Simultaneously traversing: traversing countless heavens

Chapter 4: The Red Dragon

"Where is he?" When Chen Motong went downstairs, the only sound on the first floor of the hotel was Fingel eating bread with bacon and drinking milk. When she woke up, Zhou Yi was no longer in the room; the bed was neatly made and placed on a chair by the window.

"Huh?" Fingel was stunned, then realized what he meant and shook his head. "I didn't see him."

Just then, the door was pushed open. Zhou Yi entered, bringing with him a chill, and casually brushed away the few snowflakes that had just begun to fall from his shoulder.

"Where did you go?" Chen Motong asked, arms crossed, her tone revealing the team leader's displeasure at his team member's unauthorized actions.

"I'm awake. I'll just wander around a bit," Zhou Yi replied casually, just like a leisurely tourist.

Chen Motong walked up to him in a few steps. She was a head shorter than him, but her presence was in no way inferior. She raised her hand and lightly punched his chest, lowering her voice: "You really think you're on vacation? Remember, no one is allowed to leave the group alone without my permission. And don't do it again!"

After saying that, she sat down angrily, picked up a piece of dry bread and smeared butter on it as if it were the neck of some troublesome teammate. Having such team members—one careless, the other… She glanced at Fingel, who was trying to minimize his presence—and felt the task's difficulty had suddenly increased by a level.

Seeing this, Fingel quickly finished his breakfast, mumbled something like "I have to take care of something," and slipped out the door to carry out the task assigned to him the day before.

"Did you find anything after taking a walk around?" Chen Motong took a bite of bread and stared at Zhou Yi.

"Found something? The scenery is indeed quite nice." Before her eyes turned even more dangerous, Zhou Yi added, "We went to that dangerous area the boss mentioned."

"You went alone?!" Chen Motong clenched his fists. How dare he? A complete weakling!

"You noticed it too, didn't you?" Zhou Yi sat down, his tone calm. "He was constantly leading us astray. He emphasized the danger while praising the scenery; the contradictions in his rhetoric were too obvious. Those missing tourists probably heard the same thing before."

Neither of them were naive. Although the hotel owner, Pedro, was not of mixed race, the deliberate guidance in his words and actions was almost undisguised, making him highly suspected of being an accomplice.

"Since you know that, why did you still go to go?" Chen Motong was utterly exasperated.

"What a pity, it was a wasted trip." Zhou Yi said with a hint of regret, "There's nothing here except a few dilapidated houses and dried rocks." He had planned to clean up if anything seemed amiss, but he hadn't even caught a glimpse of any living creature.

"Come out with me later and gather some more information," Chen Motong said, suppressing his anger. "We'll wait for Fingel to come back and summarize the situation. If we still have no clue... we'll have a serious talk with the boss first."

Zhou Yi nodded indifferently.

The town was quite small, with only about a hundred registered households, most of which were empty, their doors and windows tightly shut, devoid of life. The two wandered through the rugged, slippery alleyways for half the morning without encountering a single person. As the sun rose higher, this deathly desolation made Chen Motong feel uneasy.

Just then, a piano melody drifted in intermittently on the salty, cold sea breeze. It was Debussy's "Clair de Lune," played with skillful technique, yet the emotion possessed a detached, icy quality.

The two exchanged a glance and followed the sound. The music came from a solitary stone building on the edge of the town, near the top of a cliff. It was perched high up, like a silent guardian, overlooking the entire town.

The sound of a piano drifted out from a narrow window on the third floor. Through the glass, a tall, elegant figure with long black hair could be seen, focused intently on the piano in front of her.

But Zhou Yi, with his exceptional insight, immediately recognized that it was actually a man. And just an ordinary man.

Chen Motong chose not to disturb them rashly. The two stood quietly in the biting cold wind for a moment, listening to the incongruous melody of "Moonlight," before leaving in silence.

On their way back to the hotel, they happened to run into Fingel, who was carrying a black briefcase and humming a tune out of tune. The three exchanged glances and decided to go back to their rooms first.

