Chapter Forty-Three: The Laws of Yellow Sand and Death

The moment the corpse in Chen Qing’s hand hit the surface of the river, all the tiny fish drifting in the water scurried into the corners, and on the vast expanse of the river, not a single fish could be seen.

The old man frowned at this, seeming somewhat displeased.

“Hey, old man, it’s just fishing. Why are you so impatient?” Chen Qing waved his hand and handed the thumb-sized, bright-red figurine in his hand to the child beside him.

The child, enchanted by the exquisite doll, hopped twice in delight but then looked worriedly at the old man after accepting it.

“Sigh.”

The old man let out a sigh, his eyes half-closed, and for the first time, his gaze rested on Chen Qing: “One should not accept reward without merit. Are you just giving this little trinket to my grandson?”

Chen Qing tilted his head, his eyes scanning the child: “Please, take it. After all, I disturbed your fishing, didn’t I? Think of it as compensation.”

He smiled and turned away, not waiting for the old man or the child to say more, took Jiang Wan’s hand, and walked toward the ancient building.

It was only when they reached the front of the building that the old man’s gaze flickered.

But he merely watched them for a while, then closed his eyes and directed his attention back to the river.

Indeed, as he had said, the little fish had begun to nibble at the corpse.

He grinned and cast his hook downstream of the body.

...

The moment Chen Qing stepped into the ancient tower, the world changed colors—the heavens were shrouded in yellow earth, the ground was a swirling storm of dust.

The entire world turned yellow. Inside the ancient building, every household had their doors and windows tightly shut, and the sand and gravel beating against them sounded like falling rain.

Frowning, they stood at the entrance, using a screen to block the onslaught of windblown grit. Jiang Wan glanced back and saw the main door behind them had already closed tight.

If they tried to push, an external force repelled them. If they tried to pull, the bolt was firmly locked. In other words, they were already trapped within this earthen building.

Chen Qing looked down—the sand beneath the screen was about four or five centimeters thick. He picked up some dirt and wiped the blood from his hands with the yellow sand.

Looking up again, he caught sight of several pairs of bright eyes peering out from behind shuttered doors and windows.

They were observing these two strangers, curious as to how, in the midst of such a sandstorm, anyone could enter from outside.

Chen Qing frowned and turned to Jiang Wan. “Has there ever been such a massive sandstorm in history?”

She shook her head, looking puzzled. “This is just the Backrooms. Isn’t any kind of weather possible here?”

“Yes…” He fell silent for a moment, then spoke hesitantly: “Anything can happen in the Backrooms.

But what if the sandstorm only appeared because we entered?”

Chen Qing closed his eyes, recalling the words he’d seen at the entrance: “Time must not be perceived, visitors must leave no trace.

Pursue without a shadow, all things are tied to a single thread.

Records exist for truth, what lies outside time is always credible.

Listen, there are only so many records; only those at the forefront may survive.”

He murmured softly, his gaze sweeping the earthen building.

What to record? What to question?

Who are the visitors—himself, or the natives?

The inscription mentioned no taboos or prohibitions.

Why? Was it because nothing done here would lead to death?

Chen Qing frowned; the sand on the floor seemed to stop accumulating once it reached ankle depth.

This, at least, was a relief—they wouldn’t be buried alive.

He tried stepping beyond the screen. In the swirling yellow sand, something seemed to be positioned at the center of the building.

Chen Qing frowned slightly. For some reason, he instinctively felt the sand was tainted.

Odd, considering he was used to bloodstained hands, which never bothered him.

Thinking this, he glanced down, searching the ground.

“Huh?” He shifted his gaze to where he had just been standing. Sand and grit were everywhere.

What was missing?

He stood in silence. Where was the blood?

Where was the sand he’d stained red?

He frowned but couldn’t pinpoint the issue.

Sighing, he asked Jiang Wan, “Can you wait here for me? I saw something at the center of the building—I want to check it out.”

She frowned slightly, a hint of displeasure. “Can’t you wait a bit? The sandstorm seems to be easing.”

He turned at her words. Indeed, the sandstorm had lessened, but seeing the shifting shapes within the dust, he had a feeling:

If the oddity faded, whatever was there would vanish too.

