Chapter 50: Whispered Words, The Fisherman Feeds on Men

Chapter 50: Sinister Whispers—The Fisherman Devours

That uncanny statue lurking in the darkness remained utterly motionless, and in the wavering torchlight, it seemed almost to mock Guo Qi’s helplessness and despair.

Guo Qi’s rage crashed about like a headless fly, meeting nothing but dead ends. He was seized by a sense of defeat and impotence such as he had never known before. Collapsing to his knees, he clutched at his hair with both hands, wracked with agony.

The air around them grew dense and still; not a soul dared to breathe. Everyone watched in silence, knowing that Guo Qi’s fury and despair were but a single thread in this tapestry of terror. The true horror, they sensed, was yet concealed, lurking deeper within the shadows.

Suddenly, Guo Qi let out a wild, guttural yell and sprang to his feet. He frantically rummaged through the bags scattered on the ground. With trembling hands, he pulled out a large gourd.

None of the others reacted—perhaps they simply no longer wished to react at all.

Zhang Sanlu saw it clearly: it was the gourd filled with lamp oil.

With a crackling sound, Guo Qi, clutching the gourd, charged madly across the piles of remains, trampling over brittle bones. His eyes were bloodshot, and he dashed forward like a lone hero plunging into a sea of enemies.

“Die!” he roared, and with all his strength, he hurled the oil-filled gourd straight at the Thousand-Armed Bodhisattva statue.

The gourd traced a strange arc through the air and smashed against the statue’s waist with a loud bang. Oil splattered everywhere, soaking the lower half of the seated statue in an instant.

Guo Qi immediately raised his torch high. The flame danced in the darkness, heralding doom as if a gate to the abyss had opened.

Without hesitation or pause, Guo Qi flung the torch after the gourd. It spun through the night like a meteor.

With a deafening whoosh, flames devoured the oil at once, erupting into a roaring inferno that engulfed the statue in a sea of fire.

The tendrils of flame crawled swiftly up the statue’s base, licking their way higher, until the entire solemn body was enveloped. The cold, unyielding stone began to crackle under the searing heat, as if the statue itself were silently writhing in torment.

Shrouded in darkness, the Thousand-Armed Bodhisattva was consumed by fire, its features twisting into a vision of horror. Illuminated by the blaze, the statue appeared even more grotesque—every hand seemed to writhe and struggle, and the fluttering shroud that covered its face, now licked by flames, took on a ghastly, fiendish aspect. Fire raced across every inch of carved flesh, turning the once-cold stone into something molten and deformed.

Countless stone arms danced in the flames, as if performing some secret ritual. The fire-lit face became monstrous, every line contorting as if radiating endless pain. The statue, no longer the image of mercy it once was, seemed transformed into a demonic entity, releasing a torrent of malevolent power.

As the fire raged, the cloth shrouding the statue’s face began to peel away, revealing eerie markings and sigils beneath—ancient, glowing with a sinister light amid the flames. It was as if these markings were alive, squirming and twisting, exuding an even more dreadful aura with every lick of fire.

The very air seemed to burn, hot and warped by the flames. Every eye was wide with terror, each witness paralyzed by an indescribable dread, as though their souls were about to be swallowed whole.

Then, from within the inferno, the statue emitted a deep, prolonged roar—a sound like a summons from the pits of hell that made every hair stand on end. Yet, listen closely as they might, it seemed almost as if nothing had been heard at all.

Everyone held their breath. Suddenly, a chanting rose from within the statue—low, distant, and unnaturally sinister, like a litany from a forgotten nightmare.

At that moment, the shroud over the statue’s face was finally consumed, turning to ash in an instant. As the last of the cloth burned away, the statue’s true face was revealed: twisted and deformed by the heat, but the eyes—where once compassion ought to dwell—were now two bottomless black abysses, untouched by flame, staring at each onlooker as if to drag their souls into endless darkness.

It was as if the statue had come to life in the fire; every hand moved, summoning some unknown force. The chanting grew louder, piercing every ear and echoing straight to the heart. At that moment, all felt a terror and despair deeper than ever before, as if trapped in a nightmare from which there was no escape.

The echoes were like the whispers of myriad demons, weaving a web of horror in the darkness, binding each and every soul.

Suddenly, from the narrow, shadowy corridor behind them, a strange noise broke the silence—an eerie creak that snapped them from their trance. Zhang Sanlu, Old Yao, Guo Dashu, and Zheng Ji all turned in alarm.

What they saw next would haunt them forever.

From the darkness, a human figure slowly emerged—first a leg, then a nose and chin, stepping forward into the firelight.

Everyone saw it.

From the shadows appeared Guo Xiaoshu, who had long since died—a body stripped of its skin by some unnameable horror.

No, it could no longer be called a person. Once glimpsed by Guo Qi in the darkness, it now appeared for reasons unknown, drifting into the circle of firelight.

Its body wobbled as if pulled by invisible strings, like a puppet jerked on a fishing line, movements stiff and unnatural. Its vacant eyes stared dully at the group, the pupils void and unfocused, and at the corners of its mouth hung a bizarre, unsettling smile.

“Brother... brother...” it croaked, eerily uttering those words.

A chill ran down everyone’s spine, yet Guo Dashu—who had been paralyzed with fear—suddenly froze. He could hardly believe his ears and took an involuntary step forward.

Zhang Sanlu seized him urgently: “Stay calm! Didn’t you see? Its mouth didn’t even move when it spoke! What’s beneath that skin?!”

But Guo Dashu broke free and stepped again toward the figure, now only a few paces away from the thing that had been Guo Xiaoshu.

Guo Dashu stared, eyes wide with a storm of emotion, at the approaching silhouette—his brother, Guo Xiaoshu, now nothing more than a puppet, stiff and grotesque.