Seven days later, Devon
The rain in Devon was like viscous bodily fluid squeezed from a rotting giant—cold, wet, carrying an un-washable iron rust smell. Elliott sat in the back row of the jolting coach, his forehead pressed against the cold, fog-covered glass. Outside the window, Devon's rolling hills looked like crouching giant beasts in the dim twilight, and he was walking step by step into the throat of this beast.
He held the lead box tightly in his arms. Ever since Professor Hughes' death, he found his perception of the surrounding environment becoming extremely sensitive, even morbid. He could smell the odor on the passengers in front of him—a mix of cheap tobacco and a faint scent of corruption; it was the omen of the pattern named "aging" slowly harvesting life. He could hear that within the sound of water splashing as the wheels rolled over puddles, there was a tiny, non-existent echo.
He closed his eyes, trying to get some sleep. But the charred scar on his palm was constantly throbbing with pain.
1. The Broken Home
Thorne Farm, spanning one hundred and fifty acres. In Elliott's childhood memory, this was once a green paradise—wildflowers covering the hills in spring, harvest banquets after sheep shearing in summer, golden waves of wheat in autumn. But now, this place was more like a prison locked in mud.
"You're back."
Old Thorne stood in the shadow of the barn. Elliott got off the bus, his boots stepping into mud deep to his ankles, making an unpleasant "squelch" sound. He wore that brown waxed cotton jacket with a worn collar—typical Barbour style. The grease coated on the outer layer emitted a slightly pungent chemical smell under the washing of the cold rain, mixed with the heavy mugginess of rain-soaked wool.
"Father." Elliott's voice was very light.
Old Thorne held that sheep shearing knife, worn thin with a curled blade. His gaze held no warmth of reunion. Those hands covered in calluses and chilblains were trembling violently—not from emotion, but from extreme exhaustion, or perhaps, something deeper that Elliott could not yet understand.
"This year's harvest is rotten. Several fields in the south have failed completely." Old Thorne turned around mechanically, gesturing for Elliott to follow. "This leave of absence of yours must help the family do something. We need to process those two hundred Suffolk sheep before the end of the month. If we don't have this income, we won't even be able to pay back the bank's mortgage."
Elliott looked at his father's hunched back. He noticed his father's walking posture was a bit strange—with every step he took, his left shoulder would have an unnatural dip, as if an invisible heavy weight was pressing down there. He wanted to open his mouth to ask something, but the words died in his throat.
2. Abnormality beneath the Calm
The First Day: Deathly Silence.
The cattle and sheep on the farm became uncannily quiet. That silence was not peaceful, but a collective silencing caused by extreme fear. The flock huddled in the innermost corner of the pen, pressing tightly against each other, yet not daring to make any sound. Even the usually fiercest watchdog was curled up deep in its doghouse, emitting a low, weep-like whimper from its throat.
Elliott was helping to mend fences. His fingertips rubbed against the rough wood, the texture reminding him of the claw marks Professor Hughes left on the wooden floor before dying. He subconsciously looked back toward the main house—his father was standing by the window, staring at him motionlessly.
No, not staring at him. Staring at somewhere behind him.
Elliott turned sharply; behind him were only open pasture and continuous curtains of rain. He attempted to find his father to talk, to discuss his research in London, about those theories regarding "rules." But Old Thorne only repeated fragments about loans, harvest, and the flock. Those words were like the same melody repeated from a broken record—precise, mechanical, without temperature. His father's mind seemed to be simplified by something, simplified into a set of rigid economic data.
That night, Elliott lay in bed, listening to the rain tap-tapping on the window. The scar on his palm began to pain again.
The Second Day: Perception.
The anomaly began to manifest at noon. Elliott walked from the barn back to the main house; this road he had walked for twenty years suddenly became extremely long in this moment. He walked for a full fifteen minutes, yet the red brick house in the distance still looked like a photo stuck on a background board, the sense of distance not changing at all.
He stopped his pace, looking down at his own feet. In the mud, his footprints were disappearing at a speed visible to the naked eye—not washed away by rain, but "erased" from existence itself by some power. Like someone using an eraser to rub out pencil marks, the edges of the footprints began to blur, fade, and finally disappear completely.
Liminal Space. Realistic logic's "dilution" had already seeped into Devon. A sharp, rank smell began to permeate the air, the scent of iron rust rotted by water—the scent belonging to Ataphoi (The Unburied). Elliott's hand reached into his breast pocket, gripping that lead box. The temperature coming from the box was much hotter than usual.
3. Blood-Red Trial and Error
The Third Day, 3:00 AM.
That rank smell became concentrated to a degree that was nearly suffocating. Elliott was startled awake by a rhythmic "Click... clack... click... clack" sound. That sound came from the direction of the sheep pen—rhythmic, mechanical, never-stopping—like a slaughter machine in operation. The scar on his palm was hot as if to burn through his flesh.
Elliott grabbed that waxed cotton jacket and pushed open the bedroom door barefoot. Cold rain hit his face, yet he could not feel the cold—all senses were occupied by that "Click-clack" sound. He stumbled, rushing toward the sheep pen, pushing open that creaking wooden door.
The scene before his eyes completely shattered his final bit of luck as a "human."
