Sacrifice with Life

Old District, Sand River Street.

The decades-old garment factory dormitory now stood like a drained skeleton, waiting to die in place.

Out of dozens of households in the building, the number of windows still hanging laundry could be counted on one hand.

Those with means had long moved to the new city across the river.

Those without had sharpened their wits to squeeze into cheaper shared rentals nearby.

These rooms were so unwelcoming that even if you paid people to live here, they’d still find them inauspicious.

And yet, someone stubbornly refused to leave.

Fifth floor, west unit.

Inside, the Heart Sutra played on loop, its sacred chants stained with a sickly red hue.

A man slumped in a creaky wooden rocking chair, his gaze fixed on the maternity hospital building across the street.

Every time the faint cry of a newborn reached his ears, the corner of his mouth twitched.

On the table before him sat an amber glass jar.

Its surface was plastered with layers of talismans, the cinnabar inscriptions so dense they nearly obscured the jar’s original color.

Something inside shifted slightly under the red light.

The table around the jar was covered in scribbled characters.

The man pinched the last ember of his cigarette between yellowed fingers, stubbing it out on the edge of the table while muttering under his breath:

"Absorb it, absorb it well. Take it all in—there’s plenty of good stuff over there. Don’t waste a drop."

He glanced at the wall clock.

The hour, minute, and second hands slowly aligned into a single straight line.

Right on time, his pallid face, barely visible in the red glow, twisted into a grin.

It was time.

He stood, walked into the kitchen, and after some rummaging, pulled out a fruit knife.

Dried blood still clung to the blade.

Back in the living room, he deftly unwrapped the bandage around his left wrist.

The skin beneath was unrecognizable—a grotesque abstract painting of scars, new over old, uneven and ugly.

Unfazed, he raised the knife and sliced into the only patch of unmarred flesh left.

The cut split open, but not a single drop of blood welled up.

The man glared at his wrist in frustration.

Damn it, bleed already!

Maybe he’d cut too much—these hands had forgotten what blood even was.

Only a faint, sluggish trickle of dark red seeped from the wound’s depths, too meager to even drip into the jar.

Refusing to give up, he unwrapped his other wrist and slashed at it several times.

Same result.

No blood came.

Just as he was despairing over his useless wrists, a voice spoke up.

It was thin and sticky, as if bubbling up from thick liquid—and it came from the jar on the table.

"Stab... the heart. There’s blood there."

The man froze. Slowly, he looked down at his sunken chest, then at the knife in his hand.

Of course. Why hadn’t he thought of that?

"Yes... yes... the heart has blood, the heart has blood!"

His face lit up with manic delight, as if he’d just solved a math problem that had stumped him for years.

Without hesitation, he plunged the blade into his left chest, then wrenched it sideways.

The sound of tearing flesh was dull, but he didn’t stop until hot blood finally gushed out.

Strangely, he felt no pain—only relief.

Cradling his split-open chest like a sacred offering, he carefully stepped to the table and positioned the wound over the jar’s mouth.

Blood cascaded down, filling the vessel.

"Drink up, drink up. Grow big and strong."

Humming a disjointed nursery rhyme, his face grew translucent from blood loss, yet radiated a perverse joy.

Only when the flow dwindled to a trickle, then stopped entirely, did he finally let go and slump back into the rocking chair.

"My child, my dear child... grow fast, grow strong."

His head lolled to the side, but his eyes remained fixed on the jar, pupils brimming with anticipation.

The knife still protruded from his chest.

The Heart Sutra began another cycle.

But half an hour later, a hand reached out and switched off the player.

A slightly hunched figure stepped into the living room.

She glanced at the dead man without a flicker of emotion, then casually sealed the jar’s lid and carried it away.

"Need to speed up the retrieval. Can’t afford delays anymore."

Another half hour passed.

The door creaked open.

Liu Zheng strode in, his nose wrinkling at the metallic stench.

"Damn it, too late. Hope the thing’s still here."

Behind him, Shouzhen stepped forward, pulling a flashlight from his pocket—just as the overhead bulb flickered on with a click.

"Daoist Priest, gotta adapt to modern times, eh?" Liu Zheng teased.

But Shouzhen wasn’t listening. His eyes were locked on the empty space on the table, then the corpse in the rocking chair.

"We’re too late."

These past few days had visibly aged Shouzhen.

No longer did he gasp at the sight of death. Instead, he murmured:

"By the decree of the Most High, your lonely soul is freed. All ghosts and spirits, beings of four births, partake in this grace. Those with heads shall be liberated..."

After reciting the prayer for the dead, he turned to the maternity hospital beyond the window.

"Another of the Eight Sufferings?"

Though Daoism spoke of Five Sufferings, Shouzhen’s Quanzhen sect blended Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism. He recognized the dark art at work—the energy being harvested.

Different labels, same essence.

"Which suffering is this?" Liu Zheng stepped closer, sensing the lingering energy.

"The suffering of birth—the agony inherent to being born. That cursed object must be absorbing it, then redirecting it as a hex onto others."

"So it’s meant to curse infants?"

"Partly. Birth suffering affects both newborns and mothers. The curse could deform the fetus... or kill them both."

Shouzhen clenched his fists. Such evil had no place in this world.

"Thought combing through market surveillance would get us somewhere. Another dead end."

Liu Zheng snapped a few photos, then turned to Shouzhen.

"Any leads, Daoist Priest Shouzhen?"

Shouzhen shook his head. "None. If the cursed vessel holds the Eight Sufferings, the deadliest is the suffering of death. We must find it—hospitals are the likeliest source."

"Easier said than done. Birth, aging, sickness, death—hospitals cover them all. And Goat City’s got too damn many to check."

Liu Zheng lit a cigarette, inhaling sharply.

The drag burned half the stick in one go.

As he exhaled, thick smoke unfurled, blanketing the doorway.

Within the haze, a figure gradually took shape.