Famine 144: Black Wind

A clamor erupted, swelling into the sky.

Thud!
The cult member who had bragged earlier fell back, landing hard on the ground—his legs trembling, his face drained of color, even his tentacles curled up tight.

Mouth agape, he was utterly speechless.

Si Zhiyan didn’t press him, but a single, deeply meaningful look made the man wish he could sink into the ground in shame.

Yan Cheng, for his part, had no such restraint, letting out a heavy, cold snort. “Only weaklings and cripples like to soak in treatment pods?”
“Who’d ever want our stuff, anyway?”

Guan Wang burst out laughing. “Looks like it was a prized treasure after all—if we didn’t know better, we’d think your ancestors’ tablets were inside!”

“Hahahaha, this kid’s sharp with his tongue.”
“Never thought the cult would stoop to this, always talking so noble and dignified.”
“Who’d have guessed… Oh, man…”
…
The wall above broke out in noisy laughter, heads shaking, voices rising in derision.

As the whole crowd roared, members of the cult turned red to their ears, their tentacles flailing in agitation.
Some in the front rank, too ashamed to remain, tried to retreat and hide behind others—only to find everyone had the same idea, and the crowd recoiled a whole ten paces, leaving the slight Hang Feng standing alone.

Frozen on the spot, Hang Feng stammered, “I… I didn’t… huh?! Th-that’s impossible…”

Havana peeled back the thin membrane of the isolation chamber, gritting his molars, and enunciated, “Who did it?”

At his words, everyone’s eyes instinctively settled on Hang Feng.

If you spoke of a [Disabled Person], who else could it be but him?

Hang Feng glanced left and right, seeing the crowd had withdrawn a good ten steps, and shivered:

“You… you don’t think it was me?!”

The brothers and sisters who always seemed so close suddenly held strange, distant looks in their eyes.

Hang Feng’s panic grew, his tone incredulous, desperate:
“Leader, it wasn’t me! Leader! You know I was praying all night—I didn’t…”

No one answered. Hang Feng trembled once and slowly fell silent.

Then their eyes turned on him again—this time with a flicker of disgust, something subtle, almost with contempt. They pursed their lips and turned away… as if he were something dirty.

Si Zhiyan said, “It wasn’t you.”

Hang Feng blinked in confusion.

“We found nothing on our first search, but chose to come again—a little odd, but refusing us made sense, too.”
Si Zhiyan slightly inclined his head and smiled,
“But then I declared our willingness to pay compensation for a failed attempt.”

“Isn’t that right, Leader?”

For a moment, the whole courtyard went absolutely quiet.

The cult leader, his back to the crowd, stood silent under Si Zhiyan’s gaze, face dark as thunder.

Hang Feng slowly, blankly turned back. “…Eh?”

[Cripple’s Lantern] usage requirement—
The wielder must be a [Disabled Person], or deeply bonded with one.

In that instant, every phrase Hang Feng had boasted became a slap across his own face, leaving him so shaken he could barely stand.

—“Only a fool would soak in those things!”
—“There’s no one in the cult who’d want your broken kettles!”
—“Our Leader is merciful, so people think they can abuse him!”

“So…” Hang Feng’s voice quivered, tongue tripping over itself, “You… you only invited me to join the cult for… this…?”

“How could you believe such nonsense, child?” murmured the cult leader, his expression unchanged, his tone almost gentle.

A raspy, benevolent smile twisted his features.

“I have no idea how all this could have happened—clearly, someone’s trying to frame us. There must be some misunderstanding here.”

“Don’t listen to their lies, Hang Feng. Come here, come stand by me.”

At once Hang Feng’s face lit up. He wiped his face and hurried over. The leader set a hand on his shoulder, gently patting his cheek.

Si Zhiyan’s courteous, steady voice followed.
“In that case, sir, I ask you to please strike me here—just once.”

“I happen to have a spell tool that can detect whether the energies are the same. All you would need to do is touch me gently—not enough to harm, only enough to check if you’re the one who cursed HACK.”

“I did not mention this before so as not to insult you. But the matter is at a standstill; I hope you will understand that this insistence is not unreasonable?”

On the wall nearby, the crowd was murmuring, “Not unreasonable at all.”

The cult leader’s expression was unreadable, lips set in a faint smile. “Very well. Please, come closer.”

Si Zhiyan stepped up to him.

A sudden gale! Wind black as ink howled across the open ground, and as the roar of the storm rose, Hang Feng let out a chilling, heart-rending scream, his voice shredding in panic.

The circle erupted; every cult member, even bystanders, scrambled to flee, running for the wall or bolting away as fast as they could.

—And the cult leader, still smiling, stood at the center of the storm, facing Si Zhiyan as he had the very first day they met.

Amid the tempest, Hang Feng’s small form struggled helplessly, screaming in agony, but it was futile; he was swept up in an instant.

Within the storm, the shadow of a gaunt lion surged, pouncing toward Si Zhiyan!

No need to guess: some blood-rite sacrifice!
The cult leader had no intention at all of “stopping short”—this black wind was a killing blow!!

Even Yan Cheng could do nothing but curse furiously, pulling one arm to shield Ye Xianqing, one to guard Havana and HACK, desperately retreating.

It was all out war now!
As long as Si Zhiyan and his people died, any ensuing explanation could be twisted at will. Trust needn’t matter anymore—no one would remain to challenge his word.