"What did you gain?" Chen Motong asked immediately after closing the door.

"I actually found out some old stories." Fingel casually put the heavy box in the corner.

"First, there's a local legend about a murderer that's been circulating for twenty or thirty years. It's said he specifically targets young women, uses cruel methods, and committed over a dozen crimes without ever being solved. But about twenty years ago, he suddenly stopped and hasn't been seen since."

"Do you think he might be the source we're looking for?" Chen Motong pondered.

"It's uncertain." Fingel shook his head. "His original age plus twenty years is enough for a person to die of natural causes."

"I think the other one is more like the source we're looking for," he lowered his voice, his expression becoming more serious. "Starting about ten years ago, people in town began to claim that they saw ghosts at night—they saw their long-deceased relatives appear on the street and wave to them. Those who followed them disappeared. Because of this, many residents were scared away."

"But at the same time, it also attracted a group of curious people to come and explore, and it was quite a lively place for a while. However, no one actually found anything, and the craze quickly faded away."

"It sounds like some kind of unknown power of words, but it's more likely that someone deliberately fabricated it, since such rumors are circulating all over the world."

Chen Motong frowned, his arms crossed, his fingertips tapping unconsciously on his arms. Murder legends, ghostly disappearances, a boss who lures tourists, a mysterious person playing the piano in a lonely building, and Norma's precisely controlled disappearance rate... There are many fragments, but they cannot yet piece together a complete picture.

She wasn't the legendary great detective, and faced with these fragmented rumors and clues, she felt somewhat overwhelmed.

"If you ask me, we should just take control of the hotel owner. He definitely knows what's going on!" Fingel suggested viciously, chewing on an energy bar, as if that would make up for the terrible taste in his mouth.

"This is the only way. There's not a soul in sight in this godforsaken place, and the internet is completely down. For now, let's not count on Norma's remote support." Chen Motong made his decision, looking at the snow falling heavier and heavier outside the window.

The three replenished their energy quickly and waited in the oppressive silence. Snowflakes fluttered down, painting the cliffs, the town, and the roaring sea in the distance into a monotonous and blurred gray-white backdrop.

However, as dusk settled and night completely enveloped the town, the owner of the Pedro shop never appeared.

"Damn it! Did that guy anticipate we're going to cause him trouble and slip away beforehand?" Fingel swallowed the last of the tasteless energy bar and scratched his hair in frustration.

Chen Motong's ominous premonition grew stronger, and she suddenly stood up: "We can't just wait any longer."

She led the way to Pedro's room. She instructed Zhou Yi to move a chair to the center of the room, and Chen Motong sat down directly.

"What is she doing?" Fingel asked curiously in a low voice.

"Profiling," Zhou Yi replied briefly, his gaze falling on Chen Motong's gradually calming profile. In the original story, Chen Motong's abilities were comparable to Word Power in some aspects, almost instinctively capturing subtle traces in the environment and reconstructing the psychological profile of the inhabitants. She only needed to walk into a room and sit for a while to guess what kind of person lived there.

Fingel gave a vague "Ah" sound, as if he understood but not quite.

"Quiet." Chen Motong frowned slightly.

Fingel immediately shut up and made a gesture as if he were zipping up a zipper.

Time passed slowly in the silence. Chen Motong sat there, motionless, as if she had merged with the shadows of the room. Gradually, the expression on her face began to change, from focus to doubt, then to a furrowed brow, and finally a hint of undisguised fear appeared on her face, and even her body began to tremble slightly, as if she were in some extremely terrifying scene.

Suddenly, she opened her eyes abruptly, a sharp glint in them. She quickly got up, her movements carrying a resolute urgency—first turning on the dim bedside lamp, then swiftly drawing the heavy curtains shut. Next, she went to the fireplace, grasped the decorative brass female statue, and with a forceful twist, ripped off its right arm.

