The director noticed Wen Yan seemed a bit dazed and led him to stand beneath the employee code of conduct sign.
"Every rule on here was written with a lesson behind it. Maybe if you break them, nothing too bad will happen.
But if you lose that gamble, the consequences could be much worse than you can imagine.
Are you wondering why, when it's obvious this incident isn't a coincidence, I'm still arranging things this way?"
Wen Yan shot the director a surprised look. He really didn't understand it either, but clearly the director didn't dare explain things within the funeral home at this hour.
He thought it over, and only one answer came to mind.
"Choose the lesser of two evils."
"Exactly. I still don't understand why just a mere walking dead could operate in the old ice warehouse.
But it only took the Wooden Armor Mask, and didn't trigger any other changes.
So I'll keep handling things according to established rules.
My top priority isn't dealing with the current trouble, but preventing things from escalating.
At the same time, as director, at least during working hours, it's my duty to keep you all safe.
The incidents at the hospital, maybe you could've handled those, but what's inside the funeral home, don't take the risk.
I can't fully explain the specifics right now, and I can't talk about them in the funeral home at this hour either."
Wen Yan nodded to show he understood.
His own thinking was actually a bit more direct: When a problem arises, just solve the problem.
But clearly, the director saw things differently—his angle was to make sure solving one issue didn't set off something much worse.
Wen Yan followed the director out of the old office building, looking at the funeral home shrouded in shadow.
He more or less understood now—there definitely was a much bigger problem lurking here, something more serious than the Wooden Armor Mask or any restless client.
He and the director headed outside, catching up with the still-shuffling client; after all this time, the old man hadn't even crossed the central courtyard yet.
The director's phone started vibrating just then.
Three kilometers from the funeral home, on the national road, a convoy of loaded freight trucks was parked, with no more cars coming behind—they'd already been diverted by drivers who'd gotten word and taken other routes.
Just then, a new truck arrived from the rear—not stopping and waiting in line with the others, but flooring the accelerator and barreling forward.
Several dozen tons of truck, loaded to capacity, hurtled down the road—no one dared stand in its way, nor could anyone stop it. All they could do was watch in shock as it smashed through the checkpoint.
"Someone's breaking the blockade..."
A couple hundred kilometers away in Duanzhou, Cai Qidong's face was dark as water, eyes fixed on the distant chemical plant.
Gunfire kept erupting in the distance, at times flickering with electricity, a surge of potent Yang energy pulsing with every blast.
Behind him, modified construction vehicles crawled forward, their roof-mounted high-powered lights shining so bright the whole area looked like day.
The burning light twisted the air with its heat, the grass at the roadside nearly catching fire from the intensity.
Three Taoists stood farther behind, setting up a Dharma Altar. One, stern-faced, took the Big Dipper Seven Steps, magic sword in hand, reciting True Scripture Decrees, drawing in the power of the Scorching Sun, layering on blessing after blessing.
All the weapons and vehicles around here had runes glowing faintly; even the crates of ammunition seemed to seethe with the aura of the Scorching Sun.
The other two Taoists gathered rice into heaps, chanting crossing-over scriptures to dispel the resentment and ill-will—the fragrance of ritual incense rising like a long bridge, stretching into the chemical plant.
At the side of the plant, the wastewater pool churned, swirling as shadowy human forms emerged from the sewage, hoisting themselves out and lunging forward.
But they barely got far before they were pinned down and blasted apart by a wall of gunfire. Under the burning light of the Scorching Sun, all the gloom here was steadily evaporated and smashed away.
This is what the Scorching Sun Department does best. What they fear least are evil entities anchored to a single place—when brute force doesn't clear them, it just means not enough firepower was brought to bear.
The real trouble for them is the subtle, evasive, or individually dangerous anomalies—the sort that don't stay put. Those are the cases that give the Scorching Sun Department headaches.
Cai Qidong kept his face grim; fresh intel crackled through his earpiece.
Virtue City Funeral House has a bizarre walking dead—managed to come out of the old ice warehouse.
There's also a big rig breaking through the blockade, heading right for Virtue City Funeral House.
Meanwhile, as they investigated things at the Duanzhou Chemical Plant today, new records about the Soul Devouring Beast surfaced—and right then, a sealed wastewater pool began spewing out a mass of ghosts and monsters.
