Number 53 has been found.-Master of Mythology(The novel I wrote is truly dreadful.)

Years ago, when Bai Zongnan’s mother gave birth to him, she had come to seek her help as well.

Remembering this, his eyes grew a bit warmer toward her, his tone softening with charm. “You’re here too, Aunt Chen? Please, come in, come in. Thank you for coming.”

But she didn’t budge, only stared straight at Bai Zongnan, her gaze betraying neither joy nor sorrow.

Bai Zongnan felt a little puzzled and was about to speak.

But she had already turned away, leaving him only the yellowed back of her homespun garment. He thought he heard her mutter under her breath: “You are what you eat, you are what you eat…”

You are what you eat… What could that mean?

At the time, Bai Zongnan only scratched his head in confusion, then went on to entertain the guests.

He never thought that the next time he would hear that phrase would be over a decade later.

Now, before him, the person they brought in was barely breathing. No doctor was needed—anyone with experience could tell at a glance she was beyond saving.

Yet, true to his principle of “medical ethics above all,” Bai Zongnan still put on his stethoscope and examined her carefully.

He frowned, glancing at the two men standing by the door.

One was dressed as a farmer, honest-faced and uneasy, wringing his hands as he watched Bai Zongnan. When their eyes met, his features twisted with worry.

“So, is there any hope?” he asked.

Bai Zongnan shook his head, smoothing his hair with a sigh. “When you brought her in, she still had a pulse. Now, her heart’s stopped.”

The other man wore a uniform and a flat cap, his face expressionless. “Alright, doctor. Thanks for your trouble. We’ll take her away.”

At Bai Zongnan’s nod, the two moved to lift the woman.

Just then, the flat-cap man’s phone rang. The two exchanged a glance and paused.

He gestured for silence, pulled out his phone, and answered. “Hello… Yes, it’s Bai Zongnan. Still at the clinic—the one near the back hill. She’s gone. We’re about to take her home… Alright, I understand, I’ll be right there...”

After hanging up, he looked at the farmer, gesturing toward the woman. “I have to go back now, can’t help you. You came as agreed, you’ll get an extra two hundred.”

Without waiting for a reply, he hurried away.

The farmer slumped to the ground, sighing long and hard.

Bai Zongnan, feeling a twinge of sympathy, patted his shoulder. “My condolences. She’s gone. Let her rest in peace, don’t torment yourself.”

The man shook his head, pulling at his hair with force, muttering, “How can I carry her alone? How can I? It’s over, I’ll be late…”

Suddenly, he sprang up, eyes bulging, voice trembling. “Sir, please! The dead you may not revive, but can’t you help the living? Please, help me, help me!”

“I was hired to do this—to carry this woman home, dead or alive. If I don’t get her there by six, I won’t get a penny!”

“Please help me, doctor! My daughter has leukemia. The village doctor can’t treat her; she must go to the city. The hospital bills are overdue, and soon they’ll kick her out if I don’t pay.”

He clutched Bai Zongnan’s hand, tears streaming down in seconds, nearly dropping to his knees.

Bai Zongnan quickly stopped him, forcing a smile more wretched than a grimace. “No problem. I’ve nothing pressing. Tell me, how can I help?”

“It’s simple. Just help me carry her.”

“Carry? What, her?”

He nodded vigorously in response to Bai Zongnan’s gesture at the woman’s alluring figure on the bed.

Bai Zongnan looked again at the woman: delicate brows, almond-shaped eyes, her face deathly pale yet lips strikingly red, eyes tightly closed.

Perhaps he was staring too intently—he thought he saw her eyelashes tremble. For a heartbeat, his pulse skipped.

Steadying himself, Bai Zongnan glanced at the clock. Half past two.

“How long will it take to get there?”

“Just over three hours,” the man answered swiftly.

Bai Zongnan suffered from severe headaches, the kind that made him wish to chop his head off when they struck.

This was precisely the kind of situation he most dreaded. He swallowed two painkillers, met the man’s desperate gaze, and after a pause, nodded.

About fifteen minutes later, Bai Zongnan sat in the passenger seat of a pickup truck, while the woman lay in the back. The farmer drove leisurely, cigarette in hand.

It seemed they’d make it in time. Bai Zongnan composed himself and struck up a conversation.

He learned the man’s name was Wang Jian, a temp at the building materials plant in Bai Zongnan’s village, who did whatever odd jobs he could to earn more, especially after his daughter was diagnosed. He’d take any job—funeral or wedding, dirty or exhausting—so long as there was money.

This was his first job outside the village. The pay was good, but he had to work with that man from the clinic to deliver the woman to the hospital, and if she died en route or couldn’t be saved, he had to take the body straight to—

Here, Wang Jian used a dialect word. Seeing Bai Zongnan confused, he gestured, then explained in awkward standard speech: the back hill cemetery.

If he was late or lost the body, not only would he earn nothing, he might even be killed.

“Killed? Isn’t that a bit much?” Bai Zongnan found it laughable.