In an instant, the field cleared completely.

“In recent days, I’ve faced a fair number of enemies…”
Beneath the engulfing black mist, Si Zhiyan stood unmoving, letting out a soft sigh.
“But you are the most detestable of all.”

He slowly raised his head, his crimson eyes serene.

“I despise the way you treat your followers.”

Creeeeak—!

At some point, all fifteen sleep pods slowly opened their doors.

Whoosh—petals spilled out in a flurry.
Azure springwater caught the glint of blossom after blossom, whirling upward, swept by the black wind.

“What a load of nonsense are you spouting?!” Through the storm, the cult leader’s voice was wild with desperation. “What do you have to do with any of this?! No, wait, that’s—”

Si Zhiyan didn’t answer. He only reached up and plucked a white blossom from the air.

[Drowned’s Lament]
At the end of life, countless people have perished in these waters.
Soak here, and you’ll sometimes hear their crying.
Their rotten arms will buoy you up, their deaths will give you life.
Those who bathe in the Drowned’s Spring feel no weight, floating on the surface, unable to sink for a time.
You had best leave before the lament ends.

Continuous soaking for more than four hours grants the buff:
[Disorder—The Watchful Gaze]
The drowned have met you, and the drowned are watching you. They have saved you; should they ever need, they can take you back at any time.
Effect: Greatly accelerated healing, gain certain floating abilities.
Meanwhile, for the next 24 hours,
Do your utmost; don’t disappoint the Farm Master.
Duration: 24h

Whoosh!

Rotting hands burst out from the water, rising against the wind, clutching and pulling at the cult leader’s legs.

One, two, three, four—countless hands…

This item was almost useless in real combat. No enemy would knowingly soak for four straight hours in that morbid water, however sweet the flowers’ songs. No one would stay motionless that long.

Unless… they had fallen asleep.

It wasn’t an attack one could dodge; it worked by the same logic as the curse he’d placed on HACK—a law-of-causality curse.

The precondition was severe, but once fulfilled, nothing could save you when the killing blow came.

The moment Si Zhiyan regained control of the springs, the outcome was sealed.

“The sleep pods were always a trap?!” the cult leader roared with fury. “You made them float among corpses?! You never told anyone that soaking there meant surrendering their life to you!!”

“You’re a ghoul!! Madman! Conspirator! Controller! Sociopath… agh!”

The frenzied black wind became chaotic, dissipating and finally coiling back onto himself, powerless.

In the black storm, the little lion fought furiously against the ghostly hands, but it was no use.

Si Zhiyan paid him no mind, only plucking another petal from the breeze, his head bowed, intent on weaving something.
He appeared to be… braiding.

In the end, the cult leader’s body was torn asunder, only the head left, its broken jaw whispering hoarse and wild:

“Just what are you, anyway?! What are you really?! I’ve never heard of you—first these bizarre pod coffins, then a spell to trace energy sources…”

“Everyone else is just looking to survive in the Famine Game—how do you get all these incredible things?!”

At last, Si Zhiyan finished the woven object in his hands. He raised his head, smiled gently, and replied, “I lied to you.”
“I don’t actually have a spell to detect energy sources. If you’d held out, there’s nothing else I could have done.”

“Sorry about that.”

…Sorry?

Sorry!!

The cult leader spewed blood, the last of his strength vanishing, screaming as he was pulled apart by countless grasping hands.

…

【7:31 pm / 0.5 hours until the appreciation gathering begins】

It was over.
The black wind faded and the stealthy lion was gone.

A sea of bloodfolk now surrounded them, distinctions between cult and commoner erased.

The cult itself was only a few months old, never truly united—built on blind faith in [Fellow], awe of the cult leader, and Hang Feng’s tireless work as chief priest and organizer.

The cult leader had wanted to turn the cult into his private army, so he maintained his image so carefully.
But clearly, he had failed.

Now, with [Fellow] siding with Si Zhiyan, the cult leader destroyed, Hang Feng dead by his own hand… the organization could no longer hold together.

It was not hard to understand the cult leader’s decision to sacrifice Hang Feng, to go all in.
Had Hang Feng figured it all out, he might have turned from follower to deadly foe.

But Si Zhiyan disliked such things.

The roaring black wind had concealed all speech and all vision. Once it passed, only the victor remained.

All watched Si Zhiyan in reverent silence.

With his usual calm, Si Zhiyan bent down and placed the wreath, woven from white blossoms, atop Hang Feng’s withered body.
“Go in peace,” he said.

Then he turned toward Havana, who was now weeping for joy where she knelt on the ground.

“How is HACK?”

“He’s all right!” Ye Xianqing nodded, bright with relief. “The curse-caster is dead—the curse is broken before it triggered.”

In Havana’s arms, the black haze wrapping HACK had dissipated. The black dog, though still covered in bandages, was much more lively, his ears perked as he tried to lick Si Zhiyan’s hand through the sterile shell.

Si Zhiyan patted HACK’s head and stood.

He faced the crowd—a sea of faces, all turned toward him in awe. He dusted off his coat and bowed his head in greeting.

“Tonight’s inn reception and appreciation gathering will go on as planned.”

“This time, in a new venue, there will be a floating sleep pod experience—plus a barbecue party for all to enjoy. You’re all invited.”