NOVEL NEXT Chapter 276: Blood On The Gate
The net tighened and the market broke all before the sun rose the next morning.
People were huddled together as they stared at the King of Hell and his men, not sure what he was going to do next.
Their fear had a taste, and Yan Luo could taste it in the air as surely as he could taste the iron in blood.
The shuffle of sandals over stone, the hiss of someone trying to breathe through a prayer, the sharp pitch of a mule's cry when its driver yanked the reins too hard. Fear cracked people open.
He let it.
"Move the carts," he ordered.
Gaoyu barked the command, and the first wagon was dragged sideways, its wheels shrieking. The pilgrims inside howled protest, but no one dared step forward. Yan Luo's men were everywhere—leaning on poles, feigning disinterest, and then suddenly close, too close, their hands calloused, their eyes unblinking.
A woman wailed when her baskets were overturned, dried beans scattering across the frost-hardened ground. A child cried until one of the underworld women bent, pressed a sweet into her mouth, and the sobs softened into confusion.
The disguise was deliberate. Let the crowd think mercy and cruelty could wear the same face—it made them easier to herd.
Yan Luo walked between them as though he were inspecting livestock. His lantern swung low, casting shadows that crawled up the carts like reaching fingers. He crouched by bundles, tugged at wrappings, ignored the curses and the stammered apologies.
Most were exactly what they claimed—grain, cloth, dried fish. Some were not.
From the third cart, his men dragged a boy with hair roughly blackened by dye that still streaked his ears. The merchant who claimed him screamed about the child being a charity case, about famine and orphans, and how kind he was.
Yan Luo's knife flicked once, barely more than a whisper of steel, and cut the rope binding the boy's wrists together. The merchant shut his mouth when the boy bolted straight into the arms of Gaoyu's men.
"Too old," Yan Luo said flatly. His eyes cut to the merchant. "Too obvious."
The man broke into a sweat. He opened his mouth, then shut it again when Yan Luo's gaze lingered.
"Leave him," Yan Luo murmured. His men understood. The merchant sagged with relief—until a hand caught his neck and slammed him against the wagon wheel. He would not be leaving the square. Not alive.
The crowd stayed silent as they watched the show in front of them. They also learned just how far the King of Hell was willing to go when it came to something that belonged to him.
The whispers would start soon, and they would never end.
Yan Luo didn't care about what the others thought about him. The only thing he could concentrate on was the boy… and his mother.
Cart after cart, bundle after bundle. A goat bleated as its covering was stripped. A crate of clay bowls cracked when it hit the ground. He cared for none of it. He was listening, not for lies, but for silence.
Silence told more truth than a mouth ever did.
At the eighth cart, he found it. A box strapped beneath the slats, tucked where a constable wouldn't look twice. He crouched, his fingers brushing the rough lid. No sound. Too still. Too careful.
He lifted it anyway.
Inside was no child. Only dolls. Dolls with painted faces and hair sewn from human strands. Their mouths were painted open, their eyes wide. A mockery. A warning.
Gaoyu swore. "They're mocking us."
Yan Luo touched the paint on one doll's cheek. It smeared. Fresh.
"They're close," he said softly. "Close enough to laugh."
He stood, tossing the doll into the dirt. It shattered like a skull, its head splitting clean. The pilgrims flinched.
"Gate," he said.
The line lurched, as if the gate itself had teeth. His men shifted, tightening the noose. The guards who had pretended to sleep before were wide awake now, their hands gripping their spears too tight.
"Every child," Yan Luo said again.
A man tried to slip sideways, clutching his bundle too close. Gaoyu's knife spun once, burying itself in the dirt an inch from the man's foot. He froze. The bundle trembled. A whimper rose from within.
Yan Luo pulled it open.
Inside, a little girl blinked up at him. Bruised. Gagged. Not Lin Wei. Not his son.
But still stolen, nonetheless.
The crowd roared, a wave of protest and denial. Pilgrims surged, some trying to push forward, others back. The noose drew tight. Blades flashed.
"Quiet," Yan Luo said.
It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.
The girl's gag came free. She sobbed once, clutched the edge of his sleeve. His jaw tightened. He passed her to one of the women behind him, the only ones gentle enough to be trusted.
Gaoyu murmured, "This isn't him."
"No," Yan Luo said. His eyes were already scanning, sharp, merciless. "But he passed through here. This is the trail."
He turned, his gaze catching on the incense stall. The seller was trembling now, beads spilling from his hands.
"Who paid?" Yan Luo asked.
The man shook his head too fast. "No one—just pilgrims, just—"
Yan Luo's hand closed on his wrist. He squeezed once. Bone cracked like kindling. The beads fell, scattering across the stones.
"Who paid?" he asked again.
The man sobbed. "A monk. Red robe. Took the boy—"
"Where?"
"To the north road. Said it was for—"
Yan Luo let go. The man crumpled, clutching his wrist.
"North," Yan Luo said. "Cut them off."
Gaoyu was already signaling, his men peeling into the alleys like smoke.
The market had stilled again, the crowd holding its breath. The dolls lay broken in the dirt. The girl clung to a woman's neck. And Yan Luo stood at the center, the crane's head still heavy in his sleeve, his teeth bared in something too sharp to be called a smile.
"Run if you like," he told the square. His voice was soft, almost kind. "I enjoy the chase."
Then he turned north, and the hunt began again.