"Wild Duck Country"

After landing safely, we first explored the woodshed, most importantly visiting the pot of soup.

The room smelled strongly of blood, mixed with a faint sour smell. The sound of boiling water was trapped in the pot, and it seemed particularly vague and hazy, like the wailing and mumbling of the person imprisoned.

I am a very curious person, which has caused me a lot of trouble and still troubles me today. But at this moment, I actually wanted to back out.

Because this is totally unnecessary and asking for trouble. Can I still find a Zhongyuan Zhongye from it?

Oh, I was lost in thought.

Indeed, hiding the parts of an acquaintance in the pot can bring a huge sense of horror, and [he can't get out alone] is also in line with the current situation.

So it's in the pot!

With the mentality of "let's see, maybe I'll run into someone I know", I resolutely opened the lid of the pot, abandoning my bored curiosity.

The gurgling sound gradually became louder, and what came towards me was rising hot steam, like a cloud that appeared in the sky for no reason, and under the cloud was a pot of milky white first soup.

It was that kind of quiet head, decorated with cinnamon, bay leaves, and fennel, like a fragmented picture, with the flesh swollen and the face blurred, revealing a strange whiteness.

Along the edge of the pot was a circle of sticky, dense foam that burst immediately when it encountered the cold air, like the crust of a rotten corpse, as disgusting as its content.

As expected, in this place where the duck is the butcher, the food chain is reversed, diners become ingredients, and there is a sense of broken and torn limbs, as well as the "sausages" that are clearly visible upstairs for drying. Is this the story I wrote?

I even forgot why I wanted to write such a story in the first place.

"Well... there's a pot here. Maybe you can find some clues about the story from it?"

I gathered my thoughts and turned to Edogawa Ranpo and made a suggestion.

The detective reacted violently and was very resistant to this: "... Nonsense! Boring! A detective doesn't need to investigate and collect evidence bit by bit like this. The truth can be seen at a glance."

"Hey, take back that regretful expression."

"I say, you have such a bad taste."

He said somewhat angrily.

Oh, no, how can the things done by horror novelists be called bad taste? They do it for a living.

I turned back, covered the pot, put out the fire, and was about to leave this woodshed that looked like it had been the scene of a family tragedy when I inadvertently caught a glimpse of the white paper in Edogawa Ranpo's hand.

The white paper was in a very bad state. Perhaps it was a little inappropriate to describe it as “white” because there was a dark brown mark on the edge of the paper, like a burnt scar. But I was very familiar with the pattern of the paper. After all, it was what I worked on day and night.

It's a specially customized paper with a 7:3 outline layout and no other patterns. To be honest, the guy I eat with looks like this too.

“Is this my manuscript?”

I asked directly.

Although I have written quite a few stories here, if I were brought here specifically for the story, it would only be "Wild Duck Country". The reddish-brown marks on the edge of the paper reminded me of the pale corpse hidden under the counter that day and the blood that splattered everywhere.

"The original manuscript of Wild Duck Country—the words were all gone, just like my memory of the book."

“It’s changing from a story to reality.”

He nodded, but he didn't show any panic. I was the only one who felt it was ridiculous. "No matter what, it's my work" - this cognitive premise that gave me boundless tolerance and compassion was suddenly broken. The words written on the paper disappeared into thin air. The characters didn't belong to me, the story didn't belong to me, and now I have to be told that even the words I wrote didn't belong to me. They just disappeared so lightly, and I felt a real sense of betrayal.

I stared at the white duck falling under the butcher's knife.

A bunch of disobedient...

"It seems like you are not very familiar with your own abilities, but I am not qualified to say anything about you."

Edogawa Ranpo's special ability can only be fully utilized under the special ability glasses given by the president - in fact, he has no special ability, but has a talent beyond ordinary people - he thinks so, so Ranpo feels good about another person who seems to be unable to control her special ability, and even has the idea of ​​making her an investigator and letting the president use "No one can create a better person" to help her get familiar with her special ability.

After all, an uncontrolled, indestructible weapon is a destabilizing factor that will disturb the group.

"Let's go find Hat-kun. Ranpo-sama already knows how to solve this story."

Finally he took off his glasses, revealing the relaxed look of a detective who had managed everything.

.

Perhaps it was Nakahara Chuuya's fighting power that determined that the scene he faced would be worse, or perhaps the words "how to solve this story" were heard by some existence. In short, facing the silver-white metal door, I always had a bad feeling. This premonition reached its peak when Luanbu pushed it lightly and a gap appeared in the door.

"Then I'm going in."

