nyslfriends Chapter 1 I Became a Minion of the Demon Suppression Bureau
Chapter 1 I Became a Minion of the Demon Suppression Bureau
The moment his fingertips touched the bluish-gray stone tablet, Lin Yan felt a bone-chilling cold creep up his fingertips. It wasn't the refreshing coolness of autumn; it was a chilling cold, like ice crystals seeping into his very bones. Immediately afterward, a deafening roar filled his ears, as if countless wronged souls were wailing in the ancient darkness, their cries like spiderwebs coiling around him, then suddenly writhing, filled with excruciating pain, so intense that his eardrums tingled and his vision blurred.
It was early autumn of 2033. The rain on the southern slopes of the Qinling Mountains always carried a sticky coolness. Unlike the crisp rain of the north, this rain fell in a dense, continuous drizzle, like the silk threads of a young woman's embroidery, stitch by stitch weaving a curtain that shrouded the newly excavated tomb deep in the mountain valley in a misty haze. The air was filled with the fishy smell of damp earth, mixed with the rotten smell of old, decaying wood—a smell like an old book soaked in water, carrying the somberness of pulp, and hiding a faint, strange fragrance, like rust yet with an eerie sweetness. Later, Lin Yan realized that it was the smell of time pickling the souls of the dead, clinging to clothes, seeping into the bones, and never to dissipate.
He was the youngest member of the archaeological team, a second-year graduate student, still carrying a scholarly air of youthful naiveté. According to seniority, the task of clearing the broken stele at the entrance to the tomb passage naturally fell to someone else. Half of the stele was embedded in the mud, the exposed portion covered with twisted symbols, winding and crooked, neither as vigorous as Shang and Zhou oracle bone inscriptions nor as regular as Qin and Han seal script. Instead, it resembled a ribbon crumpled by a storm, with a hint of a living creature curled up, softly and sticking to the stone surface, a sight that sent chills down one's spine.
Professor Zhang, who was leading the team, squatted beside the excavation square. His glasses were fogged white by the rain, but the light in his eyes could not be hidden. His thin fingers pointed at the stone tablet, and he sighed repeatedly, "The key to prehistoric civilization," his voice trembling. But Lin Yan stared at the symbols and felt that they were like pairs of eyes hidden in the shadows, with dark brown stone pupils and upturned corners following the curve of the symbols, staring at him without blinking. The hairs on his body stood on end, and even his fingertips felt numb.
"Xiao Lin, be careful!" Professor Zhang's voice drifted down from the rain, tinged with urgency. "The weather station says there will be a downpour in the latter half of the night. The rubbings need to be finished before the rain gets heavy, or we'll ruin something good."
Lin Yan replied with a soft "Understood," his voice softened by the rain. He pulled out suede gloves from his canvas bag and put them on. The moment his fingertips touched the soft leather, the coolness of the stone tablet seeped in again, like touching ice through a thin sheet of paper—a truly chilling sensation. He held the soft-bristled brush, as if dusting a fragile piece of porcelain, his touch so light he was afraid of breaking something, carefully brushing away the dirt from the surface of the tablet. When he reached the center of the tablet, the brush suddenly stopped—it was a fist-sized pattern, like a half-open eye, with several twisting arcs trailing from the corner, more dynamic than the surrounding symbols, even the eyelash-like lines were clearly discernible.
Just as the brush bristles brushed past the pupil—
hum.
A faint tremor, seemingly emanating from a thousand feet deep underground, wasn't the shaking of an earthquake, but rather the movement of the stone tablet itself. The subtle vibrations crawled from his fingertips into his arm, then spread to his internal organs, like countless tiny insects crawling between his bones. Lin Yan was startled and tried to pull his hand away, but found his fingertips were as if they had been doused with molten iron, firmly stuck to the stone tablet, his skin seemingly fused to the stone surface, indistinguishable from it. The previously lifeless symbols came alive, slowly wriggling on the damp stone surface, like a group of small black snakes, flicking their tongues, converging towards the "eye," leaving a wet trail, as if the stone surface were sweating.
