Old Xiao was dead.
It was impossible to tell how long he had been dead. It seemed that as soon as one died on this ship, the rotting began immediately, to a frighteningly odorous extent.
At the moment the door opened, what burst into view was splattered blood—on the bed, on the floor, on the walls, on the ceiling. The plasma, having lost its fresh color, was everywhere.
Dull and yellowed, it dripped viscously, eventually drying into ugly traces.
Old Xiao was enveloped by this scene, sitting in the center. He was in the chair he had prepared for his teammates, torn to pieces, as if hacked into seventeen or eighteen segments that weren't completely severed. Even his head had been smashed flat and was dangling from his neck, like a basketball hanging in a net.
Huai Shi, fighting back the urge to vomit, mustered his courage and stepped inside.
No signs of a struggle or damage from a fight could be seen, nor any trace of resistance.
He had died silently, to a disturbing degree.
