Mowen couldn't calm down even after the stall owner spoke to him. He kept his gaze fixed on the stall owner, trying to understand why this person had changed in such a strange way. The stall owner smiled as if nothing had happened, and then stepped over to the stone trough.
He lifted the fresh liver in his trembling hand, the knife in his other hand still dripping blood. In a few quick motions, he cut off large chunks of liver, slicing them into small pieces and tossing them into a bowl.
Mowen noticed something was off about the stall owner's appearance. His massive hands, pale skin, and the thick folds of fat on his chin and stomach all deviated from the norm for a man his age.
Mowen slowly backed away, trying to distance himself from the crowd, as many others around him also began to show unsettling changes.
Some had faces covered in large and small black bumps, or tiny black spots, with pale skin and increasingly dazed expressions, no longer noticing the subtle changes in their surroundings.
They seemed to be enjoying a greedy feast, devouring flesh and blood without concern, as fresh meat juice trickled down their chins like streams.
The severely disfigured people had faces, heads, and bodies covered in deep bite marks, as if marked by the kiss of a demon, their gazes no longer alive but empty and indifferent, like deep black holes.
Some diners had large and small black flower tattoos on their faces and arms, with some even sprouting a flower bud, or black, eerie, and vivid flowers.
The dark petals were very plump, like flames in the darkness. Each petal was covered in faint blue lines, like streams of contemplation and sorrow.
A cluster of thin, transparent stamens swayed automatically without wind, like ghosts dancing in the darkness.
Most people occasionally had these black tattoos, but the tattoos didn't have many flowers, leaving one to wonder what they were.
However, about one-third of the diners had no changes at all, and they were clearly unsettled, their faces pale, and their eyes wide with surprise as they looked around, quickly losing their usual composure.
Their breathing was rapid and irregular, sweat dripping from their foreheads and necks, soaking their clothes. Some began to shout for service or a doctor, their voices filled with fear and desperation.
The food on their plates seemed to turn into poison, and their throats felt blocked. Their hands trembled, and utensils were knocked to the ground, spilling food and drinks everywhere.
Some covered their mouths to stop themselves from retching.
The night market was chaotic, with a beautifully dressed young woman screaming loudly when she saw a person eating heartily with a face like a living dead.
The shrill scream caught the attention of her boy friend, who stared blankly at her, stopping his meal.
The girl continued to scream, but she didn't run away. The undead boy friend lunged at her, biting into the tender flesh of her neck, fresh blood exciting them further.
This was a scene often seen in zombie movies, but when it happens in real life, it's quite shocking.
As the smell of fresh human blood filled the air, more undead became excited, and those who hadn't run far were quickly brought down.
Others suddenly stood up, making a screeching sound as they dragged their chairs, and rushed toward the entrance of the street, trying to leave as quickly as possible.
In the chaos, some people accidentally collided with other diners, and a few tumbled together.
Mowen widened his eyes as the scene before him unfolded like a nightmare. He had expected to leisurely enjoy some food at his favorite street stall, but now found himself in a strange and eerie setting. The undead wandered the streets, faces marked with black flowers like shadows. A wave of shock washed over him.
His breath quickened, a sense of fear washing over him. The sight sent chills down his spine, and he instinctively took a step back, trying to distance himself from the bizarre scene. However, his curiosity took hold. He wanted to know who these people were and why they were here.
Mowen watched their every movement, trying to discern clues from their actions. Each face marred by black flowers seemed to tell a story, but one he couldn't quite grasp. His heart raced as countless possibilities flashed through his mind, none of which provided satisfactory answers.
"This isn't an illusion; it's reality," Mowen muttered to himself. The scene seemed to strip away its disguise, revealing the truth. The black flowers on the undead were in full bloom, and their bodies were marred with deep craters where the flowers seemed to have left their mark. These people were violent and bloodthirsty, but thankfully their numbers were limited.
The ones with black tattoos and floral patterns on their skin puzzled Mowen. Was this some kind of disease, a hidden affliction invisible until now? Their odd behavior—eating and drinking with such gruesome abandon—left him uneasy.
He rolled up his sleeves to check his own skin, a reflexive move. Everything seemed normal. "Thank goodness," he murmured, patting his chest in relief, aligning himself with the other unaffected third.
A deep sadness swept over him. These people, who knows if they were still human, but how could anyone tell the difference between human and ghost at this point? Mowen pitied them, pondering the lives they must have lived to end up like this.
Despite the fear and sorrow that surrounded him, he felt a wave of determination. He couldn't back down now; he needed to find answers and solve this riddle haunting him. Mowen knew he must confront the unknown with a calm mind if he was to uncover the truth.
The chaotic crowd moved like frantic ants under a time-lapse lens, while Mowen tried to remain composed, slowly moving closer to Monk Red Raven. As his mind settled, he began to carefully observe everything around him, though his stomach still churned with unease.
A fleeing diner kicked over chairs and knocked down tables, the screams of panic drawing the attention of the stall owner. He turned around with a knife in hand, curious about what was happening.
Mowen stood still, watching the stall owner. The owner seemed like a different person, his face twisted with rage, black flower scars covering his face, with an empty eye socket where one eye had fallen out like a broken toy. Black liquid dripped from his lips, filling the air with a stench of decay. His grotesque appearance sent chills down Mowen's spine.
Mowen felt a knot of anxiety in his chest as he considered the stall owner's hardships and sorrows. This once-friendly vendor, always up at dawn and working late, was no longer happy. The stall owner had once complained to Mowen about the constant harassment and extortion from the street's overseers, the drunken local thugs who came to eat and drink without paying a dime.
The stall owner's children had been ridiculed at school, and his wife had collapsed one day, leaving him with medical bills that had drained the savings he had accumulated over a decade.
Mowen's heart ached with empathy, but he couldn't deny the fear he felt as the stall owner's demeanor shifted. The knife in his hand glinted coldly, his gaze devoid of warmth, replaced by icy resolve.
Just then, a fleeing diner tried to dart past the stall owner, but the vendor grabbed them, swinging his knife wildly. His face twisted in a grimace, as if life's hardships had finally worn him down, turning his once kind demeanor into a feral expression.
He suddenly shouted, "You all deserve to die! Every last one of you!"