I Am Not The God Of Drama Chapter 109

[ … words ]

Silence lingered on the other end of the radio.

“Chen Ling, don’t push yourself too hard,” Xi Renjie said earnestly. “Even though the [Asura] path has strong regenerative abilities, stamina isn’t something that recovers so easily… If you’re tired, rest for a while. No one will blame you.”

Chen Ling opened his mouth to respond when, from within the fog, a meat chicken let out a furious shriek and charged at him with terrifying speed.

Chen Ling’s eyes lit up. He took a swig from the wine jar, then, like a street performer, spat it onto the burning rod in his hand. A burst of flames erupted, engulfing the charging creature mid-air. A piercing screech tore through the night.

“What was that noise?” Xi Renjie asked, startled.

Chen Ling didn’t answer. He set the wine jar down, drew his dagger, and lunged at the flaming chicken.

With his stamina fully restored, Chen Ling moved at peak speed. The burning rod and dagger flashed in tandem, slicing off fragrant strips of meat, which Chen Ling promptly skewered with the blade and tore off with his teeth. He chewed vigorously while continuing his assault.

His black trench coat billowed in the mist—part executioner, part gourmet. His relentless onslaught forced the chicken into retreat until, at last, it collapsed into the flames.

“Chen Ling? Chen Ling?” Xi Renjie’s voice crackled through the radio again. “Are you alright?”

“Fine… handled it.”

“Are you… eating something?”

Chen Ling swallowed hastily. “No.”

Though puzzled, Xi Renjie sighed and continued, “The calamities are blending into the crowds now, constantly on the move. They’re hard to track. I can hold out a bit longer—I’ll head east. You should find somewhere to—”

Before he could finish, another meat chicken burst through the fog, shrieking as it barreled toward Chen Ling!

Chen Ling froze.

Every chicken he’d encountered so far had either knocked on doors or lurked in shadows to ambush. None had charged at him like this. One instance might have been coincidence, but two in a row? Something was off.

Acting on instinct, Chen Ling drew his dagger and engaged in close combat.

Half a minute later, he sheathed his blade, lips glistening with grease.

Staring at the two charred carcasses, he fell into deep thought. This behavior contradicts their usual patterns… There must be a reason. He checked himself thoroughly before his gaze settled on two objects: the wine jar on the ground and the torch in his hand.

After a moment’s consideration, he ruled out the wine jar—the second chicken had charged while the jar was meters behind him, and its target had clearly been him.

That left only the burning torch.

Do these chickens hate fire?

But why?

To test his theory, Chen Ling entered several nearby houses, gathered flammable wood, and piled it in the street’s center. A bonfire ignited, its flames flickering defiantly in the fog.

Torch in one hand, dagger in the other, Chen Ling stood guard beside the fire, scanning his surroundings.

Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty.

Then—shrieks erupted from the street’s end. Three shadow centipedes hurtled through the mist, heading straight for him.

Chen Ling’s eyes gleamed.

I was right.

He stomped out the bonfire and lunged at the creatures.

Fire attracted them—but if left burning too long, who knew how many would come? In his current state, eight or nine chickens were his limit. Any more, and he might become the meal.

This experiment had served its purpose. Now, multiple strategies unfolded in his mind.

This time, Chen Ling avoided using fire, dispatching the three chickens swiftly with his dagger before doubling back the way he’d come.

In a dim room, the distillery owner groggily opened his eyes.

An unfamiliar ceiling greeted him. For a moment, he lay still, half-convinced the nightmare—of that man chewing on a centipede’s head while offering him a bite—had been real.

With a gasp, he bolted upright, sweat beading on his forehead.

“…Just a dream?”

He patted his chest, trying to shake off the horror, when suddenly—

Bang!

The door burst open.

Thick fog poured in as the nightmare figure himself appeared in the doorway, torch in one hand, wine jar in the other, watching him calmly.

The owner’s heart skipped a beat. His face paled.

“Tell me,” Chen Ling shook the wine jar, “do you have more of this?”

The owner nodded shakily.

“…Yes. I have a warehouse north of here. All my stock’s stored there.”

“Give me the address.”

After obtaining the location and key, Chen Ling left as abruptly as he’d arrived, leaving the owner baffled.

Minutes later, Chen Ling entered an abandoned market.

“Renjie, I’m getting tired,” he said into the radio.

As he spoke, he filled a bag with scallions, ginger, and garlic.

Xi Renjie’s weary voice replied, “That’s normal… Find somewhere to rest. Recover your strength first.”

He sounded exhausted too, but there was relief in his tone—he’d worried Chen Ling would push himself too far.

Chen Ling paused, picked up a bottle of cooking wine, checked its expiry date, and tossed it into the bag.

“Got it.” He ended the call.

After scouring the market, Chen Ling selected a thicker wooden pole, wrapped its tip in cloth, soaked it in gasoline, and lit it.

Flames roared to life, cutting through the fog like a miniature sun. Torch in one hand, seasonings in the other, Chen Ling slipped into a deserted alley. His fingers brushed his cheek—and peeled away a layer of skin.

When he reemerged, his features had shifted into those of a cold-faced young man, his black trench coat replaced by a flamboyant red opera robe that stood out vividly against the mist.

Chen Ling licked his lips, throat bobbing with anticipation, before vanishing into the fog like a phantom.