"Professor..." he tried to call out, but his throat felt like it was stuffed with a wad of waterlogged cotton, his voice as faint as a mosquito's buzz, barely audible even to himself. His vision began to spin; the warning line at the edge of the exploration area, the blue umbrellas held by his colleagues, the blurry, bluish-gray mountains in the rain—all blended into a flowing mass of color: red umbrellas, blue lines, green mountains, making him dizzy. Finally, what came into view was the "eye" on the stone tablet suddenly opening wide, its pupil devoid of white, filled only with an impenetrable darkness, like a bottomless well, or the mouth of a giant beast, threatening to suck him in completely.
Then came the endless fall, like falling into a bottomless icy pool, surrounded by frigid water that enveloped him as he sank deeper and deeper, until he forgot to breathe.
---
pain.
The first thing that struggled out of the chaos was the excruciating pain. From head to toe, every bone felt like it had been taken apart and haphazardly put back together. The pain made him want to curl up, but the hard bed against his back was chillingly cold. The cold seeped in through the coarse linen quilt, sending a shiver down his spine. Then came the cold. The musty-smelling coarse linen quilt was as thin as a withered leaf. The damp, cold fabric clung tightly to his skin, making even the hairs on his skin stand on end, each one distinct.
Lin Yan struggled to open his eyes, his eyelids feeling as heavy as lead. The first thing he saw was a thatched roof letting in light—no, it was leaking rain. A drop of icy water landed right on his forehead, sliding down his brow bone and into his eye, making him blink sharply, which eased the stinging sensation in his eyes.
He lay on a dilapidated, hard plank bed, barely stable thanks to three oddly shaped stones propping up the legs. A few withered blades of grass were embedded in the cracks in the planks, their prickles making his back itch. The room was pitifully small, probably only ten square meters. The earthen walls had cracks the width of a finger, through which the wind howled, like someone crying. A pile of dry, moldy grass lay in the corner. Besides the bed and a wooden chest with a missing leg propped up by broken bricks, there was nothing else. The air was thick with the smells of mold, sweat, and a faint trace of blood, a stench so foul it made his throat tighten with every breath.
"Where...am I?" he asked hoarsely, his voice dry and harsh, like sandpaper rubbing against wood. He tried to sit up, but the moment he exerted force, it felt like his head had been hit by a heavy hammer; he was extremely dizzy, his vision blurred, and countless unfamiliar fragments of memory suddenly flooded in like a burst dam, making his chest feel heavy—
The Great Yin Dynasty, which enjoyed three hundred years of peace, is now in its twilight years, teetering on the brink of collapse.
Blackstone Town, Demon Suppression Bureau.
Lin Yan. Eighteen years old. Orphaned at a young age, he was frail from childhood, as if a gust of wind could knock him over. Three years ago, thanks to a distant cousin who bribed him with half a string of cash, he managed to get a job as a menial laborer in the Demon Suppression Division. He was the lowest-ranking soldier, not even allowed to serve tea or water to the captain. Cowardly and tongue-tied, he always bowed his head in front of people. In the Demon Suppression Division, he was a spineless coward whom everyone could bully. He was responsible for the hardest and dirtiest jobs, such as emptying chamber pots, cleaning latrines, and moving corpses. His monthly salary was only two taels of silver, and Captain Zhao Mang would deduct most of it. He lived worse than a beggar on the street. While a beggar could at least get a hot meal, he often ate dry, hard cornbread for two meals in a row.
Yesterday, all it took was a slip while carrying chamber potions; the wooden bucket wobbled, splashing Zhao Mang's trousers with filth. The burly man immediately flew into a rage, kicking him to the ground and forcing him to kneel in the courtyard for two hours. The original owner of this body already had a cold, a low-grade fever, and felt weak all over. He collapsed halfway through his kneeling, his forehead hitting the stone steps, blood flowing everywhere, and he never woke up again…
"Transmigrated?" Lin Yan murmured to himself, his voice as soft as a dream. He looked down at his hands, thin and pale, with prominent knuckles, palms covered with tiny cuts and calluses, and a scratch on the web of his thumb that hadn't healed, oozing a little blood—it was from a splinter on the coffin wood when he was moving the corpse a few days ago. This wasn't his usual hand, the one with calloused fingertips from years of holding a pen. His hands were longer and cleaner, without these gruesome scars.
