The snow continued to fall.

The people around were dwindling,

like a cinema emptying after the show,

becoming more and more desolate.

Zhou Ze stood rooted to the spot, letting the snow slowly cover him, gradually building him into a "snowman."

The car smashers were gone,

the onlookers were gone,

the man lying on the ground was gone,

slowly,

the car was gone too.

Between heaven and earth, only this vast expanse of white remained, truly clean;

the only jarring sight was that pool of crimson on the ground.

It was like a stain, impossible to wash away, impossible to wipe clean,

it stubbornly persisted,

so unsightly, so unsettling.

Within the crimson,

the old man kept shouting,

as if venting a long-suppressed frustration.

"Now, do you know what I am?"

As if he had finished venting,

as if he was tired,

as if he found it boring and pointless,

the old man stepped out of the crimson.

Still wearing that green coat, still sporting those mud-caked liberation shoes, still looking like an old farmer, he even snorted and wiped his nose with the back of his hand before flicking it onto the ground.

Zhou Ze nodded.

"You're already dead, old man."

"Yes, he's already dead, but I can't die. Every time I die, I have to come back, change to someone else, and start over."

The old man put his hands on his hips, seemingly wanting to continue cursing, but it was as if he lacked the strength.

The old man was dead, but he still existed.

Xu Qinglang's master had died, but his master would continue to appear in the future.

He was a demon, drifting in the sky, he would descend, he would enter a person's body. Xu Qinglang's master was the previous one, and because of this, that one was able to achieve profound understanding, to be deeply obsessed, to become a celestial master wandering the mortal realm, so much so that even the local ghost officers dared not touch him.

A week ago, he appeared here and was killed by Zhou Ze—truly killed. But what died was only Xu Qinglang's master; the true evil, the demon that caused all this, was merely cleansed of everything.

He hid in dark corners, slowly licking his wounds,

he hid in the crowd, silently accumulating strength again,

he waited for time to slowly pass, he sought the next body to possess. This was his fate, and his reincarnation, just like those ghost officers, like Little Lori, who always had to find a host body after entering the human world from hell.

He,

also needed one.

"Do you know how old I am?" the old man asked Zhou Ze.

Zhou Ze shook his head.

"Very, very old, so old that I've almost forgotten what I looked like at the beginning. Storytellers say that every blade of grass, every tree, has its own heavenly purpose!

But I just can't figure it out, can't understand it, and can't find it. What the hell is the meaning of my existence?"

As the old man spoke,

to the left of his body, the snow disappeared, revealing an old street scene.

The street was filled with hawkers' cries and various small shops,

and there was a platform with a person kneeling on it.

"The farthest back I can remember, the clearest memory I have, is this one."

Caishikou execution grounds.

More and more people gathered.

Unknowingly, Zhou Ze found himself surrounded by people, their clothes mostly drab and grey, their heads sporting long, greasy braids.

Oily,

watery.

This scene was vaguely familiar.

An executioner escorted the condemned man onto the platform, the blade already sharpened, the man already kneeling.

The onlookers below began to cry, to sob,

some covered their eyes, afraid to watch,

some covered their ears, afraid to listen,

some simply turned away, unable even to face it.

The autumn wind was bleak, fallen leaves swirled, the executioner took a swig of wine and heard the cries from below the platform.

The condemned man did not cry. He continued to kneel, but his back was straight, while the people watching below were crying for his misfortune, shaking their heads, lamenting, filled with sorrow, grieving for the passing of life.

Before Zhou Ze,

the old man's gaze was vacant.

He walked up to Zhou Ze,

reached out and straightened Zhou Ze's collar, like a kind elder, he grinned, revealing his yellow teeth, and continued,

"I'm asking you for a favor."

"Speak."

"I'm dead, I won't be back for a while, but maybe in a few years, a few decades, or even a few centuries, I'll have to come back.

So, I'm asking you, when I come back next time, kill me, okay?

That fellow has some ancestral things at home. I'll tell you the location. Go take a look. You should be able to pick up some good stuff. Take whatever catches your eye. He's already dead anyway, isn't he?"

"You shouldn't be saying this to me," Zhou Ze replied.

He should be saying it to the one inside him.

A strange smile appeared on the old man's face. He looked at Zhou Ze, licked his lips, and said,

"Same difference."

"How long until you come back?"

"Soon."

The old man wore a "life is meaningless" expression,

with a wave of his right hand,

a large bridge appeared.

A line,

dividing two worlds.

On the left, the Caishikou execution grounds of a hundred years ago;

on the right, a modern bridge.

On the platform at Caishikou, there was an executioner holding a knife, a condemned man kneeling;

on the bridge, a man was squatting on the railing, ready to fall at any moment.

