Only I Cultivate
Chapter 36: Blood Mary (2)

Chapter 36: Blood Mary (2)

Compared to Ma Chen and Charles Cullen... there was no comparison at all. The witch behind Feng Fan made the ghosts who had nearly taken his life seem like helpless infants, fresh from the womb, barely aware of the world.

If she willed it, she could snuff out his existence with nothing more than a flick of her sleeve.

Yet, Feng Fan refused to show even a sliver of fear.

He met his own gaze in the mirror, his lips curling into a relaxed, almost amused smile. As if nothing at all was wrong. As if death itself weren’t breathing down his neck.

"Tonight is really beautiful," he mused, voice light, casual. "I can even smell the delicate scent of roses and sunflowers."

A blatant lie.

The only scent in the air was the stench of rot and decay.

Bloody Mary’s grin widened, her lips stretching far beyond the limits of human anatomy, splitting her face into a grotesque image.

"What a beautiful night, indeed," she said, loud enough for Feng Fan to hear. "But it would be so much sweeter... with a taste of blood."

Her arm slithered around Feng Fan’s back, not quite touching him, yet he could feel the icy tendrils of her presence seeping into his skin. The cold was unnatural, a deep, penetrating chill that seemed to leach the warmth from his very soul.

Her nail grazed the air near his ear, and her voice dropped to a whisper, low and guttural, as if it were crawling out of the depths of some unholy abyss. "I want... a taste."

Bloody Mary’s mouth opened, and Feng Fan’s breath hitched. Her tongue—long, sinuous, and glistening with a wet, crimson sheen—slithered toward his ear. It moved like a snake, flicking the air just shy of his skin.

Her mouth was a cavern of horrors, filled not with saliva but with thick, coagulated blood that pooled and dripped from her lips.

Drip. Drip.

The sound was deafening in the silence, each drop of blood hitting the floor with a splatter.

Feng Fan’s stomach churned, but he forced himself to stay still, his body trembling as if his very nerves were rebelling against him.

’I can’t hold on much longer,’ he thought, his mind racing. His eyes flicked to the candles, their flames flickering weakly in the oppressive darkness. ’If I blow them out, she’ll have to leave... right?’

He shifted slightly, preparing to extinguish the flames, but suddenly, his sixth sense sent him a warning.

’Why can’t I blow them out? What happens if I do?’

Swallowing hard, Feng Fan tore his gaze from the candles and looked at the sink. He turned the tap, hoping the cold water would shock him back to reality.

But what came out wasn’t water.

Thick, dark blood gushed from the faucet, splattering into the basin with a gurgle.

Feng Fan froze, his breath catching in his throat. The blood was too dark, almost black, and it moved with a sluggish, syrupy consistency.

"Aren’t you going to enjoy it?" Bloody Mary’s nails now grazed the air beside his cheek. "It’s all for you, after all."

Feng Fan’s hands trembled as he cupped them under the flow. The blood was warm, unnaturally so, and it clung to his skin like tar. He could feel its weight as it pooled in his palms.

’This isn’t real blood. It can’t be real,’ he told himself, though every sense screamed otherwise.

He leaned forward, bringing his blood-soaked hands to his face. The liquid smeared across his cheeks, sticky and warm, and a few drops trickled onto his lips. The taste was vile—metallic and sour, like blood left to fester in the sun.

He gagged, his stomach lurching, but he forced himself to endure.

Bloody Mary’s laughter echoed in his ears, a sound that seemed to come from inside his own skull.

"You like it, don’t you?" she cooed, her voice dripping with mockery. "I made it just for you... from my most intimate parts."

Feng Fan’s eyes snapped to the mirror just in time to see her hand move below her abdomen. The sound that followed was the unmistakable squelch of flesh being torn open.

Blood poured from the wound as she raised her hand to show him her nails, now slick with the same foul substance.

"Would you like more?" she asked, her grin widening impossibly further, her eyes gleaming with delight.

’Fucking hell,’ Feng Fan thought, bile rising in his throat. His stomach churned, the taste of decay and blood still clinging to his tongue. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he fought to keep his composure.

His blood slowly poured onto the ground.

Bang!

The door slammed shut with a force that shook the walls, the sound reverberating through the room like a gunshot.

But it wasn’t the wind from outside—no, this was something far more sinister. The cold, unnatural wind inside the room pulled the door shut.

Feng Fan’s nerves were frayed, his every instinct screaming at him to run. But he knew better. One wrong move, one moment of weakness, and she would have him.

Feng Fan closed his eyes and focused inward. He began to circulate his cultivation technique, forcing Ma Chen to draw spiritual energy from hell, or wherever she could.

As Feng Fan’s focus shifted from Bloody Mary to inside his body, the clock ticked. The wax was nearly gone, the wicks crackling as they consumed the last of their fuel.

And then, with a final, feeble flicker, the flames went out.

The room plunged into darkness.

"Ah, too bad we couldn’t play longer," Bloody Mary’s voice rang inside his skull. "Next time, bring bigger candles...."

Her laughter faded, echoing into the void as her presence dissipated. The cold receded, the oppressive weight lifting from the room like a curtain being drawn back.

Feng Fan didn’t even make it out of the bathroom. Right where he stood, his legs gave out, and his body collapsed to the floor. Buckets of sweat soaked his skin and clothes. His chest heaved with ragged, uneven breaths.