Chapter 91: Blood Fiend of the Shadowed Womb (1/4)

I tossed a cigarette to Ye Cheng, and the two of us sat in the rear compartment of an off-road vehicle, silently exhaling clouds of smoke. Ye Cheng’s hand trembled slightly as he smoked; once he finished one cigarette, he immediately lit another. He took a deep drag, then slowly exhaled, his voice hoarse: “Madman, I want revenge.”

I reached out, patting Ye Cheng’s back, and said solemnly, “I’ll help you get your revenge. I’ll make sure that deranged villain suffers a pain tenfold, a hundredfold.”

“Thank you,” Ye Cheng replied.

“We’re brothers. Besides, this is my duty. There’s no need for thanks,” I said.

“Madman, you…” Ye Cheng looked at me, hesitating over his words.

I knew what he wanted to ask, so I handed him my credentials.

“Ninth Bureau… Do monsters and demons really exist in this world?” Ye Cheng asked quietly.

“They do,” I answered, though I knew well that behind every bloody supernatural event, even the invasions of the underworld, there was always a human shadow.

The only thing that can defeat humanity is humanity itself.

I handed Ye Cheng two photographs. “This woman is Li Li, the first victim in the Wushan case. See if there’s anything she has in common with Qingqing.”

Ye Cheng took the photos. When he saw Qingqing’s picture, his emotions surged, but he forced himself to calm down and examined them closely. Suddenly, he seemed to notice something, leaning in to look again. “I’ve seen this woman before. She’s Qingqing’s friend from the Celestial Spirit Church.”

Celestial Spirit Church!

My brow arched—I sensed we’d hit a key point.

“The Celestial Spirit Church is a small congregation, also called the Women’s Mutual Aid Society. Half a year ago, Qingqing got pregnant, but she miscarried due to overwork running her shop. Afterwards, she was haunted by nightmares of crying babies, nearly breaking down. Just then, someone from the church came to spread their doctrine. After Qingqing learned about it, she joined. It actually helped; she gradually returned to normal,” Ye Cheng explained.

At first, Ye Cheng suspected the Celestial Spirit Church might be some sort of cult. He investigated secretly and attended a few sermons. The church only recruited women who had psychological trauma from miscarriage or losing a child by accident—hence the Mutual Aid Society. After understanding their doctrine, Ye Cheng concluded it wasn’t a cult and allowed Qingqing to join.

Ye Cheng remembered Li Li because he saw her chatting and laughing with Qingqing when he once picked Qingqing up from the church.

I beckoned Chen Ying’en over and explained the situation. Chen Ying’en immediately asked, “Where is the Celestial Spirit Church? Let’s go there now.”

Guided by Ye Cheng, we arrived at the church. It was actually a converted residential house, with a relief sculpture of a naked infant with wings above the door.

When we entered, three church missionaries were present.

During our questioning and investigation, we found these three missionaries to be genuinely devout, their eyes pure, their hearts unclouded—not cultists.

“They’re just the public face. I doubt they even know they’re being controlled,” I said.

“Search everywhere, see if we find any clues,” Chen Ying’en instructed.

The small chapel didn’t take long to search, but we found nothing.

As we were about to leave, I noticed Ye Cheng still sitting numbly on a bench.

I walked over. Ye Cheng murmured, “This is where Qingqing used to sit.”

I sighed inwardly. Ye Cheng seemed strong on the surface, but getting through something like this wasn’t a matter of days—it could haunt him for life.

“Ready to leave? Let’s go,” Ye Cheng said, rising.

Just then, my gaze sharpened. I reached out to stop Ye Cheng. “Stay here. Don’t move.”

I walked up to the three missionaries and asked, “Do you each have a fixed place during sermons?”

“Yes. According to the Celestial Spirit Lord’s will, when one is stained by sin, one should sit in the corresponding place to better cleanse oneself and let the soul attain eternal life,” the lead missionary replied, placing a hand over his heart devoutly.

“And where is your Lord’s will?” I asked.

The missionary found a book at the lectern, opened it to a page, and handed it to me.

The illustration on the page felt off. I circled Qingqing’s usual spot and Li Li’s spot, then asked for their locations.

“Problem?” Chen Ying’en walked over.

“Let me calculate.” I produced a compass and began divining.

Most of the symbols and markers in the diagram were meant to confuse; I ignored them, focusing only on Qingqing and Li Li’s positions.

Soon, I calculated three other locations.

