Bloodied hands suddenly burst out of the water, droplets falling from the palms, the outstretched hands with clearly defined joints firmly grasping the wooden pole, squeezing and pulling with force, the long pole knife writhing like a serpent, slipping from the fisherman's grasp.
But the purpose of the bloodied hand went beyond that, the scythe in his grasp now wielded with a different flair, no longer a tool for killing fish but more like a spear dancing about, its body cutting through the air, smashing directly into the fisherman's waist, before finally pressing down hard.
"Splash!"
The loud sound of something hitting the water frightened everyone senseless.
"Ghosts!"
One fisherman, having seen the bloodied hand, screamed in terror, shouting that there were mountain ghosts; after a few steps, he stumbled and fell off the boat, plunging into the water as well.
Bloodied spray scattered everywhere.