I Can Only Create Monsters

“Not bright in the east... then bright in the west!”
“Let the setting sun burn away my sorrow!”
The odd song echoed halfway up the mountain, making the already strange melody sound even stranger.
A sturdy young man, bare-chested, was driving an old, rusted pickup truck up the winding mountain road, singing with great passion a song by the famous rock band “Secondhand Rose,” swaying and rocking his way toward the summit.
The bed of the pickup was tightly covered with a greasy, filthy tarp.
From beneath it, one could faintly hear bestial howls.
Suddenly, the pickup coughed a few times and then stalled out.
Ye Hai clicked his tongue in resignation and changed to a song more suited to the moment: “Ah, fate, tell me... is all this toil just for a meal a day...”
Singing, he kicked open the driver’s door and jumped down from the tall pickup.
Standing over six feet tall, Ye Hai’s bare torso was sharply defined, muscular but not overdone, the sort that hinted at explosive strength.
He wore a pair of camouflage pants stained with oil, and his hair was cropped close; he looked energetic and sharp.
He strode to the rear side of the pickup, felt along the lower edge until he found a handle.
With a hard tug, the pickup’s fuel tank slid out like a drawer.
But the tank was not the usual flat, round shape one might expect—it was a rectangular box, nearly two meters long, looking much like a large coffin.
Ye Hai fiddled with the four corners of the tank for a moment, then flipped it open, revealing the interior—not fill