Under Fingel's dumbfounded gaze, she strode to the old-fashioned wardrobe in the corner, yanked open the door, pulled out all the clothes hanging inside and threw them on the ground, then reached the copper arm into a recessed part of the wardrobe's inner wall and twisted it forcefully.

"Click".

With a soft click, a very well-hidden narrow door suddenly popped open in the wall next to the wardrobe. The dark opening let out cold, damp air, along with a faint, unsettling smell.

Chen Motong imitated a man's actions, roughly grabbing the kerosene lamp with a handle on the bedside table and crouching down to crawl inside.

"Junior brother, this..." Fingel looked at Zhou Yi, his face showing hesitation.

"You stay up there." Zhou Yi didn't explain further, and followed Chen Motong into the darkness.

The secret passage led downwards, with rough stone steps winding deep into the mountainside, flanked by cold, slippery rock walls. The darkness was so thick it seemed impenetrable, with only the dim glow of a handheld lamp barely illuminating a few steps ahead, and the two men's footsteps echoed in the narrow space.

After descending a considerable distance, Chen Motong, who was walking ahead, suddenly stopped. She stretched out her right hand and pressed it firmly against a seemingly ordinary stone wall beside her.

"Click".

As the machine clicked, several old electric lights embedded on both sides of the tunnel lit up one after another, emitting a dim, unstable yellow light that barely dispelled some of the darkness and illuminated the outline of the space ahead.

Chen Motong seemed rooted to the spot. The lamplight illuminated her blood-soaked profile; her eyes were fixed straight ahead, her chest heaving violently, as if she were battling some immense terror and physical revulsion. After struggling for a few seconds, she abruptly shoved the kerosene lamp in her hand to Zhou Yi behind her, turned around, and collapsed against the cold stone wall, violently retching.

It's not her fault.

Even Zhou Yi, who had witnessed countless bloody scenes in the world of "Sun and Moon in Mistake" and cleaned up countless Nirvana Corpse Nests, felt his stomach churn and his brows furrow tightly the moment he saw the scene before him.

As he descended, the overwhelming, suffocating stench of blood mixed with the pungent smell of formaldehyde had already given him a warning. But what he saw with his own eyes still crossed a certain line of humanity.

This place is not like a simple killing ground, but more like a mixed gallery of works by mad artists, perverted scientists, mediocre anatomists, and fanatical collectors.

The first thing that catches the eye is the row of enormous glass jars embedded in the stone walls on both sides. Suspended in the murky formalin liquid are various parts of the human body: shapely breasts, long legs, delicate faces frozen in a moment of terror, slender hands and feet… Each jar bears a small black-and-white or color photograph; the girls in the photos are all young and beautiful, smiling shyly or radiantly at the camera. The most vibrant images of their lives have now become cold and eerie footnotes to their physical parts.

Further inside was a metal dissection table, its surface stained with blood and now a deep brown. Beside it were various cutting instruments that gleamed coldly—electric saws, bone saws, and scalpels of all shapes and sizes, all meticulously cleaned and well-maintained, exuding a chilling sense of "professionalism" and "attention."

Deep inside, at the heart of the cave space, is a small "stage." Several spotlights shine down from the cave ceiling, focusing on two wax figures in the center of the stage. In front of the wax figures sits a heavy leather armchair, next to which on a small table are half a glass of dark red wine and several expensive empty bottles. Clearly, someone often sits here, "admiring" their work.

The wax figures depict a naked man and woman, their postures contorted and conveying a sense of humiliation. The man, obese and resembling the hotel owner Pedro, straddles the woman, roughly gripping her long hair with one hand, his face contorted with a savage grin of conquest. The woman beneath him possesses stunning beauty—a devilish figure, a mature and alluring presence, delicate Asian features, and cascading black hair. The wax figure perfectly captures the intense pain and despair on her face.

What's most chilling is that the skin texture, hair details, and even the color of the pupils of the "female wax figure" are excessively realistic. Without even touching it, a cold, deathly aura already washes over you.

