"Yes!"

  As Stirling recited in a low voice, the glass bottle in his hand shook for a moment before it settled.

  [A Thread of Holding Hands]

  [Monk White's ribbon. Wearing this on your wrist lets you sense Monk White's presence up to fifty miles away and gives you a hint. With it, your prey will have nowhere to hide.]

  "What the hell is this?"

  Stirling was already used to the odd things enhanced by the ring. He opened the glass bottle and poured out its contents, only to find a thin, long red string inside.

  "Good, good, good, so gay passionate! This is so-called a thread of holding hands, huh!"

  Stirling's face soured, but the thought of Monk White's potential benefits made him lick his dry lips. He then tied the red string around his wrist.

  In the next moment, the red string on Stirling's wrist reacted. One end shot up and pointed in a specific direction.

  "..."

  Stirling watched this scene, having no words to complain. He packed his things, left the temple, went down the mountain, and rushed in the red rope's direction.

  The fifty-mile radius showed that Monk White didn't leave right after his blood sacrifice at Rock Village. Instead, he stayed close by.

  This wicked monk treated nearby villages like his own sheep pen. He cut their lives with boldness—something absolutely shocking.

  Stirling raced in the direction the red rope showed, zooming past village after village. Some were in ruins, but others still had around a dozen scattered homes.

  Finally, Stirling reached a bigger village. Arriving here with the red rope on his wrist, which had been still, moved in different directions.

  Stirling looked at the red rope on his wrist. He knew he was near his target; the rope wouldn't swing so accurately otherwise.

  "Looks like he is in the village ahead."

  Stirling took a deep breath to calm his excitement. He glanced at the quicksand map, then stepped into the village.

  The standard of living in this village seemed better than that in Rock Village.

  The sun was setting. Many people were still on the roads, but they hurried home like birds returning to their nests.

  When Stirling, a stranger, walked into the village, caught the villagers' attention immediately.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  They watched Stirling enter slowly, looking wary, as if facing a powerful enemy. The men grabbed their pitchforks and clubs. Meanwhile, the women hurried to pull their playing children inside. Then they peeked out of the windows to watch Stirling.

  Stirling, seeing this, breathed a sigh of relief instead.

  These reactions meant that the villagers were still normal people. If the Blood-malice corrupted them, they would gradually lose their minds. They'd end up like the villagers of Rock Village, turning into walking corpses.

  "Man, where do you come from, and where are you going?"

  An old man appeared from behind the villagers. He stared at Stirling with a serious look.

  "Sir, I'm from outside, heading to Farfield City."

  "It's getting dark. I saw signs of life here, so I thought I'd ask for a place to stay tonight. I'll leave early in the morning."

  Stirling bowed to the old man and replied.

  "Sorry, man. You are not welcome here. "You'd better find somewhere else to stay!"

  The old man didn't lower his guard at all because of Stirling's words, stating coldly.

  Hearing the old man, the men behind him grew fierce. They stepped forward, weapons aimed low at Stirling.

  Stirling ignored them. He reached into his bag with one hand, then pulled out a white, visibly shaped object and tossed it to the old man.

  The old man steadily caught the tossed object. When he grabbed closer, he saw it was a pouch packing some heavy silver coins.

  The old man's eye twitched. He weighed the coin in his hand, estimating its weight, and his hands trembled a touch.

  "Sir, you are a noble guest of our Stream Village!"

  The old man immediately put on a smiling face, then bowed to Stirling.

  "If you do not mind, please stay at my house for the night!"

  The crowd behind the old man exchanged glances, slowly lowered their weapons. Stirling nodded in agreement.

  He glanced discreetly at the rather curled red string on his wrist and said:

  "Then I will trouble you, sir."

  With that, Stirling followed the old man towards the back of the village. "By the way, Sir, are there very few strangers here? Otherwise, why are they so wary of me?"

  Stirling asked the old man as they walked.

  "Ah, it's like this. In this area, how can you let strangers into a village without a hitch? If you run into those calamities, you're finished!"

  "Several villages around here have been swallowed up by calamity. Our Stream Village will probably have to move soon, too."

  The old man sighed.

  "Oh, a group of people stayed here for the last two days. But they're merchants, so they're not exactly strangers. Our village still needs them to bring daily supplies from outside."

  The old man opened the floodgates of conversation.

  "Merchants?"

  Stirling sneered inwardly. He asked no more questions and followed behind the old man like a shadow.

  A little while later, the old man led Stirling to a larger house.

  "I am the village chief here, and this is my house. There is a spare room inside; please stay there tonight, my esteemed guest!"

  The old man said it with an honest expression.

  "Sir, appreciate your help."

  Stirling bowed in thanks.

  The old man's house was enormous, unlike most homes. It did match his role as the village chief.

  The room the old man mentioned was a small, secluded inner bedroom, containing only a bed and a wardrobe.

  Stirling walked into it. He set his package on the wardrobe and leaned against the bed. Memories of his talk with the old man flooded back.

  If Monk White was staying here, he must be the merchant that the old man had mentioned.

  He would inspect this after dark.

  Thinking this, Stirling stood up to see if he could climb out of the window. He felt surprised to find it blocked by wooden planks.

  Just then, the old man pushed open the wooden door and walked in, carrying a bowl of sticky oatmeal porridge.

  "This is to keep outsiders from coming in at night," the old man said without a second thought, seeing Stirling opening the window.

  Stirling glanced at the old man, a slight smile playing on his lips, then her gaze fell on the bowl in the old man's hands.

  "Ah, you must be hungry after coming a long way. Here's a bowl of hot oatmeal porridge to warm you up," the old man said solicitously, handing the bowl.