He continued to push, and the door hinges made a sharp sound as they turned.

Then came the heat and fishy smell that hit my face.

Countless ovens were neatly placed together, spinning leisurely in the blazing flames, like a merry-go-round at an amusement park, except that the neck of the merry-go-round was pierced and its legs were chopped off, leaving it in this ridiculous state. The duck's beak was torn in the process of preparing the food, and its chin was soft, with cracks extending all the way to its mouth.

The duck's belly was bulging with a seam line, so bloated that it looked as if it would scream out in the next second, and in fact it did so. The moment I passed by, it burst into laughter, as if it was going to vomit out its internal organs - even though its internal organs had been hollowed out.

"Eat me."

It said that the criticized jaw just trembled slightly and made a strange sound: "Delicious duck tongue, everyone loves it."

"Ga ga ga! Hahaha! Ga ga ga!"

It is so crazy that it cannot control itself.

The next second, another duck behind me also joined in the laughter.

"Quack! Hudama's duck, Qianlong ate it and said it was delicious. Qianlong said he never said that."

Golden oil oozed out from the seams on its abdomen, and then dripped down, but it was still laughing wildly.

"......"

I didn't expect to hear a familiar name here.

This is a slap in the face to my professionalism - how could I have written these things in a book, if I had written them.

Most importantly, these roast ducks seem to have intelligence.

I tapped the glass with the flat of my knife, trying to get its attention.

"And the other person?"

"Oh, I know you." Even as it turned in circles, I could feel its swollen eyes staring back at me, answering with irrelevant words: "You're in terrible shape. You must be hungry."

"You can put me in the pot outside. My fur and skin will blend with the water. Drink the soup. Then everyone will have me in their stomach. Then I will forgive you."

"I wish I could be your bones and hair!"

It screamed and exploded, the minced meat splattered on the glass, and then slid down, leaving a greasy trail.

"It's a good day to get out of jail, isn't it, ma'am."

The ducks behind him responded one by one, "It's also a good day to go in."

They began to laugh wildly, and long screams emanated from their bellies, as if five hundred ducks were quacking in my ears - indeed, there were, and then the iron gate behind them immediately closed automatically, leaving behind a rumbling echo.

I could only hit the glass harder with the back of the knife.

"Shut up."

It was really strange. Perhaps it was the threat of the butcher knife. All of a sudden, all five hundred ducks became quiet, and the stinging sensation brought by the noisy sounds in my head gradually disappeared.

The ducks' eyelids quietly closed and then slowly opened, as if they were waiting for some decision. This was the only movement that could prove that they were still "alive".

In this silence, I inexplicably recalled a conversation I once had with a convenience store guy: "Fear is a common language among all living things."

I've been thinking about him a lot lately, with reluctance and irrepressible malice.

"Where are the people?"

I picked up the knife with a smile on my face and placed the blood-stained blade against the opening of the oven.

“Today is a good day to go in.”

I repeated this sentence which I myself did not understand.

The firelight suddenly dimmed, and even the hot air seemed to be frozen inexplicably. Hiccups were heard all around, with a series of bubbling sounds that seemed to be extremely suppressed but could not be overcome by instinct, and they were twitching like ascites talking.

At a certain moment, they suddenly fell into silence. I didn't understand why, but I saw a paper plane flying slowly by.

It is the masterpiece of the famous detective next to me. If I am not mistaken, he probably used my manuscript paper.

I was a little angry about this.

"Under the chef's knife."

The ducks suddenly screamed, "scattered everywhere!"

"It's going in with us!"

The whole room suddenly became silent, leaving only a dot of orange light in the center, which seemed to be pointing the way. I turned around and looked over there.

The marketer who suggested the market woke up in a human factory; the diners who liked to eat duck tongues and duck brains were eventually cooked in the form of ducks. Although they survived at the end of the novel, their tongues were plucked out and they experienced great pain; then what about the white banquet people who processed the food and invited people to feast? That must be extremely terrifying.

Although no one can be held responsible for this, I cannot relate to the above story because I have forgotten the plot, which explains why I was so surprised... Anyway, I'm sorry that someone has become a roast duck... Haha.

I can't even tell if it's better in a pot or on the stove.

This really makes me sad, but if you're honest, this isn't scary at all! Oh, no, I should be disappointed by this sloppy manifestation, it's such a shame... I think Nakahara Chuuya would agree.

I took the butcher knife from the poor NPC and promised Yipancai earnestly, "Don't worry, I will find the mastermind and give you justice."

"Shut up, or I'll crush you to the ends of the earth."

A plate of food said so.