A line, dividing a hundred years of time.

"People often say that time can change everything," the old man said with a wry smile. "But some things, even time is powerless against. I feel like I won't be gone for too long this time. Just wait.

Maybe after I come back next time, I'll come find you again."

Below the bridge, many people were gathered, the number of onlookers so large that it paralyzed the bridge.

Police officers arrived to maintain order, setting up caution tape, telling the onlookers to move back, move back further, but those in front pushed forward, and those in the back pushed forward, making it impossible to disperse the crowd.

Everyone was as eager as they were in the early years when they rushed to the cinema, crammed onto buses, or stormed the supply and marketing cooperatives to buy goods.

Firefighters had already set up ropes, preparing to risk their lives to go up and rescue the man.

"Jump, hurry up and jump!"

"Damn it, he's still not jumping. The sun is about to kill me!"

"Hey buddy, are you going to jump or not? Give us a shout! If you're not jumping, I have to go home and cook!"

"Hurry up, make it a clean jump, small splash, high score for technique!"

These people yelling below were urging him on and venting their dissatisfaction while taking photos and videos with their phones and posting them on Weibo and WeChat Moments:

"So worried about him, why would he jump? Come down!"

"Life is precious, and each person only gets one chance. I hope the brother up there sees things clearly and comes down soon!"

"Come down, life is bound to have ups and downs. Nothing is insurmountable. You still have your family and friends who will continue to support you, and we're all down here worrying about you!"

"Really worried about this brother up there. Don't jump! Go firefighters, you must save him!"

After posting their updates,

they put down their phones,

endured the scorching sun,

and began to urge the man above to hurry up, get it over with quickly, the sun was too hot, there was no shade, and no convenience store to buy a bottle of ice-cold cola.

"A hundred years," the old man smiled and licked his lips.

"Thwack!"

On the left side of the line, the executioner's blade fell, and a head rolled to the ground.

"Splash!"

On the right side of the line, the man jumped from the bridge, plunging into the water.

The world seemed to fall into a silence at this moment,

a strange silence.

Then,

on both sides of the line,

everything erupted.

At Caishikou, a group of people ran over with steamed buns to dip them in the blood, the ones who grabbed some shouting, "Blood buns cure all diseases!"

At the bridge,

when firefighters and police officers were mourning the loss of a life, even crying and shedding tears,

some busybodies secretly broke through the cordon and rushed to the body that had just been pulled out, lifting the white tarpaulin covering it,

to get a look at the drowned man.

These things would become their future talking points, like bragging to friends over drinks about how the other day, that guy jumped off the bridge, died such a horrible death, I saw it with my own eyes.

On both ends of the line,

chaos and confusion,

and it began to get more and more chaotic.

In the end,

the old man's figure was also becoming fainter and fainter. He spread his hands, helpless, at a loss, as if his grief was greater than the death of his heart:

"I want to die."

This was his last sigh of lament,

and then, he waved goodbye to Zhou Ze.

"Goodbye, when I come back next time, I beg you... kill me completely."

"Buzz..."

Around him,

light and shadow began to tremble.

Zhou Ze silently raised his head.

He was still standing in the bookstore's restroom, still holding the towel he was about to use to wipe his face, and in front of him was still that mirror.

Behind him, there was no black shadow, and no old man.

Zhou Ze didn't feel dizzy, didn't feel lost, and didn't feel any discomfort.

The old man had said that this was an extremely simple illusion, so simple that Zhou Ze himself could easily wake up from it.

This kind of simple illusion naturally wouldn't bring Zhou Ze any physical effects.

He continued to pick up the towel,

wiped his face,

but the water on his face had long since dried,

what he was wiping now,

was sweat,

cold sweat.

Walking out of the restroom, Zhou Ze sat down in his favorite spot by the window. The afterglow of the setting sun shone there, casting a long shadow.

The bookstore, which had been bustling before, now had most of its occupants upstairs nursing their injuries, leaving only Boss Zhou sitting downstairs.

For some reason,

Zhou Ze felt a little cold,

a feeling colder than that night a week ago,

even comparable to the feeling he had when he first walked the Road to the Underworld,

because this was the first time Zhou Ze had come into contact with this kind of thing.

It wasn't a wandering soul,

it wasn't a living being,

it had no form, and it didn't even know what it was,

but it was like a demon, eyes wide open,

in the sky above,

whether it was windy or rainy, or under the clear sky,

it was watching everything below,

and was ready to flap its demonic wings at any moment,

and descend.

This kind of gaze,

had been going on for a hundred years,

below,

it would probably continue,

he didn't know how many centuries it would last.

Just like the words that the one inside him had deliberately left behind after killing him:

"He's not dead yet..."