Grotesqueries of the Old Domain

Chapter 3: Attack

The pen rolled on the ground, making a rumbling sound, and Zhang Wenda’s gaze followed the pen as it slowly moved on the concrete floor.

When the pen finally stopped, Zhang Wenda was stunned for a moment.

He glanced out at the bright sunlight streaming through the window, and suddenly a bizarre thought popped into his mind.

“This rundown place is haunted in broad daylight?”

Before he could make sense of what he was thinking, his heart tightened, and his pulse quickened—he instantly felt as if disaster was upon him.

The next second, with a sharp "shla" sound, a burning pain shot through his left leg, and Zhang Wenda staggered and fell to the ground.

When he looked down, he saw blood slowly seeping through his pants.

The sudden attack left Zhang Wenda in a daze.

He looked around the familiar old house in confusion but didn’t find any enemy.

Before he could figure out what was going on, the intense pain surged like a tidal wave, as scars and bruises spread from his leg across his whole body.

“Why? What is attacking me? What did I do wrong?!” Zhang Wenda shrank quickly into a corner, raising his flashlight to fend it off.

But it was totally useless—no matter how he tried to block it, wounds appeared beneath his clothes out of thin air, in all forms, always accompanied by excruciating pain.

The agony throughout his body was so intense that Zhang Wenda nearly fainted, but a powerful will to survive drove him to think through the situation even as he endured the pain.

“What did I do wrong? Why is this attacking me?! There must be a reason!”

He ran through the events of the day in his mind, then fixed his gaze on the television, which was still making noise.

“Could it be because I ate the buns meant for the TV? It’s angry?”

Zhang Wenda didn’t know why such a strange thought had popped into his head, but at that moment he would do anything to stop the pain.

“Meat?! I have to find some meat to hang back on it!” Zhang Wenda frantically searched the room for anything that could stand in for the buns.

But the room was almost empty—there wasn’t even a living thing, let alone meat, and there was no time to go out and buy some.

The pain made Zhang Wenda grit his teeth, curling into a ball.

Just as he thought all hope was gone and he might die here, a sudden idea flashed through his mind—he looked at himself in the mirror.

With no time to think further, he battled through the pain and grabbed the rope hanging from the antenna, which had the buns tied to it.

With his arm softly lowered, there was a “shla” sound, and finally the television screen returned to showing the cross-talk performance.

“Yo—stinky outsider, come here to beg for alms?”

As the cross-talk voices resumed, although Zhang Wenda felt burning pain all over, the intense agony finally stopped increasing.

When he saw the unknown attack had ceased, Zhang Wenda, drenched in sweat, let out a long, relieved breath.

“Thank goodness… thank goodness…”

Putting aside the effect his injuries would have on his body, he figured if the attacks had continued, he wasn’t sure he would’ve survived.

As an adult, he almost couldn’t take it—how painful it must’ve been.

“What on earth is going on in this world?”

Zhang Wenda stared around in lingering fear; the house that once filled him with nostalgia now seemed dark and terrifying.

He realized he had gotten everything wrong—and horribly so.

This strange world was not safe; it was full of hidden dangers, and this cursed place might actually kill him.

“I…” Zhang Wenda swallowed hard, wiping the blood off his chin.

“When school’s over, I have to find that fat kid and get some answers!”

“Wait!” The thought hit Zhang Wenda, and he felt his scalp go cold as the little fat kid’s expression darkened in his mind.

“In a world this messed up, is Pan Dongzi still the buddy I knew as a kid?”

Zhang Wenda didn’t know—but if he really was his friend, he should’ve warned him about danger.

With a “shla” sound, sharp pain stabbed him again, and a red line started swelling on the back of his left hand.

Then an enormous force threw him across the room, slamming him into the concrete wall, and the flood of pain surged back, engulfing his whole body.

Seeing the TV still playing but the attacks continuing, Zhang Wenda immediately understood.

“No, it’s not the TV! It’s not the meat! Then what the hell is it?!”

A suppressed rage erupted in him, panic scrambling his brain and almost paralyzing him.

That burst of negative emotion left him unable to move; he crawled under the bed, curling tightly to try hiding from something.

But it didn’t work—the invisible force seemed determined to torment him, wounds multiplying over and over across his body.

Every wound carried soul-piercing pain, but the mental pressure was more terrifying than the physical.

Each scar brought heavier negative emotion, and under that oppression, his pain made him want to die, and even brainstorming a plan was repeatedly interrupted.

He tried smashing around the room with the flashlight, but hit nothing; the yellow beam illuminated nothing.

As he swung again, searing pain shot through his fingers—two snapped with a “crack,” joints visibly swollen.

“What did I do wrong? What have I done wrong?!” Zhang Wenda ground his teeth and screamed into the empty room.

But no response came—suddenly the flashlight was yanked from his hand and flung away, then fell back, slicing a deep gash across his right forearm.

The injuries on his body kept worsening, his consciousness growing dim.

Right now there was just one thought pounding in his mind: Why is this happening? It’s not the TV, so what is it—and what did I do wrong?

With his head dropping heavily, battered all over, Zhang Wenda lost consciousness.

In his final moments of awareness, the little fat kid’s voice suddenly echoed in his mind:

“If you’re late, it’ll be a disaster!”