Chapter Sixty-One: Once More, Lie to Me—Would You?

The butcher stood upon the mire, thick and foul, and instinctively felt revulsion, then fear—a torrent of dark emotions surged within him. He began to turn, snatching the blood-whip from the table and lashing it wildly about. Yet it was futile; panic seized him, and he rushed toward the door, desperate to escape.

“Running? Why? Toys don’t run away, do they?”

He heard the voice—young, yet raspy, echoing through the muck and black sludge now enveloping his legs. In an instant, they vanished.

His legs were gone. A shriek erupted, pig-like and agonizing.

“Screaming? Why so faint? But your flavor is far superior to those poisonous worms. Tell me, what is your name?”

The voice drifted from somewhere—above, below—childlike, gritty, oppressive.

“Devil! Demon! Monster!” the butcher howled, crawling in terror.

“Crawling? Why crawl?” The voice sounded genuinely puzzled.

Sludge wrapped itself around his arms, which disappeared just as swiftly.

“Ah!” he screamed.

“Now, can you play with me?”

He was maimed, robbed of limbs, rendered a cripple.

“No, don’t come closer!” the butcher shrieked, trembling with terror.

The mire and black swamp covered the room—the floor, the walls, the ceiling. Drips fell from above, as if the chamber were engulfed in a giant stomach.

On the floor, the sludge began to gather, forming into the shape of a human—a mud puppet taking form.

It spoke, “I have never been so hungry, never so desperate to fill my belly.”

“You’ve tasted me before; what did you think of the flavor?” The puppet’s head moved stiffly as it whispered.

“It shouldn’t be like this… How could this happen? Toys—how could toys do such things?” The butcher collapsed onto the writhing mire.

“Hmm?” The puppet hummed softly.

A spike of sludge pierced his shoulder.

“Ah!” Another scream.

“Answer me properly. Don’t be so rude.”

The butcher gasped, his whole body quivering.

The mud puppet stared at him, then pierced his other shoulder.

“Ah! Ahhh!” The butcher’s cries echoed, raw and torn.

“The taste, it’s good,” he answered, so cautiously.

The puppet’s ever-shifting face seemed to smile. “Is that so? Is that so, as expected. So just answer my questions, won’t you?”

It knelt down, reaching out gently to touch the butcher’s face, with a tenderness almost loving.

“Tell me, what does it feel like to be treated kindly by another? What is it like to have your face caressed gently by someone else?”

It asked, urgent to find the answer.

The butcher remained silent, steeped in terror—a hulking brute, now limbless, lying atop a pool of blood and filth. He bowed his head, feeling the malice of the world—or perhaps his own malice.

“Ah! Ahhh!” His screams began anew, but now softer, weakened by loss of blood. A spike erupted in his abdomen, blood flowing freely.

“Answer me—answer my question!” The puppet seemed to frown, its voice full of dissatisfaction.

“I don’t know, I really don’t know,” the butcher sobbed.

“No, you know. Yes, you must know. If I eat you, if I devour you completely, I’ll find my answer!” The puppet shouted, growing manic, like a true demon.

“I taste bad, I taste really bad,” the butcher writhed, crying out like a child, a pure terror on his face.

He only wanted to play. Yes, in his world, right and wrong, good and evil, meant nothing. He believed he had done nothing wrong; in his world, everything was upside down, all twisted. He was bored, seeking amusement, wanting to play like a child. He did not understand evil or goodness; his life had always been this way, and someone had taught him so.

Who, in this world, is the madman? Who is the demon?

In this moment, who was he, who was the other? Who was the butcher, who was the child? Was everything reversed?

The puppet reached out, murky and foul, thrusting its hand into the butcher’s mouth, grasping something deep within. No groans, no struggle—slowly, slowly, it withdrew its prize.

A heart—beating, crimson, steaming with heat.

“How beautiful… When did I lose mine? If I eat it, maybe I’ll find my heart again.”

Chewing sounds filled the room, the stench of blood saturating every corner.

“Why does this heart taste so awful—like rotting wood, spoiled fish bones, garbage from the street?” the puppet muttered.

At its feet lay a body, limbless and heartless. The butcher was losing warmth, wrapped in sludge.

He was eaten.

“Hah, hahaha…”

“Where is my answer? Where am I? Who am I? How did I become this? Is there anyone—anyone to tell me the truth?”

“Why can’t I find myself, can’t find my answer?”

“Someone, save me. I am so miserable…”

He wept silently, as a puppet of mud, huddled in the small room, clutching his head, lost and directionless.

At some unknown hour—

Creak, the door opened. A sliver of light spilled in. In the doorway stood a figure, dressed head to toe in black, face veiled.

The mud puppet lifted its head. Upon its muddy face were two small indentations, and within them, a pair of eyes—eyes of mud, shining then dulling instantly. Slowly, it bowed its head again.

A long silence.

“Mr. Mo, am I beautiful now?” a raspy voice asked.

“Mr. Mo, tell me, do you still need me?”

“I am so tired, so very tired… Tell me, what should I do, how can I find myself again?”

“Help me, please help me—even if you deceive me again.”

“Mr. Mo, deceive me one more time, won’t you?”

That last plea was a supplication.

He begged, again and again.

Even if it was all a lie, at least he could find something of his own within it.

The figure at the door slowly knelt, reaching out to touch the puppet’s face, paying no heed to its filth, to its grime.

“In this world, anyone can be needed.”

“I have never lied to you—not even to your mother; I always spoke the truth. That was her final choice.”

“Lin He, walking alone is exhausting, it’s easy to lose your way, easy to lose yourself. So, I came.”

“As I’ve said before, I never lied to you. I need you—I need you more than anyone.”

“You will find me on your path, always. I will never abandon you; this is my promise to you.”

The room was thick with mud and filth. Mr. Mo knelt, touching his face, his head, and the eyes exposed were so gentle.

“I am so cold, so tired, so hungry, Mr. Mo. Am I really still okay?”

“Lin He, my little crane…”

Mr. Mo called his name again and again, drawing closer to his ear, whispering hoarsely, softly, tenderly.

“You’ve worked so hard. Thank you for holding on.”

Silence followed, then sobs—loud, wrenching.

“Ah! Ahhh!”

He had never felt so unburdened. He still needed himself; even if deceived once more, even if it were another lie, he would willingly sink again, wholeheartedly, gladly, as he always had, without regret.

“Cry, let yourself cry. From now on, whenever you want to cry, I’ll be by your side.”

“I am always here. I will help you—help you find yourself.”

The sound of weeping, so heartbreaking, filled the room. A black book descended from the air, landing on the sludge, then flew to the mud puppet and vanished.

On the puppet’s face, tears seemed to flow—tears with warmth, with taste, with clarity.

Those tears washed away the mud, the filth, and the puppet itself. Beneath it was a child—a child of six or seven.

No blood, no wounds; the lost limbs perfectly restored, every inch of skin tender and delicate.

He had his name; he was not merely a mud puppet. He was Lin He.

He would embark on a path of cultivation unlike any other, destined to stand apart.