Wang Jian raised his voice. “Why not? That man at your place, when I first saw him, wore sunglasses and looked fierce. This one’s in trouble, kill him; that one’s a problem, chop her up… Except for his master—an old man always smoking a water pipe—he was all deference!”

“We working folk know how to keep our heads down.”

“But one thing is odd: before we came to you, there were two—one big, one small. After we got there, only one remained.”

He looked fearfully at Bai Zongnan. “What do you mean, two to one?” Bai Zongnan asked idly, glancing out the window.

“There were two,” Wang Jian said, pointing at the back, “now only one.”

Bai Zongnan’s eyes widened. “What? Say that again—you started with two people, now only this woman?”

Wang Jian swallowed nervously. “Yeah… at first, two—an adult and a child. Then only her.”

“And the child?”

“No idea. Vanished halfway. I was puzzled, but that man didn’t care. I just wanted to get paid, so I let it go.”

“The woman—was she married?”

“How would I know? But she wore a gold ring on her middle finger, so maybe. I didn’t take it—the man did,” Wang Jian said, a flash of panic on his face.

After hearing this, Bai Zongnan fell silent.

Noticing the long silence, Wang Jian kept glancing at him. “Brother, what do you think happened?”

Bai Zongnan didn’t answer. Instead, memories long buried resurfaced.

When Bai Zongnan was five, a famine struck the village, and many died of hunger. People were still superstitious then, and the village chief decided to lead a group to the back hill to worship the Mountain God—twice a month, on the full and new moons.

At first, most objected—starving already, how could they afford rituals? But as the bodies piled up, nearly every household losing someone, minds began to change. Eventually, the proposal was accepted unanimously.

The rule was simple: two from each family would go to the back hill for a week of ritual, not allowed to leave. Families who participated got priority for food; those who didn’t had to fend for themselves.

At first, few went. But, strangely, after those who did started coming back with food, the rest couldn’t hold out. Hunger turned their eyes red—no one cared what they had to do for a bite.

During that time, Bai Zongnan was burning with fever, covered in sores and delirious. After two rounds of worship, his mother went too. Normally, they’d have sent two, but Zongnan was too young and his father bedridden.

After that, the family would get a little food after each ritual—not much, but enough not to starve.

Aunt Chen told him that back then he was so far gone with hunger he didn’t even eat when food was brought to his lips, just cried out for his parents.

He was too young to understand, and Aunt Chen, half his wet nurse, half stern nanny, threatened and coaxed him to eat and drink, keeping him alive.

He remembered her glaring fiercely at him, shouting, “You little rascal, do you know what your aunt does? I pulled you out of your mother’s belly, just grabbed your little head and yanked you out…” She’d mime the motion, exaggerating as she drew him into her arms.

“If you don’t listen, do you know what I did after? Tore a piece of your mother’s flesh from her belly to stuff in your mouth so you wouldn’t starve, understand?”

“If you still don’t listen, I’ll tear the flesh from your belly next.”

She’d reach for his stomach, scaring him into silence. He’d gulp down the food, terrified she’d actually do it.

With food, he and his father slowly recovered. By the time they could work again, the famine had passed and the rituals faded away.

But Aunt Chen told him his mother was chosen by the Mountain God during the second ritual—taken to be his bride, never to return. Zongnan remembered looking at his father in confusion; he only lowered his head in silence.

Later, when Bai Zongnan went to school, he asked around. The answer was the same: during the second ritual, his mother was chosen by the Mountain God, stood up chanting, and ran towards the mountains. No one could stop her, and they said she’d been possessed.

He didn’t believe in possession. Most likely, she’d lost her mind from hunger and wandered off.

There’s a saying: “If alive, show the person; if dead, show the corpse.” He missed his mother deeply, often sneaking out to the back hill at night, but never dared venture deep into the mountains. The hill was pitch black, the only sounds a few eerie cries of night cats. He never found anything.

Until one time, he tried going farther, just hoping to find any trace of people. This time, he wasn’t disappointed. As he crept along the mountain path, he saw two figures ahead at a bend—one tall, one short. He froze, unable to move.

The moon was bright. The taller one was clearly an adult woman, shapely and elegant, dressed in a cheongsam with her hair in a high bun—straight out of the 1980s. The shorter figure, smaller than Zongnan, was a child.

He squinted for a better look. The woman gripped the child’s hand tightly, heading for the back hill. Bai Zongnan crept after them, heart pounding.

Soon he realized something was wrong. Rather than guiding the child, the woman was dragging him. The child’s feet didn’t move—he was being hauled along.

It was like something out of a Lin Zhengying ghost film. The thought flashed through Zongnan’s mind, sending a jolt through him.

Startled, he stepped on a branch. The crack wasn’t loud, but in the silent night it seemed to echo.

The figures ahead froze, ears twitching visibly, stopping dead.

Zongnan’s heart nearly stopped, cold sweat breaking out. In that moment, it was as if his blood turned to ice.

For some reason, his vision sharpened in terror. He could see the woman’s slender hand gripping the back of the child’s collar—and then, looking up, Oh God—there was no head!

