Volume 1, Chapter 20: The Death of a Dancer (13)

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I gradually grew accustomed to the darkness, able to move about freely even with such faint light. Fortunately, his room was neatly arranged, and thanks to my excellent memory, I remembered the layout and furnishings clearly. He was sound asleep, breathing steadily and deeply. This image reminded me of something my grandmother once said when I was a child: “You wouldn't even know if someone carried you away in your sleep.”

In a fleeting moment, I felt an urge to smother him with a blanket—simply because “that would ensure complete safety.” I was both terrified by this thought and strangely used to it.

After successfully retrieving the key, I returned to the study and found the light switch by touch, turning on the lamp. A white haze filled my vision before gradually brightening. Before me was a bookshelf lining an entire wall, filled with many books I had read or cherished. Around the corner, more shelves held several violins, and the lowest tier displayed a collection of guitars.

The bed I would sleep on was a folding one, usually stored upright in the corner. I imagined the owner spending much time in this room, quietly reading, and when inspired, picking up an instrument to immerse himself in the world of music—a secluded haven of sorts.

My gaze shifted to the wall opposite the bookshelf. It served as a massive canvas, painted in oils with a forest and a meadow blooming with wildflowers. At its center danced a woman clad in red, her facial features left undefined, lost in graceful motion. Nearby, crouching in the grass, was a majestic spotted deer with impressive antlers, its posture both admiring and protective.

At the bottom of the artwork, fallen leaves, weeds, and dead branches formed a chaotic tangle of dark brown lines, cleverly concealing an object that resembled a knot on a dead branch. I took out the key and precisely inserted it there.

Just as I had suspected, when the key turned, the wooden panel popped open, revealing a hidden chamber.

Even so, I couldn’t help but admire the owner’s ingenuity.

He must have frequented this secret room often; the paint around the edges showed no signs of peeling from repeated use. I imagined that whenever he closed the door, he meticulously inspected the painting and touched up any spots where the paint might have chipped.

He truly was a man of many talents. Such a pity.

I pushed open the hidden door and pressed a switch inside. The light revealed walls densely covered with specimens.

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The specimens consisted of women’s underwear, lipstick, tissues, clothing, hair strands, and more. The sight made me feel nauseated and horrified, though another part of me seemed oddly accustomed to it.

What on earth was this?

Then, among them, I saw a photo of Beibei Ke.

Everything suddenly became clear—the secret unease I had sensed finally had an explanation.

But why?

Lost in thought, I suddenly sensed something and turned around. There stood Lin Chi at the doorway, his shadow cast tall and dark in the lamp light.

But I was a detective. How could he stand against me in a fight? With that small insight, I prepared to seize him.

“Haoteng, please let me explain,” he said hurriedly, raising his hands to shield his head when he saw my stance.

“Go ahead,” I replied, sitting back on the folding bed, folding my arms and waiting silently for his explanation.

He said nothing at first, only approaching to sit beside me.

Strangely, I felt no physical aversion toward him.

I thought to myself, now that he was seated, it was time to hear what had happened. But then a sharp pain stabbed the left side of my neck.

Fear surged through me. Turning my head, I saw a syringe and that calm face.

Then, I lost consciousness.

The dosage was probably small because after an hour or two, I woke up. Before me was a large face, kissing me—more precisely, repeatedly kissing my eyes.

I struggled in vain. My whole body was firmly bound to a chair in the living room, my mouth gagged with a strip of cloth.

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Seeing I was awake, he stopped.

He moved the chair to sit directly opposite me, staring silently.

Then, with a sigh, he began to tell a story:

Lin Chi had shown remarkable musical talent since childhood. His mother noticed his gift and helped him choose the violin as his specialty.

He could master a piece after just two or three practices, earning the teacher’s praise as a “musical prodigy.”

But he came from an ordinary family, where many obstacles impeded the blossoming of genius.

For example, in their small county town, there were no better violin instructors.

For example, his parents thought pursuing music professionally was unrealistic. It could be a hobby, sure, but it was safer to focus on academics and aim for university entrance exams. Majoring in finance or computer science would offer better job prospects.

So, after middle school, his parents stopped his violin lessons.

He, always obedient, did not resist but practiced on his own with whatever sheet music he could find. His parents saw this as a distraction from core subjects. After repeated discussions with their unyielding son, his irritable father smashed the violin he had carefully chosen for him.

As a result, by adulthood, Lin Chi fulfilled his parents’ wishes, enrolling in a reputable university, majoring in computer science, and becoming one among countless cogs in the social machine.

Yet deep inside, the fiery dream of being a violinist never died, stirring at every crucial moment in his life.

At twenty-five, by chance, he watched a dance performance by Beibei Ke and was deeply moved. He imagined a beautiful scene of Beibei dancing while he played the violin.

From then on, Beibei became the goddess rooted in his heart.