Chapter Forty-One: The Admirer

I have no idea how much time passed before I finally woke from my stupor. The throbbing pain in my head still lingered, refusing to fade, but the moment I took in the unfamiliar surroundings, my mind started buzzing with confusion and dread.

I found myself locked inside a sealed bathroom. The door was blocked by a large butcher’s cleaver, its blade caked with blood. Blood spattered every inch of the bathroom tiles, and on the floor lay several mutilated, blood-soaked bodies, all of them severed at the waist. Each corpse bore the same cruel signature: the flesh had been methodically sliced away, the knife marks hauntingly clear, as if their deaths were drawn out for the sake of sadistic pleasure. After being split in half by the cleaver, their remains had been dumped here. Judging by the faint heat still rising from the corpses, they hadn’t been dead long; their blood and spilled entrails were yet to coagulate.

The sight made me retch helplessly, vomiting onto the floor.

At that moment, with a low creak, the door began to open on its own. For some reason, I realized then that the door had only been half-closed.

Cautiously, I stepped out from the pool of blood, peering through the crack to survey the outside.

There he was, the “artist,” Xiao Wu, sitting upright on an old elmwood bench. He wore a black leather butcher’s apron, a sketchbook in one hand and a stick of charcoal in the other, completely absorbed in his drawing.

“Since you’re already watching, you might as well come out,” Xiao Wu intoned coldly.

My mind went numb, and I nearly collapsed in terror. Forcing myself to remain calm, I pushed the door open and stepped outside.

On the bed in front of him, a naked woman was bound, her entire body drenched in blood. A thick steel pipe had been rammed through her from below, all the way out the top of her head, forcing her eyeballs out of their sockets. Her tongue lolled grotesquely from her mouth, her face twisted in a mask of agony.

Xiao Wu continued to sketch, utterly engrossed, never once glancing back, his laughter chilling and mocking.

“Aren’t you that famous antique dealer from Beijing? Tell me, does my art not shake you to your very core?” he asked in a voice icy with menace.

I stared at the ravaged corpse, horror-stricken, barely able to keep from vomiting again. Stammering, I managed to choke out, “Th-th-this… is this Xiao Hong?”

He sneered and nodded, his face twisting into a savage grin. “That wretched woman! I was obsessed with her, devoted, I shared my ‘art’ with her.” He paused, as if lost in thought, then suddenly hurled his sketchbook to the ground. Turning, his bloodshot eyes blazing, he ground out through clenched teeth, “That filthy whore! She called me a lunatic!”

His face was warped with anguish, as if two different souls warred within him. Then, abruptly, he glanced at Xiao Hong’s corpse, picked up a sharp knife from the table, stooped over, and sliced off a thin piece of flesh from her lower body. Placing it in his mouth, he closed his eyes and chewed with sickening delight.

“She tried to run away from my house,” he said, leering, “but I knocked her out with a single blow. We enjoyed the most exquisite pleasures upon the floor.” His laugh was obscene. “She was so beautiful—too beautiful! I decided to keep her by my side forever, to preserve her youth and beauty for all eternity. My art is my gift to her—eternal youth.”

He stooped to pick up his discarded sketchbook, flipped it open, and held it out for me to see.

The first drawing: a pretty woman sleeping on a bed. While not a great beauty, she was undeniably attractive, her slumber peaceful and sweet.

The second: the same woman, naked, her figure alluring, still sleeping serenely.

I turned to the third and shuddered in horror. The depiction was graphic—a thick steel pipe thrust up from between her legs. Vivid streaks of red paint daubed the spot, jarringly realistic. Blood dripped from the corner of her mouth, yet her face retained its former loveliness.

The fourth: the pipe had penetrated halfway through her body now. The red pigment was more copious, and her expression had contorted into a grimace of agony.

The fifth: the pipe had burst through the crown of her head. Her eyes, forced out by the pressure, were ringed with more red paint, her face twisted in a grotesque mask of terror.

“This red paint… it can’t be—” I faltered.

Xiao Wu nodded, completely unfazed, sipping water with a smile. “That’s right. It’s this bitch’s blood.”

Cold sweat poured off me. Narrowing my eyes, I forced a nervous laugh. “So why did you invite me here?”

Xiao Wu’s grin widened. He picked up the knife again, slicing off another piece of flesh from the corpse. “I think you’re a good man. That’s why I want to share my art—and my joy—with you.” He held the morsel out toward me. “Come on, have a taste.”

Terrified, I stumbled back two steps, shaking my head. “I—I—I’m a vegetarian.”

His face darkened instantly, his bloodshot eyes boring into me with hatred. He stared for a long moment, then a strange, sinister expression crept across his face as he looked me up and down, his laugh turning icy and predatory.

A chill ran down my spine, paralyzing my body with fear. I stammered, “Wh-what are you going to do?”

“Your body is quite exquisite…” Xiao Wu replied, his voice thick with anticipation.

I cursed silently; what a pervert, thinking about doing something perverse to me in this situation. The grotesque grin on his face reminded me of that notorious horror actor Anthony Wong. My eyes flickered to Xiao Hong’s corpse, impaled on that steel pipe. If I ended up like her… I shuddered and unconsciously took two steps back.

He picked up the knife and began advancing toward me. I glanced around and spotted a glass teapot within reach. Snatching it up, I smashed it over Xiao Wu’s head. While he clutched his skull in pain, I darted forward, but my foot slipped on a charcoal stick on the floor and I crashed to the ground.

I cursed myself—what a useless wretch I was! Never exercised, and now, when it counted, I was completely helpless.

Xiao Wu wiped the tea from his head, cackled at the sight of me sprawled on the floor, and lunged at me with the knife.

The blade plunged toward me with deadly force. I rolled out of the way and scrambled to my feet—only to forget about the charcoal stick. My foot slipped and I crashed onto Xiao Hong’s corpse, my hand landing squarely between her legs.

I spat in disgust—what rotten luck! Even in death, this woman forced me into such indignity. I scrambled away and stood up, just as Xiao Wu, eyes blazing with hate, snarled, “You bastard!” He stabbed Xiao Hong’s corpse several more times in a frenzy, then turned to me with a sinister grin. “Don’t be afraid. I’ll be gentle—I won’t make you suffer too much.” With that, he lunged, driving the knife at my chest.

I tried to resist, but my mind was spinning from terror and exhaustion. The world whirled, darkness swallowed me, and I lost consciousness.

“Is this the underworld? Did he kill me?”

Slowly, I opened my eyes. I was back in the same bathroom as before. Nothing had changed—the floor was still slick with blood, the corpses still strewn about. I staggered to my feet, disoriented. Had it all been a dream? But the dream had been so real—I’d clearly been killed by Xiao Wu.

I touched my chest, confirming my fears. No, this wasn’t a dream!

There was a ragged gash, more than ten centimeters long, torn through my shirt, and my skin beneath was scratched and raw.

Could it be that Xiao Wu, seeing me faint, had simply locked me up again? I stood up, stepped over the pools of blood, and crept to the door. Peeking through the crack, I saw no one outside. Summoning my courage, I flung the door open and stepped out. As I looked around, a scene both terrifying and unfathomable unfolded before my eyes, leaving my mind utterly blank.