Chapter Seventy-Four: Blockbuster Arrival

It took quite some effort before Dashuang finally stopped, and when he opened his eyes to see Cui Yue, he was overcome with excitement.
“Cui Yue! Thank goodness, are you alright? What did you say? The Painted-Skin Fiend—has it been killed?”
“Uh... not exactly killed, but it was seriously wounded. It won’t be coming out to harm anyone for a while.”
“Whew, that was close, scared me half to death. I thought we were all goners.”
The image of the Painted-Skin Fiend feasting on human hearts still sent shivers down his spine.
Dashuang glanced at Zhang Hao, whose legs were wobbly and eyes were crossed.
“Zhang Hao, what are you doing making those faces—trying to scare someone?”
Zhang Hao almost passed out at those words and replied hoarsely,
“Thanks to you, I was nearly slapped to death.”
Dashuang realized he’d struck the wrong person in the chaos.
As they spoke, the projection room lights suddenly flickered back on, a beam of light abruptly hitting the big screen. The previously dormant screen flashed, and images sprang to life again.
Everyone jumped in fright. Damn it, will this nightmare never end? Why was the thing working again? What kind of deadly ghost was going to pop out this time?
They all held their breath, on high alert, sweat trickling down their backs for what felt like the hundredth time.
Zhang Hao even hid behind Cui Yue, staying far away—if a ghost came, he’d have no qualms about pushing Cui Yue out to save himself.
Suddenly, the screen flashed and the speakers released a chorus of flirtatious laughter, the voices of men and women, but the language was not Chinese.
The screen lit up—not with the valiant hero they expected, but with a vivid and explicit action film from Japan, leaving no doubt as to its nature.
They stared at the screen, stupefied and slack-jawed.
Qingquan was especially taken aback, nearly getting a nosebleed—having studied Taoist ways since childhood, he’d never seen anything so subversive. He was at a loss, stammering, unable to form a complete sentence.
“This... this is... utterly indecent, utterly indecent.”
“Good heavens, this is way over the top. That Painted-Skin Fiend sure went all out—maybe it donned a human skin to lure us in,” Cui Yue exclaimed.
Zhang Hao swallowed hard, his eyes glued to the screen, muttering,
“Yes, yes, if I’d known it would turn out like this, I’d have surrendered right away. If I have to die, at least let me die for pleasure. Tsk tsk, a Japanese ghost woman—look at that figure, those curves...” Right then, Zhang Hao wished he could dive in and battle for three hundred rounds.
Their faces flushed as they watched. There was no trace of the Painted-Skin Fiend—just a genuine, unadulterated foreign action romance film.

Qingquan and the others, realizing there was no more danger, turned to leave—only to notice that one of them had fallen behind.
Looking back, they saw Zhang Hao, eyes gleaming with lust, fixated on the screen and marveling as he watched.
“Didn’t know people could move like that—the Japanese sure know how to play...”
Cui Yue’s face darkened as he grabbed Zhang Hao by the ear and dragged him away.
“Ow, ow, ow, let go! Uncle Cui, I was wrong, I was wrong!” Zhang Hao yelped in pain, hurriedly begging for mercy.
They pushed open the theater doors and stepped outside.
By now, the street was bathed in the soft glow of lamplight, with a faint moon overhead.
They all took a deep breath, fresh air flooding their lungs and expelling the stale terror that had weighed on their chests. The exhilaration of having escaped with their lives was indescribable.
To be alive—what a joy.
Now they could drink, gamble, and chase women again.
...
They stretched, trying to work the tension from their bodies, but every movement tugged at their wounds, leaving them frozen in place and cursing from the pain.
Suddenly, Zhang Hao remembered something, turned back, and shouted,
“Hey boss, what kind of horror movie did you put on? You nearly got us killed!”
The middle-aged man at the counter, still holding his magazine, finally looked up.
“Horror movie? What horror movie?”
Zhang Hao was incredulous—how dare the man deny it?
“Don’t play dumb! Are you telling me you didn’t show ‘The Haunted Tomb?’ With that sullen face, you must be in cahoots with that Painted-Skin Fiend!”
The man stared blankly for a moment, not understanding a word.
“‘The Haunted Tomb?’ What Painted-Skin Fiend?”
Zhang Hao, unwilling to back down, slapped the counter and said,
“Cut the act! That fox demon and Painted-Skin Fiend nearly killed us. Now what do you have to say for yourself?”
The man’s eyes widened as he looked Zhang Hao up and down, then snapped,
“You little brat, you take advantage and still complain—must’ve watched too many movies and let the blood rush to your head. Are you here to stir up trouble for Blackie? Is that it?”
“Trouble is the least of it—you almost got people killed, do you realize that?”

“I knew it—you’re all here on Blackie’s orders to wreck my place. Today I’ll show you how many eyes the Horse King has!” As he spoke, the man turned to the neighboring eatery and called out. Instantly, a group of burly, menacing men grabbed their beer bottles and stood up.
Zhang Hao looked anxiously at Cui Yue and the others, whispering,
“What now?”
“What do you mean, what now? You blabbermouth—run! Now!”
The man roared,
“You little brats, don’t run! Stop right there!”
Qingquan hadn’t caught on to what was happening, but the others dragged him off at a sprint, ignoring their wounds.
Panting and gasping, they ran from Progress Road all the way to Liberation Road, terrified the thugs would catch up.
“I can’t go any farther!”
Cui Yue leaned against a wall, clutching his side, and gave Zhang Hao a kick.
“You troublemaker—why did you have to provoke them?”
“I just thought we might get some compensation—or at least get a refund for our tickets!” Zhang Hao panted, plopping down on the ground.
The others all rolled their eyes—nearly got their heads cracked for six yuan.
After a long rest, they finally caught their breath.
“Spectacles, where are you headed? Going back to your sect to report?”
Qingquan winced—there it was again, that nickname. He thought for a moment and answered quietly,
“I came down the mountain with a mission. I can’t return to my sect for now.”
Everyone’s heart sank—so the glasses-wearing oddball wasn’t leaving. They’d hoped he’d go home soon, maybe bring back some powerful help to take care of the Painted-Skin Fiend before it came for them again.