In a split second, the “woman” slowly turned. The swaying child caught Bai Zongnan’s gaze—he didn’t even see her face.

When he came to, he saw a ghastly white, bloodless face, hollow eyes, long hair drifting, and lips stretching into an ear-to-ear grin.

“Ah!” Bai Zongnan could stand no more. He turned and ran, heedless of direction or obstacles. Only one thought screamed in his mind: she must not catch me!

By some miracle, he made it back to the village before dawn. After that, he lay in bed three days before recovering.

Later, he heard villagers say that the night he “saw a ghost,” something had happened—Widow Liu’s body had disappeared.

Widow Liu was a tragic figure. She’d died in childbirth a week prior, losing both her life and the baby’s. Bai Zongnan’s father, moved by pity, had rallied the villagers to raise money for her and the child’s gravestone, paying most of it himself.

Just yesterday afternoon, Old Liu, a limping middle-aged man, passed by the graveyard. He was one of the “old-timers” in the village, rumored to have loved Widow Liu and to be a survivor of those old rituals.

As he hobbled past, he saw one gravestone overturned and a coffin lid half open—a deeply unsettling sight. Realizing it was Widow Liu’s recently buried grave, he mustered his courage to look—and was horrified to find both bodies gone.

When Bai Zongnan heard the news, he couldn’t stop shaking. His father asked if he was ill, but Zongnan only shook his head.

He remembered Widow Liu well—a woman from another village whose husband had died in the famine. After his death, her belly swelled. In a small village, gossip spreads fast, and soon everyone was talking about her.

She ignored the whispers, worked the fields with her belly high and proud, determined to bring that child into the world.

But fate had other plans…

The image of that night was etched into Bai Zongnan’s mind: the tall and the short, the woman swinging the child’s body as she dragged him along.

“Oh, damn it!” Suddenly, a piercing scream and a violent crash shattered his memories. Before he could react, the world spun, his head slammed against something hard, and just before losing consciousness, he glimpsed a flash of red outside the window.

—

When he awoke, all was darkness. His left forehead throbbed painfully, clearing his mind a little.

Where was he? Clutching his head, Bai Zongnan ran his fingers along the ground.

Soon, his hand brushed something slick. He sniffed—so bloody.

No surprise—it was blood.

He struggled to sit up, fumbled for his phone, and pressed the power button. The screen lit up.

Relieved, Zongnan used the faint glow to check the bloody spot.

Wang Jian lay sprawled in the dirt, his fate unknown. Bai Zongnan shifted closer, checked for breath—nothing. A brief inspection, then Zongnan slumped back against the stone wall, gasping.

Perhaps it was professional detachment—he’d seen too much death. Two corpses in one day did not break him, but he felt himself drawn into some kind of vortex.

The image of the woman in the cheongsam surfaced unbidden. The darkness sharpened his senses. Her graceful form, her delicate beauty—she appeared like Sleeping Beauty, lips parted, crimson and fragrant, her scent lingering near his nose.

No, his keen nose told him the fragrance wasn’t imaginary… Could it be?

He switched on his phone’s flashlight, illuminating his surroundings.

It seemed to be a cave. He and Wang Jian were lying by the stone wall.

After a while, it struck him—this was a cycle, repeating once more…

Years ago, when Bai Zongnan’s mother gave birth to him, she had come to seek her help as well.

He remembered, and his eyes grew warm toward her, speaking sweetly.

“You’re here too, Aunt Chen? Please, come in, thank you for coming…”

She didn’t move, only stared at him, emotions unreadable.

He felt puzzled, about to speak.

She turned away, leaving only her yellowed garment. He thought he heard her mutter, “You are what you eat, you are what you eat…”

What did it mean?

At the time, he only scratched his head in confusion and went on with his duties.

He never imagined he would hear those words again, years later.

Now, before him, the person delivered was on the brink of death. No doctor was needed; the elders could hear by her breath that she was beyond hope.

Yet, out of professional ethics, he put on his stethoscope and examined her carefully.

He frowned, glancing at the two men waiting by the door.

One, dressed as a farmer, honest and nervous, wringing his hands. When Bai Zongnan looked at him, his face twisted with worry.

“So, is there any hope?”

He shook his head, sighed, and straightened his hair. “She had a pulse when you brought her in. Now, her heart’s stopped.”

The other, in uniform and flat cap, expressionless: “Alright, doctor. Thanks for your trouble. We’ll take her away.”

At his nod, they moved to carry the woman.

Just then, the phone rang on the man in the cap. The two exchanged glances and paused.

He hung up, looked at the farmer, and pointed at the woman: “I have to go back now, can’t help you. You came as agreed, you’ll get an extra two hundred.”

Without waiting for a reply, he hurried away.

The farmer slumped to the ground with a long sigh.

Bai Zongnan, feeling pity, patted his shoulder. “My condolences. She’s gone. Let her rest in peace, don’t torment yourself.”

The man shook his head, pulling at his hair, muttering, “How can I carry her alone? How can I? It’s over, I’ll be late…”