He'd long expected leakage regarding the Soul Devouring Beast—the larger the operation, the more people you need, it's unrealistic to expect permanent secrecy.
But the fragmentary record they uncovered today at the chemical plant showed the incident here was logged less than a day after he himself had caught wind of it.
In other words, the leak didn't happen after he mobilized a large number of operatives in Nanwu County—but even earlier, the intelligence had already gotten out.
This was the truly serious matter.
Either someone present back then had leaked the intel,
Or someone had a special ability—or a unique anomalous item—that let them steal the information.
Or, the last and slimmest possibility: when the Soul Devouring Beast appeared, it was discovered right away by locals—after all, the area was inside the incident's impact zone.
Cai Qidong suspected the record was left there for his team to find—most likely on purpose. But he couldn't gamble on it. His first task in Nanwu County was the matter of the Soul Devouring Beast.
The tragedy from the Southern Hemisphere was still fresh in everyone's mind; just reading about it made obvious that the Soul Devouring Beast was several tiers deadlier than the Flame Demon.
Matters involving the Soul Devouring Beast were top priority—whatever happened at Virtue City Funeral House, as things stood, was still in the controllable range, not urgent enough to overrule that ranking.
He could see at a glance that the person stirring things at Virtue City Funeral House was connected to this mess at the chemical plant. But it didn't change things.
The others could be reckless, could take risks, but he couldn't.
The director took the call and exchanged updates on the situation.
He frowned, glanced at the old man still making his way toward the front gate, then strode quickly toward the entrance himself.
He'd barely reached the gate when he saw, across the way, a fully-loaded big rig careening in from the left, headlights blazing.
The truck smashed through a stack of barricades, snapped two trees, and roared past right alongside the funeral home's gate, charging over a hundred meters ahead into the roadside fields.
The pressure from that fully loaded truck, its slipstream, was still howling in the air.
The director stood where he was, face hard as iron.
If the driver hadn't yanked the wheel at the last second, that truck would have plowed straight into the funeral home gate.
This was a blatant threat.
Either both sides back off, or next time, the truck crashes straight into the funeral home for real.
The director stood at the entrance, quietly waiting for that walking corpse to come out.
Wen Yan walked beside the Wooden Armor Walking Corpse, not too close, not too far. The walking corpse ignored everyone, single-mindedly carrying the Wooden Armor Mask out.
As the walking corpse's shattered neck slowly knit itself together, it finally reached the gate. A few meters away, Wen Yan could finally make out what the walking corpse had been mumbling all this time.
"I have to help my son... I have to help my son..."
The moment he heard it, Wen Yan's skin broke out in goosebumps.
That half-mumbled, endlessly repeating phrase carried an ordinary flatness, yet a kind of resolve, an I'll-bite-off-my-tongue-if-I-have-to determination.
A flash of insight pierced Wen Yan's mind.
Neither he, the director, nor even anyone from the Scorching Sun Department, had ever considered this might be about the old man's son.
Because the very first night the old man went out for a walk, the Scorching Sun Department had already investigated. His three children checked out: all normal, their activities and records clean, no sign that the family ever had anything to do with anomalies. The old man's death was accounted for, with witnesses watching him slip and fall down the stairs.
Thoughts swirled in Wen Yan's mind. Yesterday, a coworker had mentioned the old man's youngest son drove for a ride-hailing app locally.
A face surfaced in his mind—a gentle, smiling man with rimless glasses.
"My dad passed just yesterday; the funeral's tomorrow."
"Do you want me to wait for you?"
Wen Yan drew a deep breath. No doubt about it—it was him!
Memories of his own arrival replayed in his mind.
This guy must've been waiting near his place on purpose, even knowing his habit of hailing a car when going out.
So late at night, with few taxis in the area, regular drivers already off-duty, and even ride-hailing cars mostly home—if you waited nearby, especially to go to a funeral home at dawn, he'd be almost certain to get Wen Yan's order.
Even if something went wrong and he missed the order, he'd definitely have a backup plan.
Plus, this guy clearly knew a lot; he didn't even need to keep watch at the funeral home itself. As long as Wen Yan hurried out at dawn for the funeral home, he'd know something had gone down.
And by picking Wen Yan up as his driver, he could bring Wen Yan to the funeral home with no obstacles on the way there.