With a “bang”, I threw the paintbrush down hard, and the paint spilled onto the ground, making a mottled mess, splashing vibrant colors across my clothes and face.
It’s another failed work.
“Teacher Qin Ran…” The handsome young man lying naked in front of the canvas got up hurriedly, and without even bothering to put on his clothes, he came over to comfort me. I pushed him away.
“Get lost!”
I accidentally struck the young man’s face, leaving a streak of colorful paint on his cheek, but he didn’t seem bothered at all. He held my hand and kissed the back of my hand like a pug: “It’s okay, Teacher Qin Ran, try again, I can definitely become your new muse…”
I was too lazy to take another look at the pursuer who had been clinging to me all the way back from the cocktail party last night. I pulled my hand back impatiently: “I’ll say it again, get lost.”
After chasing away the guy who wasted my one day and one night, I rushed into the bathroom and immersed my face in the cold water of late October. I didn’t raise my head until I was almost drowning.
Water mixed with paint trickled down my bangs in streaks of red and green, making my face appear even paler and my bloodshot eyes seem darker.
Ming Luo once adored my peach blossom eyes and the red mole at the corner the most, always saying they could scorch the soul, making people willingly dive into the flames with just a glance. But now, my eyes have clearly lost their beauty, like rotten petals buried in an ancient well, without a trace of spirit.
Every successful artwork of mine was born from Ming Luo. His presence lingers in every piece, his essence woven into my achievements. He was the foundation of my paintings, the soul behind my brush strokes—his beauty as radiant as jade. But everything shattered in an instant. A plane crash took him away. Ming Luo died in Thailand, his homeland.
My muse died, and with him, my art faded into nothingness.
Since my muse’s death, I have become obsessed with finding models who resemble him. Men and women alike—flawless in appearance—but in the end, they are all just ordinary mortals.
“Burning papers into ashes……”
In the empty bathroom, a familiar and ethereal melody suddenly echoed. It was the theme song “Dust in Off,” from the movie that Ming Luo loved most in life. For a moment, I thought he had returned. Soaking wet, I rushed out.
But the living room remained in chaos—an easel toppled to the floor, paint cans scattered all around. It was my phone ringing.
I glanced at the incoming call and pressed the answer button. “Hello, Dr. Xiang.”
“Qin Ran, tonight is your scheduled follow-up appointment at my place, don’t forget,” The man’s gentle voice came through. “Your voice sounds hoarse. Are you sick? Should I come over and check on you?”
“No need,” I wiped the water from my face and looked towards the last remnants of dusk fading behind the building across from me. “I just want to be alone.”
“If you don’t want to be treated, we can also have a meal together. I’ve prepared your favorite Tequila. Don’t stay alone…”
“Xiang Nan,” I smiled faintly and reminded him, “You are just my doctor.”
“Ah Ran, I…”
Xiang Nan wanted to say something more, but I interrupted him: “Don’t call me that. We’re not that close.”
“Qin Ran,” Xiang Nan’s tone rose, with a hint of suppressed agitation in his usually calm voice. “That night, you agreed to give it a try. Qin Ran, have you forgotten?”
Did I say that? I rubbed my throbbing temple. “That was just drunk talk, I’m very sorry.”
“Are you going to mourn for Ming Luo? When he was alive, I never saw you particularly fond of him. Now that he’s gone, you’re pretending to be the one who loved him the most?”
I couldn’t take it anymore and hung up the phone before he could finish speaking.
I had been undergoing intermittent psychological treatment for over six months, but my insomnia persisted. Instead, the doctor developed inappropriate feelings. He couldn’t cure my condition, and neither could anyone else.
Just as I was about to turn off my phone, another message came through:
“Teacher Qin, is your final piece for next month’s art exhibition ready? The media and your fans are eagerly anticipating it…”
I leaned against the glass, lit a cigarette, and took a deep drag, letting the smoke rise above me. I wasn’t concerned with the media or the attention—they were irrelevant. What mattered was whether I had truly lost my touch. Through the smoky haze, my eyes settled on the cobweb behind the curtains.
A moth clung to the cobweb, struggling for life as the spider slowly approached. It felt as though something was tightening around my throat, leaving me unable to breathe. I quickly extinguished my cigarette, packed up my art supplies and simple belongings, and grabbed my car keys.
I had to escape, to break free from the cocoon I had woven for myself.
If I stayed, I would be trapped here forever.
