Chapter 09
A Series Of Unfortunate Events
As Jon propelled through the air, the night erupted in violent explosions, the sounds of battle resonating like the drumbeats of war. Below, Huo Zheng, a solitary figure amidst chaos, unleashed his fury upon the encroaching cultivators, his hands moving in a blur, casting waves of energy that tore through the garden's serene facade.
Jon, bracing for impact, instinctively curled into a protective ball, his arms shielding his head. He anticipated a bone-jarring crash, yet the landing was eerily soft, more a controlled tumble than a fall. The ground beneath him felt unnervingly forgiving, as if the very earth had conspired to cushion his descent. Or was it his enhanced body? Surprised but unharmed, he sprang to his feet, driven by a surge of adrenaline. "I have to leave first, then think about what to do next," he muttered, his mind racing.
His body moved on instinct, darting towards the shadowed door that Huo Zheng had indicated. Yet, Jon couldn't help but steal a glance back at the chaotic ballet of destruction Huo Zheng orchestrated against his assailants. The monk, a stoic force amidst the storm of elemental attacks and supersonic weapons, seemed an unyielding bastion, each movement precise and deadly, a true dance of destruction under the moonlit sky.
Jon turned his head forward, his heart pounding with fear, realizing the gravity of the world he was in. This wasn't a scene from a xianxia novel he could put down at will; it was raw, terrifying, and real. The air vibrated with the force of unleashed Qi, the scent of upturned earth and charred flora filling his nostrils.
As he neared the door, he noticed it was partly ajar, swinging gently in the tumultuous air currents created by the ongoing battle. Slipping through, Jon found himself in a dimly lit corridor, its walls adorned with ancient drawings. His footsteps echoed softly, a stark contrast to the chaos he'd just left behind.
He didn’t dare stop to inspect his body for injuries; adrenaline numbed any pain, and his survival instinct screamed that safety was a priority over self-assessment. The corridor ended in a spiraling staircase leading downwards, into the bowels of the pavilion, towards what he hoped would be a temporary sanctuary or a path to escape.
As he descended, Jon's thoughts raced. He needed a plan, resources, and allies. His immediate goal was to escape the cultivators' immediate reach, but beyond that lay the larger question of surviving and escaping from a world where he was a wanted man for reasons he barely understood.
The staircase opened into a large, cavernous room, dimly lit by flickering torches. It was filled with crates and covered carriages, likely used for transporting goods unnoticed by the uninitiated. Jon's eyes scanned the room, searching for the best hiding spot or, better yet, a disguise or tool that could aid his escape.
As Jon settled into the shadowed recesses of the room, his ears caught the frantic exclamations of disciples rushing past the corridor outside. "The shaolin monk and the 7th young master are fighting in the gardens! The Summoned is with them!" their voices tinged with urgency and fear. They were sprinting towards the commotion, their footsteps receding as they took a different, presumably quicker, path to the gardens.
As the disciples’ voices faded, their words igniting a flurry of thoughts in Jon’s mind, he was jolted back to reality by the sound of approaching footsteps. The room, which moments before felt like a safe haven, now threatened to become a trap. Panic clawed at his calm facade, No! he mentally cursed, his eyes darting frantically for a hiding spot.
His gaze landed on a door, slightly open, nestled between two large, unmarked crates. It seemed almost serendipitous in its placement, an inconspicuous escape or hiding place that was easily overlooked. The door was set into the wall in such a way that it blended seamlessly with the surroundings, its frame covered in shadows, making it an ideal spot for concealment.
Without a second thought, Jon sprang towards it, his survival instincts in full throttle. He squeezed through the narrow opening, finding himself in a cramped, dark space. The air was thick, carrying a foul odor that assaulted his senses, a stark contrast to the slightly musty but clean air of the room he had just left. The smell was pervasive, a mix of rotting wood and something else he couldn’t quite identify, but Jon had no time to ponder its source.
Inside, the space was tight and enclosed, perfect for hiding. Jon positioned himself swiftly, placing his feet on opposite sides of the walls, pushing against them to elevate his body off the ground. This way, even if someone entered the small alcove, they would be unlikely to notice him above, assuming they didn’t investigate too closely.
Silently, he held his breath, his heart pounding against his ribs, as the footsteps grew nearer. The stench in the confined space was almost overpowering, but fear and the instinct to remain undetected kept him still, focused solely on the sound of the approaching threat and the hope that his improvised hiding spot would keep him concealed from whatever or whoever was about to enter the room.
Stolen novel; please report.
As the footsteps hastened towards Jon's hiding spot, his heart raced, the sound of it thumping in his ears like a drum. Cold sweat formed on his fingertips, the tension building to an almost unbearable level. Please, please, no... he silently begged, his body taut between the walls, every muscle strained to maintain his precarious position.
The door creaked open, and an old man stepped in, his face striking a chord of vague familiarity in Jon's panicked mind. The old man seemed preoccupied, hands clamped over his mouth, stifling a scream or perhaps a bout of coughing. Jon, suspended above, watched with wide, imploring eyes, mentally pleading with the old man to leave quickly and not look up.
