Meat Buddha.

  There was no neat handwriting, no square frames.

  The dark red bloodstain acted like a greedy tongue, licking and writhing frantically across the yellowed page. First, it smeared out a blurred, greasy pattern—vaguely recognizable as the residue of a Great Buddha after being chewed up—exuding a satisfied stench.

  The page was quiet for a moment.

  Then, the bloodstain seemed to decide it wasn't enough.

  It began to spread outward. The paper made faint hiss-hiss sounds, as if someone were scratching frantically behind the page with fingernails.

  Blood permeated the back of the paper, forcefully "gouging" out a few twisted, scrawled characters in the blank space, dripping with mad hunger:

  "...Greasy." "...Not full."

  Then, the bloody characters collapsed, turning into countless thin red threads that tangled into chaotic graffiti.

  The graffiti was extremely abstract: countless human faces squeezed together, some crying, some laughing, and the edges of every face were peeling, revealing the stark white bone beneath.

  Beside this terrifying "Portrait of Sentient Beings," the blood dripped down to drag out a new expectation:

  "Next time... want to eat... a thousand skins."

  Xie Bi’an’s fingers gently stroked the line of text. His fingertips felt a wet, warm sensation, like touching a piece of freshly peeled meat.

  "A thousand skins..."

  Xie Bi’an’s pupils constricted slightly. He felt the thorn in his heart drill a fraction deeper.

  This book wasn't recording. It was ordering off a menu.

  "Looks like this 'janitor' job is getting harder to do."

  He closed the book, listening to the wind picking up outside the window. He felt the heating book in his palm pulsing, beat by beat, in time with his own heart.