He struggled to get out of bed, his feet barely touching the ground before he stumbled, his legs as weak as noodles. He steadied himself by grabbing the earthen wall. The wall was cold and damp, making his palms feel wet. In the corner sat a broken water vat, its rim chipped open as if gnawed by something. It was about half-full of murky water, with a few bits of grass floating on the surface. He walked to the vat, bent down, and looked at the water—
A strange face was reflected in the water. Thin, his face as pale as paper, his cheekbones slightly prominent, making his face appear even smaller. His lips were so pale they were almost invisible, as if he had lost all his blood. His features were fairly regular, with thin, long eyebrows and deep-set eyes, but an unyielding timidity and weariness clung to his brows and eyes, like a blade of grass wilted by frost, ready to be blown over by a gust of wind. Only his eyes—his own eyes—held a lingering, bewildered look, and a trace of the sharpness and composure still present in a modern person, like stars hidden in the mist, faint yet shining.
Two memories clashed and tore at each other in his mind, causing him to sweat profusely. Finally, they slowly merged, like two drops of ink dissolving in a bowl of water, indistinguishable from one another. He was both Lin Yan, a graduate student in the 2033 Qinling Southern Foothills Archaeological Team, and Lin Yan, a lowly soldier bullied by everyone in the Demon Suppression Division of Black Stone Town in the Dayin Dynasty.
"The spiritual veins are depleted, demons roam freely..." He rubbed his throbbing temples, pressing his fingertips down, the pain making him gasp. As he processed the common knowledge of this world, his heart sank. According to the original owner's memories, this world wasn't like this. Three hundred years ago, the spiritual energy between heaven and earth was abundant. Human cultivators could ride the clouds and chase the moon, living as long as the mountains; the demon race also had its own righteous path of cultivation, living peacefully with humans, occasionally interacting like neighbors. But from some unknown time, the spiritual veins of heaven and earth suddenly began to deplete, the spiritual energy fading day by day, like a dried-up puddle. Human cultivators could no longer advance in their cultivation, and some older cultivators even regressed due to the depletion of spiritual energy, ultimately dying and their bodies turning to ashes. Without the nourishment of spiritual energy, the demon race, in order to survive, began to prey on humans on a large scale, devouring the life essence of living beings, gradually degenerating into bloodthirsty demons, their eyes filled only with ferocity.
The imperial court established the Demon Suppression Bureau to slay demons and protect the people. Its banners, embroidered with the four characters "Suppress Demons and Secure the Nation," once held considerable prestige. However, with the spiritual veins now depleted and cultivation increasingly difficult, the Demon Suppression Bureau has rotted away from its roots. Officials at the top are busy plundering resources, engaging in cutthroat competition, fighting tooth and nail for even a small amount of spiritual stones; lower-level officials oppress the people, enriching themselves and using the name of the Demon Suppression Bureau as a pretext for personal gain. In small places like Black Stone Town, the Demon Suppression Bureau has long been a mere formality, its paint peeling off the gates to reveal the rotten wood beneath. There are even rumors that Zhao Mang and his ilk are secretly trading with the demons in the mountains, exchanging the town's refugees for the demons' "peace charms" to protect their own lives and property.
"It's really... rotten to the core." Lin Yan gave a bitter smile. Just as he was about to catch his breath, there was a loud "bang bang bang" sound coming from outside the door. The force was so great that it seemed like the door panel was going to be torn off. The door frame was shaking, and dust was falling down in a flurry.
"Lin Yan! You little bastard, are you dead yet? If you're not, get out here! Time for night patrol!"
It was Wang Ergou's voice. This man was a seasoned veteran in the Demon Suppression Division, short and stocky with a face full of scars, and his small eyes were squinted together, revealing a cunning wickedness. He loved to bully the original owner of this body, and with Zhao Mang backing him up, he was even more arrogant and domineering, often treating the original owner like an animal, ordering him around, and beating and scolding him if he didn't do what he wanted.
Lin Yan took a deep breath, suppressing the turmoil in his heart. Since he was already here, he might as well make the best of it. There was no point in saying anything now; survival was the priority. He walked to the wooden crate with the missing leg, lifted the lid—it was empty inside, containing only two sets of faded, patched, coarse cloth clothes, the stitches crooked and uneven, sewn by the original owner himself. There was also a worn-out leather armor, folded at the bottom of the crate.
