Chapter Twenty-Two: The Hour Before Dawn

Although the constables had completely surrounded the mansion, an eerie silence reigned within. In broad daylight, the place was utterly lifeless, so still that it sent chills down one’s spine.

Wen Meng led them into the manor, recounting the strange happenings that had plagued the place to Zhou Bai and his companion. The Wang family had kept their doors shut for several days. Yet, with two massacres already reported along the Qinghe River, no one paid much attention to the Wang residence. It was only discovered late last night.

Every night in Hangdu, a watchman would patrol the streets, dressed in a horse-coat, carrying a lantern, and striking a copper gong as he walked. The watchman struck the gong once every hour, five times each night. When the fifth watch sounded, the rooster would crow, and dawn would soon break.

Though fewer people now lived along the banks of the Qinghe, the nightly gong was still a tradition. Yet, whenever the watchman reached this area, his pace invariably quickened.

That night, as the watchman passed by, he struck his gong for the first time and caught a whiff of something strange in the air. Unable to pinpoint its origin, he searched for some time until he realized the odor was emanating from the courtyard of the Zhang residence.

Fearing a fire, he moved to the main gate and knocked hard with his gong.

“Who is it?” A raspy, low voice answered from within, as if iron sand scraped against metal.

“The watchman. The house is empty, be careful with fire,” he replied.

Relieved to hear someone respond, he offered a warning, then turned to leave.

At that moment, the main gate creaked open a narrow crack. Nothing could be seen in the darkness—save for a pair of bloodshot eyes staring at him.

The watchman shuddered. Even with his broad heart and courage, he felt unnerved.

Before he could react further, the raspy voice spoke again: “I’m so hungry. Is there anything to eat?”

His mouth hung open, unsure what to say. How could such a grand mansion lack food?

The voice grew urgent: “Quick, give me something to eat, hurry…”

The watchman groped at his side and found some rations he had brought along, just in case hunger struck during his night shift.

He asked the voice at the gate repeatedly, but the only reply was the same word, endlessly repeated: “Hungry... hungry…”

Terrified, the watchman trembled, dropping his rations just a few steps from the mansion’s entrance.

The voice grew louder, saliva spraying through the crack in the door. The watchman was so frightened he lost all composure, abandoning even his gong as he turned and fled.

Anyone else, after such an encounter, might never return to the Wang residence. Yet the watchman, bound by duty, could not neglect any part of Hangdu.

“Dry weather, beware of fire,” he muttered anxiously as he approached the Wang residence once more, this time keeping his distance.

Willow banks had already stirred unease after two family slaughters, and the watchman knew well the rumors. But several days had passed without incident, and many people’s fears had eased.

The main gate remained tightly closed, utterly silent. His dropped rations still lay untouched where he had left them, as if no one had moved them.

He swallowed nervously. His pay was meager, barely enough for food each day. Those rations might not be worth much, but missing one meal meant going hungry for half the day.

Cautiously, he edged toward the gate, sweat forming in a cold sheen on his back.

The darkness was thick, so he raised his lantern as he d