He said nothing, just shook his head, hesitated a moment, then used his jacket to shield his head and braved the sand into the building’s center.

He walked six or seven steps—about four meters—and there, in the middle, stood a shrine.

Before the shrine were three plates of offerings. In front of the offerings was an animal’s head, and before that, a clay idol.

The clay idol was battered, half its body reduced to dust. The left side remained, but the color and paint had peeled away, suggesting at least a century of neglect.

But on the right, where the idol had crumbled, dense, flesh-like tendrils grew, wriggling like worms or limbs, crowding every gap in the idol—on a ten-centimeter statue, at least a thousand tiny tendrils.

Chen Qing frowned, examining the altar. The wood was faded, a leg broken off and propped up with a red brick.

He frowned and stepped closer.

After just two more steps, an itch crept up his back.

Was it sand inside his clothes?

He grimaced, but kept his hands steady, holding his jacket over his head. As he reached the shrine, a sound drifted to his ears from within.

A rustling, like skin scraping against skin. He looked at the idol; its vermilion lips seemed to part.

“Seek the answer.”

It spoke softly, the voice not seeming to come from before him.

“Record the smoke of history, leave your footprints behind for the world to sing of you…”

The voice grew louder in his ears.

“Proclaim the true lies! Words from beyond time can never be trusted!”

As the final syllable fell, a deathly silence smothered the world.

Sand, children—everything fell mute.

He turned around, dazed, feeling as though he had forgotten something.

He returned to the screen, where Jiang Wan still waited.

“How did it go?”

Chen Qing shook his head. “Hard to say.” He paused, then pointed into the swirling dust. “There’s a shrine at the center of the building.

It seems to be contaminated…” He glanced at her, only to notice she held a file in her hand.

Calling it a file might be generous—it was merely a sheet of paper clipped to a hardboard.

He pointed at the document, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “Where did you get that?”

She was startled, following his gaze down to her hand, where the file sat in her grasp.

“I don’t remember…” she hesitated, shaking her head. Then, in the next instant, her gaze settled on Chen Qing’s hand. She frowned and asked, “Isn’t that one in your pocket too?”

He looked down. Sure enough, a clipped file was tucked into his pocket.

“I seem to…” he fell silent, and Jiang Wan realized it too.

“We’ve both forgotten something.”

He hesitated, the god’s words still clear in his mind.

“What happened to me in the sandstorm after it spoke?” he muttered. As the storm above stilled, some residents pushed open their doors.

They looked at the yellow sand flooding in with horror, fetched brooms, and swept it away.

Then they noticed the outsiders by the screen, their faces pale and tinged with inexpressible resentment.

Looking around, Chen Qing saw that every family on the second floor seemed to have men, most of them armed, while those on the first floor were mainly women, children, and the elderly—and the resentful gazes came mostly from the latter.

He scooped up a handful of yellow sand, his expression calm, and tossed it toward a nearby child.

“What are you doing?!”

The moment the sand left his hand, the child’s parent rushed to the child’s side, her lips trembling and drained of color. She seemed about to touch the child but hesitated, unable to move her hand.

It was only after she shot Chen Qing a look of utter terror and hatred that she swept the child away with a broom, rushed back inside, and locked the door.

“This place is strange,” he muttered, the itch on his back growing worse.

The child, after a moment of stunned silence, ran to the door and began pounding and wailing.

But the woman inside seemed deaf to his cries, her doors and windows barred, leaving her child to scream outside.

Chen Qing smiled, gritting his teeth against the pain as he walked towards the child.

“Oh? Locked out by your mother?”

The child heard him, turned around, and his eyes were streaked with blood-red veins.

He glared at Chen Qing, his voice shrill: “It’s all your fault! You did this! You did this!”

His face twisted in fury, and he grabbed a handful of sand from the ground, ready to hurl it back.

But Chen Qing, sensing something was wrong, wasn’t about to let him succeed.

He seized the child’s arm, stopping the sand mid-air. Yet as he did, the child’s expression abruptly shifted to a wide grin.

“I’ll never… never let you take my family’s home.”

He whispered, and the yellow sand trickled from his clenched hand, slowly flowing like water, evenly coating both their arms.