The leather armor was standard equipment for the Demon Suppression Division. It should have been made of jet-black leather, smooth and glossy, with metal plates protecting vital areas like the chest and shoulders. However, the one given to the original owner was made of hardened, cracked leather, like old tree bark, crumbling at the slightest touch. The chest plate was missing, leaving only two rusty holes; the shoulder plates were reduced to two rusty iron rings, offering no even the most basic protection. Beside the leather armor lay a long sword, its scabbard rotten and worn smooth at the edges. He reached out and drew it, the sound dry and harsh. The blade was covered in nicks and rust, like it was covered in pockmarks. Sunlight streamed through the window cracks, offering no reflection whatsoever; it would be difficult to even chop wood, let alone slay demons.
"This equipment...is it for me to deliver food to demons?" Lin Yan shook his head, but still put on the coarse cloth clothes underneath. The rough fabric chafed his skin until it itched. He then put on the leather armor on top, and found a dusty strip of cloth to wrap the cracks in the leather armor tightly. It made his chest feel stuffy before he hung the broken knife at his waist. The scabbard bumped against his leg, making him feel uncomfortable.
Pushing open the door, it was already pitch black. The courtyard of the Demon Suppression Bureau was bare, without a single tree, only a few paper lanterns hanging under the eaves, their dim light reflecting off the pebbles and weeds scattered on the ground. When the wind blew, the lanterns swayed, and their shadows swayed along with them, like ghosts dancing. Three people stood in the courtyard. The one in the lead was Wang Ergou, his hands on his hips, his belly sticking out like a balloon. Behind him were two henchmen, one tall and thin with a face as sharp as a monkey's; the other with a flat nose and eyes squinted into slits. They were both menial laborers of the Demon Suppression Bureau, who often bullied the original owner of this body with Wang Ergou, stealing his steamed buns and stripping him of his clothes.
"Oh, you actually came back to life? I thought you were going to meet the King of Hell after Captain Zhao's punishment." Wang Ergou grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth, spitting out saliva that landed on Lin Yan's shoes. "Captain Zhao said that since you can still move, you'll be patrolling with us tonight. The North Street area is yours. If you dare to slack off or miss any monsters..." He patted the knife at his waist; the scabbard was new, shiny black, and clearly a hundred times better than Lin Yan's. "Watch your skin!"
Lin Yan nodded silently. He knew that North Street was the most remote and dilapidated part of Blackstone Town, right next to Black Wind Mountain outside the town. Wild beasts often roamed the mountain, and occasionally demons would come down and snatch the town's children. Night patrols were the most dangerous. In the past, three or four people would go to North Street together for night patrols. Now, he was being sent alone, which was obviously a way to mess with him, or even hoping that he would die outside so that he wouldn't take up a spot as a handyman.
He had no right to argue, so he could only grip the broken knife at his waist. The wooden splinter on the hilt pierced his palm, the pain bringing him back to his senses. He turned to leave.
"Wait!" Wang Ergou suddenly called out to him, pulling a paper lantern from his pocket and tossing it over. The lantern was as light as a leaf. "Take this. Don't die in some corner; otherwise, we'll have to collect your body. What bad luck!"
Lin Yan reached out and caught it. The paper of the lantern was wrinkled, and the candle inside was only half-burnt, the flame so weak that it seemed it would be extinguished with a breath. He took out a tinderbox, blew it on with a "hiss," and lit the wick. The dim light barely illuminated the ground three feet below, and even the shadows around him seemed ethereal and wavering.
Stepping out of the Demon Suppression Bureau's gates, a chill swept over me, carrying the harshness of the mountain wind. Blackstone Town was small, with only a few hundred households. The houses were all low, mud-brick structures, their walls peeling away in patches, revealing the yellow earth beneath. The streets were narrow and muddy, riddled with puddles that reflected the waning moon in fragmented shards. As soon as darkness fell, every household slammed their doors and windows shut, not daring to leave even a crack. Thick wooden planks were nailed to the doors, for fear of attracting anything unclean. Occasionally, an oil lamp in one house would be lit, but the owner would quickly cover it with a cloth, the light peeking through the gaps like will-o'-the-wisps. The entire town was eerily quiet; not even a dog barked. Only the howling wind through the dilapidated houses, like a mournful wail, sent chills down one's spine.