When I opened the door, as expected, countless roses and gifts piled up high, each accompanied by confession cards. These were from the many suitors who, after Ming Luo’s death, thought they could seize the opportunity to become my new muse, those are mere ordinary people who believed they had a chance.
I crushed the bouquet underfoot with disgust and stepped on the petals as I descended the stairs.
As the heavy rain poured down, I had already driven far away from Jiangcheng.
The windshield was shaken violently, with water pouring down like a waterfall, and the wipers couldn’t keep up. I slowed the car down and glanced at the navigation system.
I’m not sure if it was due to a poor signal or something else, but my location appeared erratic, almost ghostlike. This mountain road led to the Suwajia Mountains in Southern Jiangsu province, more than 400 kilometers from Jiangcheng. Ahead, I’d need to drive another 30 kilometers through dense misty forests to reach the nearest village, while turning back would take over 300 kilometers. With no villages in sight, I decided to head back.
The torrential rain made the night drive already stressful, but on top of that, Xiang Nan’s messages kept coming, one after another, with no pause as well.
“Qin Ran, where are you? Why aren’t you answering the phone? I’m really worried about you. Earlier, I was impulsive, and as your doctor, I shouldn’t have said those things.”
“You just don’t have inspiration right now, which is perfectly normal. It’s nothing serious; all creators go through phases like this. Please don’t overthink it, okay?”
“I don’t know if you can let go of Ming Luo or not, but people have to look forward. You need to move on. I can be here for you, I can help you, and I will wait for you.”
I am sick, but why does it feel like Xiang Nan is even sicker than I am?
I rubbed my brow in frustration and finally couldn’t take it anymore, opening his contact page. Just as I was about to block him, I caught a glimpse in the rearview mirror—a small truck was approaching from behind. The winding mountain road was narrow, so I quickly swerved the steering wheel to the side to avoid it.
The truck passed closely by my car, and realizing it might be a local from the mountain, I lowered my window and called out to him in Southern Jiangsu dialect, “Hey, brother, do you live in the forest? Can you take me there? My navigation’s acting up!”
The figure in the car window didn’t move, and the truck didn’t stop for even a moment, driving straight past me. My eyes fell on the open back of the truck—there was a sack, it was one person’s length, the rain made it transparent, so the outline did look like a… person. The mountain road, the truck, the sack… a strange feeling arose in my heart, prompting me to turn on the high beam to see more clearly.
But in an instant, I saw that the sack was folded in half and bent.
It’s like a person is struggling and trying to sit up.
My heart skipped a beat. In an instant, my body moved faster than my brain. I stepped on the accelerator, and the Ford Mustang roared out and caught up with the pickup truck. After passing it by dozens of meters, I slammed on the brakes and almost hit the already crooked guardrail on the side of the road. Half a meter away was a sheer cliff. I had positioned my car diagonally in the center of the road, blocking the truck’s path. Looking at the truck that had to stop in a hurry, I suppressed my pounding heart and lowered my voice: “Siri, help me call the police.”
When I was young, I was powerless and could not change my fate of being trafficked. Although my adoptive parents treated me well over the years, they could never make up for the regret of being separated from my biological parents. My childhood memories have long been blurred, and there is no trace of my roots, so I can never… I can never tolerate another person, another pair of parents, who are separated forever by this regret, like me and my parents.
Through the heavy rain, I saw the driver lean forward, the blaring horn sounding one after another, clearly feeling anxious. Afraid that he would speed off and take a detour, I took a deep breath, made up my mind, grabbed the easel from the passenger seat, and got out of the car.
“Get down!” I pointed the easel at the figure in the car window. “I’ve already called the police and recorded the footage, you can’t escape. Release the person in the back!”
The sound of the horn abruptly stopped.
My breath also stopped as I stared at the driver. The headlights, streaming through the rain on the windshield, faintly illuminated his figure. The man was thin, looking in his forties, a typical mountain dweller from Jiangsu. He wore a headscarf so dirty its color was unrecognizable, his skin was dark, and his face was lined with deep creases. A strange, fierce tattoo, resembling some kind of character, ran across his forehead and nose.
He made eye contact with me, and a chill ran up my soaked shirt. Only then did I realize how impulsive I had been, feeling a rising sense of tension as I understood the potential danger of my actions.
These traffickers are desperate men, and being alone with a kidnapped person in the mountains, he’s likely armed. Whether it’s a crude gun, a crossbow, or even a sickle or hammer, defending myself with the painting easel in my hands would be nearly impossible.