I had people stand at these five places and looked down from above.

If you connected the five spots with lines, they formed a sigil.

I had everyone clear out and pried up the floorboards at those five spots.

Instantly, my pupils contracted. Chen Ying’en and the others looked over.

“The heart of the formation. Pull up all the floorboards,” Chen Ying’en ordered.

Soon, the entire chapel floor was turned over, revealing bright crimson lines crisscrossing, sharp and glaring.

At the center, a deep pit was covered by a metal lid engraved with runes.

Niu Dali stepped forward, shouted, and yanked the lid open. Instantly, a wave of blood resentment surged up, and piercing cries of infants filled the air.

Chen Ying’en waved her jade flute, sending high-frequency sound waves from its holes to suppress the cries.

The blood resentment receded, and the cries faded.

We approached and peered into the pit. Everyone’s face darkened.

Inside, dozens of bloody dead fetuses lay, some fully formed, some not.

“Blood Spirit Fetal Sacrifice—this isn’t the Celestial Spirit Church at all, but the infamous Blood Spirit Cult,” Chen Ying’en said, biting her silver teeth.

Back then, the method for refining blood demons originated from the Blood Spirit Cult, though they later stopped making blood demons and instead crafted sinister fetal blood fiends.

They infused these fiends into five women traumatized by miscarriage, then flayed them. But why?

“Confirm the names at those three other spots. They’ve been targeted and could be next,” I said.

“But there are three targets. We don’t have enough people,” Ghost said.

“There are four. I’ll watch one, Chen will watch one, Niu Dali will watch one, Ghost, you keep an eye on Lü Zhiruo,” I said.

“Done,” Chen Ying’en nodded.

At dawn, I found my target—a woman named Wu Mei.

This woman lived in one of the more upscale neighborhoods in Wushan. Twenty-six years old, her background wasn’t impressive, but she was beautiful. In college, she latched onto a local tycoon who kept her for several years. When he fell from grace overnight, she kicked him aside, used the money she’d saved to start a design company, and in three years achieved tremendous success. She navigated the circles of local and even provincial political and business elites with ease; her connections were extensive and complex.

Wu Mei, dressed in tight sportswear and a headband, free of makeup, was jogging along the mountain path. She looked vibrant—like a college student yet to graduate.

With a flick of my finger, Wu Mei suddenly cried out and her leg buckled, sending her sprawling to the ground.

I rushed over, asking with concern, “Miss, are you alright?”

Wu Mei looked at me, breathing in pain. “Do I look alright to you?”

“Should I help you up?” I asked, feigning both eagerness and shy awkwardness.

“Well, help then,” Wu Mei said, amused by my expression.

I helped her up; her body, toned from regular exercise, was soft and elastic. I didn’t mind taking advantage for a moment.

Wu Mei leaned on my waist, her hand on my shoulder, nearly all her weight pressing against me.

“You just called me little sister?” Wu Mei asked.

“Did I get it wrong? You look no older than twenty. I’m twenty-three myself,” I said.

Wu Mei giggled, thoroughly delighted. She shook as she laughed, and the softness pressing against my arm was enough to ignite desire.

“Call me big sister—I’m twenty-six,” Wu Mei replied.

I escorted Wu Mei back to her apartment. Her home wasn’t lavish, but it was elegant, with a strong sense of design.

“I designed this myself. What do you think?” she asked as she saw me look around.

“It’s beautiful, very comfortable,” I replied.

We chatted. With my understanding of women, it didn’t take long to coax her into smiling, and her gaze toward me grew different.

On any other day, I’d be eager to get closer to a woman like her.

But under these circumstances, I refrained. Sometimes it’s better not to know certain things; knowing only brings shadows to the heart.

Moreover, I was puzzled—the sinister fetal blood fiend had been infused into her, yet I sensed nothing amiss.

Wu Mei then said she was sweaty and asked me to run her a bath.

After bathing, she called out that her foot hurt and she couldn’t get out of the tub.

So I went in, wrapped her in a towel, and carried her to her room.

As I set her down, she suddenly wrapped her arms around me, pulling me onto the bed and pressing herself against me.

“I really like you, you know. Do you like me?” Wu Mei’s eyes brimmed with desire; as she spoke, her hands roamed over me.

I pressed my hand to the back of her head.

Wu Mei’s eyes rolled back, and she fainted.

“Damn,” I muttered. Once a notorious playboy, now forced to act a saint.