Lin Yan carried a lantern, stumbling along the north street. The night wind swirled dust, causing the lantern to sway from side to side, the candlelight flickering and casting his shadow long and short. He gripped the broken knife at his waist tightly. Although he knew the knife was useless, holding onto something always gave him a sense of security, like a drowning man grasping at a straw.
The merged memories told him that the demons of this world weren't just stories told by storytellers; they were real, man-eating monsters. Some were animals transformed into spirits, with glossy fur and sharp teeth; others were plants in human form, their branches entwined, capable of draining a person's life essence; still others were the resentment of those who died unjustly, covered in blood, crying and begging for a replacement. After the spiritual veins dried up, they became increasingly rampant, especially in small places like Blackstone Town. The government didn't care, the Demon Suppression Bureau was inactive, and the people could only accept their misfortune, afraid to go out at night, even covering the mouths of crying children. The Demon Suppression Bureau's night patrols were less about protecting the people and more about going through the motions—if they encountered powerful demons, these lowly soldiers were just bait to shield the captains and centurions, trading their lives for time to escape.
"I must become stronger as soon as possible," Lin Yan thought through gritted teeth, his lips aching from biting so hard. "In this world, without ability, you're not even as good as an ant."
How could he become stronger? The original owner was born with a "useless spiritual root," unable to even reach the most basic Body Tempering Realm, let alone draw Qi into his body; he was like a stone that could never be warmed. The Demon Suppression Division did have a cultivation technique called the "Demon Suppression Manual," which was said to be incredibly powerful, but it was only prepared for those with connections and the ability to offer gifts. The original owner, a spineless coward with no foundation, had never even seen the cover of a cultivation technique, let alone learned it; he had only heard the captains reciting the incantation from afar.
Just then, a slight sound came from the alleyway ahead—a rustling sound, like something dragging a heavy object, the sound of fabric rubbing against the ground, and a sticky sound of water, which made one's scalp tingle.
Lin Yan abruptly stopped, holding his breath, his heart skipping a beat. He moved forward, lantern in hand, the candlelight illuminating the cobblestone path at the alley entrance. The path was empty, save for a few fallen leaves swirling in the wind. But a faint, pungent stench drifted on the night breeze, even more foul than a latrine, carrying a cloying, rotten smell, like rotten fruit, filling his nostrils and making him want to vomit.
It was the smell of a demon! In the original owner's memory, he had once encountered a demon from afar. That stench was etched into his bones; he could never forget it, even in death. That day, he hid behind a woodpile and watched a hairy demon carrying a child in its mouth, blood dripping from its lips. That smell was exactly like that.
Lin Yan slowly retreated, his right hand pressing tightly on the hilt of the knife, his knuckles turning white and then bluish from the force. Just then, a burning sensation suddenly came from his chest, as if a red-hot iron had been applied to it, making him shudder.
He was startled and quickly pulled open his shirt to look down—a faint gray mark had appeared on his left chest, where his heart was. The shape of the mark was exactly the same as the mysterious stone tablet he had touched on the southern slope of the Qinling Mountains. Even the pattern of the "eye" in the center of the stone tablet was exactly the same, and the curve of the eye's outer corner and the shape of the pupil looked as if they had been copied.
The mark was slightly warm, as if it were alive, gently pulsating in his chest, one beat after another, in sync with his heartbeat. It was as if it were resonating with something, or as if it were... yearning for something. The warmth spread along the mark, flowing through his limbs and bones, and the fatigue and pain from before faded a little.
From the depths of the alley came a low, panting sound, like the grunts of a wild beast feeding, rough and greedy. Then, a pair of eerie green eyes slowly glowed in the darkness, like two will-o'-the-wisps, devoid of warmth, staring intently at him with a bloodthirsty ferocity.
Lin Yan gripped the rusty longsword tightly, his knuckles white, his palms sweaty and slippery. The night wind grew colder, causing the candlelight in the lantern to go out with a "poof." In the darkness, only the mark on his chest grew hotter and brighter, its pale gray light reflecting on his face, like the only light he had in this chaotic era of demons.