But retreat was not an option. I had already called the police. Even if I couldn’t win, I had to buy time. Seeing him stare at me without moving, I gritted my teeth and slammed the painting easel against his car window. The glass shattered, and water splashed everywhere. I pressed the easel to his temple and shouted, “Get out!”
If I went straight to the back of the car to rescue the person, the situation could quickly spiral out of control if he suddenly accelerated forward or reversed into me.
I kept my eyes on his hands gripping the steering wheel, alert for any movement toward a weapon. If he made any suspicious move, I planned to knock him out right away and explain to the police that it was a special circumstance when they arrived.
“Muwa! Basha!” The trafficker spat and cursed fiercely. This is the dialect of the mountainous area of Southern Jiangsu Province. I can understand it. It means to say that someone is as stupid and clumsy as a pig.
I know what I’m doing is foolish, but perhaps a single foolish act can save a girl’s life. I gripped the easel tightly, then grabbed the car door handle, saying, “Get out and unlock the car.”
The metal easel is quite heavy, and it would be more than enough to knock someone unconscious if used to strike their head.
“Basha!” The trafficker yelled again, his voice hoarse, obviously furious, but also seemed to reveal a kind of sadness. One hand trembled and moved to the car lock button and pressed it. I heard a “click” and immediately opened the car door, grabbed the trafficker’s collar, and dragged him down.
The trafficker stumbled when I pulled him, and I noticed one of his legs was stiff, possibly due to a bone issue or a prosthetic. I thought, A disabled person doing this kind of work? Then it dawned on me—it was likely his involvement in such crimes that had led to his disability.
I could tell he was thin, short, and wearing thin clothes, the rain making them stick to his body. He didn’t seem to have any weapons on him. Given my regular workouts, he probably wouldn’t be a match for me if it came down to a fight. Still, I didn’t let my guard down. I kept the easel frame pointed at him, forcing him toward the back of the truck.
I noticed the sack in the back of the truck and was immediately startled.
In the pouring rain, the sack, which appeared to be wrapped around a person, had several holes, with dry branches seemingly growing from it. Through the rips, dark hair could be seen spilling out, trailing across the damp floor of the truck. The person inside, who had tried to sit up earlier, now lay motionless. It was unclear whether they were dead or unconscious.
I didn’t dare delay. I immediately climbed up, tore open the sack, but froze in place. A lightning bolt struck across the sky with a thunderous roar. The flickering pale light illuminated the inside of the sack clearly—
The figure wrapped in the sack shaped like a human, wrapped in a white cloak, revealing a cross-collar with the ethnic characteristics of the southern Jiangsu region, with a black background embroidered with relief patterns of gold and red, and inlaid with animal fur edges, it was truly gorgeous. There were circles of beads wrapped around the neck, and at a glance, one could tell that they contained beeswax, coral, malachite, and agate… The face was covered with a mask made of a bead chain with gold tassels at the bottom, leaving only the chin exposed. However, the texture under the mask did not resemble human skin at all, and one could clearly see wood grain on the surface.
I blinked rapidly, unable to believe my eyes. As I tugged at the tassels, a yellow paper talisman, inscribed with blood-red, cryptic runes, was revealed. The rain had soaked the paper, revealing beneath it a sharply defined nose and a pair of eyes with slightly raised, half-closed lids.
This is not a human at all… it’s a puppet.
I retracted my hand, feeling a chill down my spine. How could it be possible… I clearly saw it move.
“Basha!” I heard the driver’s voice again from behind me. I turned my head and was shocked by him. The driver was kneeling on the ground, trembling all over and kneeling towards the car, as if he was extremely frightened, and his whole face was distorted.
“It’s no use anymore…” I heard him muttering in the southern Jiangsu dialect, “It’s too late. It’s no use burning it anymore. There’s no escape, no escape…”
“What are you talking about?” I jumped out of the car and helped the thin driver up. “I’m sorry, I misunderstood. I thought you were a human trafficker…”
“Basha!” The driver pushed me away and knelt on the ground again, banging his head against the ground again and again. I was so scared that I grabbed his arms and saw that his forehead was cracked and blood was flowing down with the rain, but he seemed to feel no pain. He stared at me, and his mouth slowly opened.
“Do you know what that is…” He muttered, laughing as he spoke, “That is the substitute puppet of our Corpse God Lord. Once you see his face, you will never be able to escape for the rest of your life. You will be his slave for all eternity!”
It looks interesting !!! Ty for the translation