The night was pitch black, with high winds sweeping through crumbling walls and desolate ruins.
Add to that the sound of approaching footsteps, and it felt like the perfect setting for a horror movie.
At this hour, the person coming could only be Uncle Qian.
But these footsteps—light, elegant, like a lone cat prowling in the night.
It wasn't Uncle Qian.
Rong Xianning turned around. Aside from the small patch illuminated by his flashlight, everywhere else was swallowed by darkness, impenetrable as an abyss.
"Who's there?" He stared warily at the doorway, his hand reaching into the pocket of his jacket, where a fruit knife was hidden.
It had fallen from Uncle Qian's cart earlier when he was helping to push.
The footsteps drew closer and closer. Rong Xianning tightened his grip on the knife, his eyes fixed firmly ahead.
"Miaow!" A bizarre cry pierced through the darkness, making the hair on his neck stand on end. Suddenly, a shadow shot towards him.