She wasn't a wax figure. She was a real corpse that had been carefully "processed." And the "Pedro" on top of her was the real, empty wax shell.

The answer is obvious: the hotel owner, Pedro, is the same serial killer who went unpunished more than twenty years ago, specifically targeting young women. The most recent date marked on the glass jars on the wall is exactly twenty years ago. And the date on the pedestal of the "female statue" below the stage also points to twenty years ago.

She was the last victim to be documented.

Why? Zhou Yi stared at the beautiful yet tragic remains. Why did this perverse "collection" seem to stop after her? Was it because her appearance reached a kind of morbid "perfection," making the killer feel there was no need to search anymore? Or... did something else happen that forced him to change his pattern, or perhaps he found a more "advanced" substitute?

Chen Motong finally managed to suppress the urge to vomit, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, his face as pale as paper, and his voice trembled with suppressed emotion: "The hotel owner... is the serial killer from back then. These people... were all killed by him."

Her gaze swept over the glass jars, finally settling on the center of the stage, filled with anger and chilling empathy, as if she were personally present at the scene of the torture from years ago.

Just then, Zhou Yi keenly noticed the slight movement above.

With his now-honed senses, even in this bloody secret chamber dozens of meters underground, he could clearly hear the subtle movements in the hotel room above.

The rustling of clothes, the footsteps that were deliberately kept quiet but could not be completely concealed by the weight of the person, the soft sound of the door being carefully opened and closed, followed by the unique, subtle groan of the corridor floor under pressure, all of which faded away and eventually disappeared in the direction of the stairs.

Fingel left. Alone.

Zhou Yi's gaze seemed to penetrate through layers of barriers, "seeing" the bulky figure disappearing into the swirling snow outside the hotel.

Where is he going?

Given Fingel's personality, he wouldn't normally leave his juniors in this dangerous place and go alone.

Was there another discovery? Or... did he originally intend to go somewhere else and have another mission to carry out?

Zhou Yi's gaze swept over Chen Motong, who was still enduring her discomfort and trying to find more clues at the scene. He didn't tell her that Fingel had abandoned them and left, because it was difficult to explain.

The two searched the underground chamber carefully for a while longer, but aside from confirming that it was a horrific museum freezing the crimes of twenty years ago, they found no new evidence or passage directly related to the recent disappearances. The old bloodshed and the current mysteries seemed to exist in a gap here.

With a heavy heart and a pungent smell, Chen Motong returned to Pedro's bedroom.

"Fingal?"

Chen Motong almost immediately noticed the emptiness of the room and called out. Only the soft crackling of the fireplace wood answered.

Her expression tightened instantly, her sharp eyes scanning every corner of the room. "Fingal!" she called again, her voice rising. Still, no one answered.

"Oh no! Something's happened to Fingel!" she whispered, and immediately sprang into action. She first quickly checked the corridor leading to their own room, then her eyes darted to the ground—on the slightly dusty floor, a series of fresh footprints facing the hotel door were clearly visible, the unique pattern of Fingel's huge boots.

Her heart sank. She quickly followed the footprints until she reached the front door of the hotel. Taking a deep breath, she flung open the heavy wooden door.

call--

A biting wind and snowstorm swept in instantly, stealing the warmth from the room. Outside, the world was a vast expanse of silvery white.

The road, stone steps, and distant house outlines that were just faintly discernible have now almost entirely disappeared behind the raging snow. The snow on the ground is thickening at a visible rate, and the trail of footprints that led them here has long been completely covered by the relentlessly falling snow, leaving no trace to follow.

Fingel, like a drop of water falling into the ocean, disappeared completely into the vast snowstorm and the deep night.

Chen Motong bit her lower lip hard, her fingers turning slightly white from the force. She slammed her fist against the door, the cold air biting at her.

"grass!"

--------

Two pieces of bad news.

This chapter may be banned. It hasn't been edited or signed yet.