Old Thorne was kneeling in the mud. Before him was not a sheep, but a carcass already sheared bloody and raw, displaying a distorted geometric shape. That flesh and blood were neatly stacked into some ancient pattern not belonging to human civilization. His father's eyeballs had disappeared, leaving only two pitch-black hollows continuously oozing dark red fluid.
But his hands were still moving.
"Click"—the scissors cutting through bone.
"Clack"—the blade rubbing against bone.
The First Gambit: Emotional Trap.
"Father! Stop!" Elliott rushed forward out of instinct. He attempted to use human logic to awaken the other, attempted to use the identity of "son" to stop this nightmare.
The instant he stepped within a three-meter range of Old Thorne, Old Thorne's movement stopped. In that moment, all rain sounds and wind sounds disappeared. The world fell into absolute stillness.
"Whoosh—!" The shears sliced past Elliott's temple, fast enough to produce death's scream. A wisp of hair was cleanly cut off, fluttering into the muddy water. Elliott fell heavily into the mud, the fresh blood oozing from his temple blurring his vision.
He understood the first rule: In this rule field （规则场）, any attempt to communicate—especially emotional communication—will trigger a lethal counterattack. Because this "thing" no longer recognized a "son."
The Second Gambit: Spatial Lock-in.
Elliott attempted to escape. He turned around and ran frantically toward the exit. But he discovered that as long as his breathing became rapid due to panic, his feet would be like they were stuck to the ground with superglue, every step requiring immense physical strength. The ground was consuming his speed; the air was solidifying his movements.
Old Thorne—or rather, that "thing" draped in Old Thorne's skin—crept toward him along the ground like a huge, deformed spider. Those two pitch-black eye sockets always locked onto the back of Elliott's neck. No matter how Elliott ran, the exit was retreating, the distance eternally unchanging.
Space was recursing.
The Third Gambit: Rational Awakening.
In the moment of nearly being overwhelmed by despair, that sacred relic fragment at Elliott's chest erupted with a high temperature nearly capable of burning through his ribs. This severe pain caused his brain, originally frozen by fear, to restart functioning. He remembered Professor Hughes' words: "Do not fight them, adapt to them. Make yourself a link within the pattern."
He held his breath, forcing his heart to slow down. He stared fixedly at the frequency of the scissors in Old Thorne's hand.
"Click"—that was the sound of cutting bone.
"Clack"—that was the sound of blade rubbing bone.
He saw clearly. Old Thorne was not "shearing wool." He was using this audio vibration to "anchor" anomalous objects in reality that did not fit the rhythm—namely, him, the living person.
Elliott began to move. He violently ripped off his waxed cotton jacket and put it on inside out—in folklore, this was called "visual interference," using reversed attire to confuse evil. Then, he began to walk, mimicking the rhythm of the scissors.
He stepped out with his left foot, exactly overlapping on that "Click." He stepped out with his right foot, overlapping again on the "Clack."
He was no longer "Elliott." He disguised himself as a piece of noise within this death melody, a rule-abiding existence not worth deleting.
Closer. Old Thorne's face, already rotted and covered in corpse spots, pressed nearly against his nose tip. That disgusting smell of decaying matter caused Elliott's stomach to contract violently, nearly vomiting. Those two pitch-black eye sockets were facing him, with nothing inside—yet seeming to contain the entire abyss.
Elliott bit down hard on the tip of his tongue, using the severe pain to maintain uniformity of step frequency. He could feel that "thing's" gaze sweeping over his body, as if judging whether he belonged as an "anomaly."
One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.
Old Thorne's head turned back, continuing to shear that carcass.
In the fraction of a second when Elliott stepped across the sheep pen's gate, he erupted with an explosive power he had never possessed in his life. He scrambled over the fence, nails clawing at the wood until they were bloody, yet he did not even dare to emit a single moan. Covering his mouth, he ran frantically in the mud until he could no longer hear that "Click-clack" sound.
Four hours later.
Elliott collapsed in the back row of the long-distance coach, his entire body convulsing. He did not dare to close his eyes. Every time he closed his eyes, he would see those two pitch-black eye sockets. He would smell that rotted stench. He would hear that never-stopping "Click-clack" sound.
He looked back. Thorne Farm in the thick fog was growing a bit lighter on the map, finally disappearing into the fog of logic. As if it had never existed.
He took that lead box, and also took away a bone-deep realization: this world was ruined. In this era where spirits did not disperse and ghosts did not die, only cold-bloodedly executing rules like a ghost was the sole answer for survival.
His hand reached into his breast pocket, gripping that holy relic fragment. This time, it was no longer hot. It was cold as ice.
Outside the window, the direction of London was being shrouded by a layer of dark mist. Elliott knew that place would not be safer than Devon. But he knew even more, that if Professor Hughes was right—if "only by understanding the rules can you live"—then his sole destination was St. Mary's Library, where the professor left those taboo literatures.
There, perhaps, was the explanation regarding the "scissors sound." There, perhaps, was the answer regarding this scar on his palm. There, perhaps, were deeper rules that would allow him to live.
The coach entered a tunnel; the light outside the window dimmed down. In that moment of darkness, Elliott saw his own face reflected on the glass. He froze.
On that face, something was not quite the same.
But before he could see clearly, the bus had already driven out of the tunnel, sunlight piercing into his eyes. The reflection disappeared. Elliott took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
He knew, the true gambit belonging to him had only just begun.