59: Chapter 59 Puppet Sets Fire

Puppet No. 3 had leaned against the corner of the partition shed for the entire night.

The kerosene cans were stacked inside the storage shed just a dozen steps away to the front left!

The clerk was dozing off while leaning on the wooden table at the shed entrance, pen still grasped in his hand.

The two guards watching over the kerosene leaned against the pillars of the storage shed, arguing in low voices.

Over whether Shen Kui's missing status should be counted as recklessness on the patrol line or embezzlement by the camp administration line.

The topic of conversation had not stopped since dusk.

The younger night guard did not join the argument; he squatted at the rear of the storage shed, his back leaning against a stack of empty burlap sacks.

His fingers pinched the bridge of his nose, and his eyelids kept drooping down.

Jiang Ming made Puppet No. 3 move!

The puppet propped its body up from the corner of the partition shed, its chapped lips opening to emit an extremely low, hoarse moan.

It was not calling out to anyone, but rather uttered a short cry of thirst like someone talking in their sleep, and then its head drooped down again.

The scarred palm slid down from its knees!

The layer of dark red bloody froth mixed with residual spore liquid on its palm reflected a faint sheen under the torchlight.

The young night guard was startled by the sound, stood up and walked a few steps toward the partition shed, bending over to pass the bucket over.

Just as he bent down, Puppet No. 3's hand suddenly raised, its five fingers clasping the wrist with which he was handing over the bucket.

The force wasn't great, but the mass of bloody froth on its palm was completely imprinted onto his cuff and the front of his garment, and the spores seeped inward along the fabric fibers.

The night guard abruptly pulled back his hand!

He stepped back two paces, lowered his head to look at the stain on his wrist, and cursed under his breath.

He felt no alertness, simply assuming the wounded person was running a fever and talking nonsense.

He placed the bucket by the edge of the partition shed, rubbed his cuff with a rag pulled from his shoulder, and turned back to guard the storage shed.

Meanwhile, Puppet No. 1 set out from the Tree Nest, pushing a broken wheelbarrow scavenged from the transport team's wreckage as it skirted around the outer logging line.

On the cart lay an old kerosene drum moved from beside the misaligned marker stake during the day, half of its body label torn off!

The bottom of the drum was dented in a spot.

Puppet No. 1 unloaded the kerosene drum under the wooden shelf at the rear of the camp administration storage shed, mixing it with the empty drums originally piled there.

This barrel of oil was part of the batch withheld and not distributed by the Camp Administration Room before Shen Kui's team set out, and the numbering on the drum's rim matched the altered numbers in Ma Shoucai's account book completely.

The night guard was having a headache.

Spores seeped from the skin of his wrist into his blood vessels, coupled with the mental pressure pulled from afar by the Tree Domain through Anchor Point No. 2.

His temples throbbed, and his vision frequently blurred.

He rubbed his eyes hard a few times, walked over to the oil lamp and wanted to pick the wick a bit brighter.

When he reached out his finger, he misjudged the distance, and his fingertips struck the edge of the oil lamp.

The bronze lamp overturned, splashing lamp oil onto the ground at the rear of the storage shed.

Flames flared up along the oil trail, the first lick immediately catching the empty burlap sacks piled at the bottom layer of the wooden shelf.

"Fire!"

The clerk bounced up from the wooden table, his pen rolling into the fire.

The kerosene guards turned around and saw the flames crawling toward the direction of the oil drums, their faces turning pale instantly as they rushed forward to move the kerosene cans out.

But the old kerosene drum moved in by Puppet No. 1 at the rear of the storage shed sat right beneath the wooden shelf; when the tongue of fire licked the pooled oil in the dent at the bottom of the drum, the entire drum exploded upwards from the bottom by the flames.

A wall of fire pushed forward from the rear of the storage shed, igniting ration bags, oilcloths, and the spare matchcords hanging on the wall.

The clerk rushed out from the shed entrance clutching his account books, half of his garment hem scorched away by the fire.

The night guard contaminated by spores stood in front of the wall of fire, his pupils dilated and lips trembling.

He turned his head and saw Puppet No. 3 still cowering in the corner of the partition shed, and suddenly raised his hand to point toward the partition shed and shouted:

"It was him—it was him who called me over!"

The people nearby didn't understand what he was shouting, only smelling a burnt odor pouring out of the storage shed, mixed with the stench of oil and the smell of scorched rations.

The door of the Camp Administration Room was crashed open from the inside.

Ma Shoucai stood barefoot at the doorway, still clutching his account book, his eyes wide and staring.

He first glanced at the fire's momentum in the storage shed, then grabbed the clerk by the collar and roared:

"Who moved the extra oil drums in? Who let the wounded spend the night beside the storage shed?"

The clerk couldn't speak, only shaking his head desperately.

The kerosene guard and the ration guard had already begun shoving each other, both shouting that the other had slacked off during their night shift and failed to check the lower layer of the wooden shelf.

The fire did not burn through the entire Settlement.

But the kerosene cans were ignited one after another, muffled explosions bursting inside the storage shed, the rations charred into charcoal ash, the lime bags cracked by high temperature raising a pungent white smoke, and the spare outer-line wooden signs hanging on the wall burned into charred pieces.

More than half of the inventory in the entire storage shed was burned away.

Amidst the chaos, Puppet No. 3 was propped up and dragged out of the partition shed by a guard who had rushed in frantically.

"The wounded soldier is still over there! Drag him out quickly!"

The person supporting him did not check his pupils nor feel his pulse, simply dragging him to the open ground beside the Camp Administration Room as if he were a survivor frightened silly by the fire.

Puppet No. 3 leaned against the base of the wall, its head tilted to one side, looking not far from death.

Its eyes were half-closed, and its fingers were still simulating the intermittent twitching of a wounded person after being startled.

Not a single person running around nearby gave it a second glance.

Throughout the entire night, no one suspected that the wounded person was fake.

No one thought that what was wrapped under the scorched guard coat was not a human.

They only saw the fire!

Saw the night guard's dereliction of duty!

Saw the old kerosene drums that shouldn't have appeared in the storage shed!

Saw Ma Shoucai grabbing the clerk by the collar to shift the blame!

These were already enough to fill everyone's complete explanation for this accident; they only believed what they saw!