Chapter Eleven: The Kidnapping

Although the three were on holiday, they were far from idle. For a whole week, they stayed up late into the night: Fatty practiced drawing talismans, Song Nianqiang honed the Five Thunder Spell, while Li Runze learned how to communicate with ghosts—his future signature ability, with Song Nianqiang offering occasional guidance.

One night, while they were busy at their respective tasks, Song Nianqiang’s phone suddenly rang. He glanced at the caller ID—it was Colonel Zhang. “Colonel, what’s up?” The hearty laughter came from the other end, “Good news for you all: the special forces have agreed to let Li Runze join.”

“Wow! Really? When does he leave?” Song Nianqiang was genuinely happy for Li Runze. The special forces had many divisions, but only one dealt with supernatural phenomena—the Seventh Agent Group.

No one in the Seventh Agent Group was mediocre; whether in physical skill or insight, they were extraordinary. This meant Li Runze would soon undergo a particularly harsh period of training. “Three days from now, someone will come to pick him up,” Colonel Zhang said over the phone.

“Congratulate him for me—got something to do, talk later!” With that, Colonel Zhang hung up. Song Nianqiang leaped up in excitement and approached Li Runze with a mysterious air. “Guess what the Colonel just said?”

Fatty, having just finished a talisman, joined them, but Song Nianqiang pushed his chubby face away with a single hand. “Judging by your face, I must have been accepted,” Li Runze guessed confidently, though he still sounded tentative.

“Haha—congratulations, you got it! Let’s go have a drink; you’re buying!” Song Nianqiang laughed.

“No problem! Let’s go!” With the confirmation, Li Runze was genuinely delighted. The special forces held tremendous authority, directly under central command. If Li Runze could one day become an officer, his prospects would be limitless.

They finally found a twenty-four-hour restaurant, though it was a bit out of the way. They ordered a few dishes and two cases of beer, and started drinking. But as they drank, something felt off. Drowsy and dazed, they soon slumped over the table and passed out.

Because the police had sealed off information, outsiders knew nothing. Colonel Zhang’s “business” was actually related to this: recently, their normally uneventful county had seen a mysterious spike in missing persons. The police had begun investigating, but because the cases were so unusual, they'd had to request help from the military.

Colonel Zhang was shocked by the news; he never expected that a county which barely saw even petty theft would suddenly have missing persons. One or two cases might be dismissed, but the police had received over twenty reports—all teenagers, all gone missing while out at night.

What’s called “joy turning to sorrow”—now the three friends found themselves in a similar plight. They were tied up like bundles and thrown into a lightless room, perhaps a basement. Their mouths were taped shut. Even if they wanted to shout, it was impossible; probably no one would hear them anyway.

Looking around, Song Nianqiang saw many other children—boys and girls, young and older—all tied up just as securely, their mouths taped. They lay on the floor, spiritless and weak, as if they had suffered greatly.

He struggled over to Fatty, who lay nearby, and poked at his plump body, but Fatty didn’t respond. At that moment, a middle-aged man entered, grabbed a frail child from the floor, and left, glancing at Song Nianqiang as he did.

Where exactly they were, Song Nianqiang had no idea; the place was dark, damp, and reeked of strange odors, like a poorly ventilated basement. Why had so many children been brought here, bound and gagged?

After a while, Fatty and Li Runze groggily awoke. Realizing their predicament, they stared wide-eyed at Song Nianqiang, helplessly shaking their heads and shrugging to show they had no clue where they were.

“Mmm, mmm—?” Li Runze nudged Fatty with his head, then glanced down at his own waist. Fatty understood, slowly inching over and reaching for a small knife tucked into Li Runze’s belt buckle. But with surveillance cameras everywhere, they couldn’t openly cut their ropes.

They were like headless flies, blind to their surroundings. Song Nianqiang felt deeply uneasy as he watched the other children sprawled unconscious on the floor.

“Is this a human trafficking base?” Song Nianqiang wondered. Such scenes were common on television, but he never imagined he’d be kidnapped himself. He looked up at the four surveillance cameras on the walls—escaping seemed nearly impossible.

Soon, the child who had been taken was dragged back, covered in blood. Song Nianqiang saw his eyes had turned crimson. The man tossed him carelessly on the floor, then seized Song Nianqiang and headed outside.

Song Nianqiang had no strength to resist. The burly man picked him up as easily as a chick, his single hand lifting Song Nianqiang with ease. A punch from him would leave pain for days.

After walking for about ten minutes, the man arrived at an ancient circular altar. The blood on the altar was still fresh—clearly from the child before. Song Nianqiang’s pupils contracted sharply; he recognized the altar. It was a gateway between the underworld and the human realm.

Yet the sorcerer’s skill was obviously lacking; otherwise, he wouldn’t need so much human blood as a medium. Around the altar were carvings of night demons, and its surface bore an enormous mouth—any blood flowing into it was absorbed. This was clearly the work of a cult. If the authorities weren’t alerted soon, and the portal opened, disaster would befall the human world.

Song Nianqiang's hands, behind his back, quickly formed seals. He needed just one final gesture to unleash the Five Thunder Spell. He waited for the perfect moment; his target wasn’t the men nearby, but the altar itself. The spell wouldn’t destroy the altar, but it could delay the opening of the portal.

He was flipped over, his wrist placed against the altar, ready for bloodletting. At that instant, Song Nianqiang completed the last gesture. Blue lightning erupted, striking the altar. Black smoke immediately billowed up. The sorcerer shuddered and rushed to inspect the altar. Finding only minor damage, he breathed a sigh of relief.

“So you’re a mage after all,” the sorcerer said, his accent foreign and harsh. Song Nianqiang’s mouth was sealed, so he closed his eyes, adopting an attitude of indifference.

“Haha—I like this. Take him down and give him a beating, but don’t kill him!” With a wave, the sorcerer resumed his ritual. Though Song Nianqiang wasn’t bled, he still lost plenty of blood, pummeled until he spat a mouthful of crimson before the burly man finally stopped.

As a mage, Song Nianqiang became a special prisoner, shoved into a solitary cell. He gazed at the thick iron walls, utterly despairing.

Luckily, there was a small window above. Since he was locked in here, there was no need to keep him tied up. Not even a bird could escape from such a place, much less a person.

He slumped to the floor, moving his arms and wincing as waves of pain shot through him. Though he was sturdy, the beating left him sore and broken.

He slowly lay back on the cold floor, gazing at the lone window. Moonlight poured through, illuminating his blood-streaked face.

Now Song Nianqiang was certain they were on the outskirts—he could hear the chorus of insects outside. Rural children could judge their location by the density of the insect song, and Song Nianqiang was sure the window opened onto a wild field. Only such fields had so many insects singing in the night.