The old man, however, seemed oblivious to Jon's silent pleas. A whistling tune escaping his lips, he began to undress, his skin sagging and aged, movements slow and labored. The quiet room was soon filled with the sound of his whistling, a tuneless melody that turned into grunts as he crouched down. "Urgh... My, my, I'm getting too old for this," he chuckled to himself.
Jon, perched above, felt a mix of relief and horror; relief that he remained unnoticed, and horror at the situation unfolding below him. The old man's casual undressing and subsequent actions were as absurd as they were distressing for Jon, who had hoped for a threat, not this bizarre invasion of privacy.
Then, the inevitable happened. A loud fart echoed in the cramped space, the sound grotesquely clear. "Ho ho ho, this was long overdue," the old man said aloud, seemingly to himself, oblivious to Jon's presence above.
Oh god, Jon thought, his face contorting in disgust and disbelief. The stench that followed was overpowering, mingling with the already foul air to create a miasma of revulsion.
Realization dawned on Jon with horror as he understood, at last, his hideout was none other than the latrines. The foul odor he had first noticed was now overwhelmed by the old man’s own emissions, a scent so potent it threatened to breach Jon's tolerance. Struggling to stay silent, Jon breathed through his mouth to avoid the stench offending his broken nose, but this only intensified the experience, the pungent air almost tangible against his tongue.
Internally, Jon was aghast, his mind reeling. What the fuck do these people eat? he questioned in silent horror, unable to fathom the diet that led to such... aromatic consequences. Below him, the old man seemed engaged in a battle of his own, with grunts punctuating the air and farts roaring out with a frequency and volume that defied his elderly visage.
Jon, pressed against the cool wall in his precarious perch, was torn between the need to escape and the fear of discovery. The old man’s relentless symphony of flatulence continued, each thunderous release a marvel of human biology, at least to Jon’s disbelieving mind. How is he that old and can make these kinds of farts? Jon marveled internally.
In the taut silence, broken only by the old man's symphonic releases, Jon's struggle to maintain his concealment reached its peak. His breath, held in a futile effort to remain silent amidst the olfactory assault, eventually betrayed him. A soft, almost inaudible grunt of discomfort escaped his lips, "Ugh..." His broken nose and the shock of his current predicament made silent endurance impossible.
That faint sound, seemingly inconsequential in the grand cacophony of life, was enough. The old man, whose hearing was evidently as keen as his digestive system was active, snapped his head upwards. His eyes widened in astonishment at the sight above him, not meeting Jon's gaze but rather an unobstructed view of his bare lower extremities. There, in the dim light of the latrine, hung Jon.
"...Huh?" the old man exclaimed, his voice a mix of confusion and disbelief. It was the kind of reaction anyone would have if they looked up to find a grown man, naked, his body stretched in an uncomfortable split, inadvertently offering a full-frontal view of his privates. For a moment, time seemed to stand still, the only sounds in the room being the distant echoes of chaos outside and the labored breathing of the two men in this most unexpected confrontation.
Jon, caught in a compromising position that nothing could have prepared him for, could only stare down in mortified silence, his mind racing for a way to navigate this absurdly embarrassing situation. The old man, for his part, seemed frozen, processing the bizarre sight of a naked man suspended in the air, his private parts dangling like some surreal chandelier in the dimness of the latrine.
"Shit," Jon muttered under his breath, his voice a whisper of dread.
"Shit?" echoed the old man, his tone inquisitive, as if the word sparked a peculiar interest amidst the bizarre situation.
Panicked and cornered, Jon felt his body take over, driven by a primal urge to silence the potential alarm. "Shut up!" he bellowed, descending from his awkward perch like an avenging angel of silence, his fist connecting with the old man’s jaw with a resounding crack. The old man’s head snapped at an unnatural angle, his body tumbling out of the latrine with a grotesque thud, punctuated by one last defiant fart, before settling into an eerie stillness, spasms twitching through his frame momentarily.
Jon, landing awkwardly beside the now motionless figure, gasped for air, his lungs burning for oxygen after the prolonged tension. He stared at the old man, the realization of his actions dawning on him. "Oh no..." he murmured, stepping closer to inspect him.
Recognition flickered in Jon’s mind as he observed the old man's features. This was the first person he had encountered in this strange world, now lying in a most undignified position, bare-assed and unmoving.
"...Hey, old man," Jon prodded him with a stick found nearby, hoping for some sign, any sign. Silence answered his tentative call.
Covering his mouth with a hand, Jon’s eyes widened. "Ohhh, I fucked up..."
Still in disbelief, he poked the old man again, half-expecting him to get back up and continue his earlier routine. But, quite unfortunately, there was no reaction, just the silent testimony of his final, fatal interruption.
Jon ran his hands through his hair, his mind racing. "Oh, I fucked up... oh no..." The gravity of the situation hit him; he had just killed a man, for the third time in his life, albeit unintentionally, in the most absurdly tragic of circumstances.