“No, of course not.”
Song Lan’s gaze remained fixed on Lu Jia’s face, as if she were looking through her at someone else. “Originally, you would have been the sharp blade I forged myself, one that shattered class and family background.”
What a fine sword she would have made.
Back in those years with the Sheng Family, no matter how hard she tried, she could never receive the same attention as Sheng Ling.
Sheng Ling had said they all treated her like family, that they all liked her.
But Old Madam Sheng gave far more to Sheng Ling than she ever did to her!
At various events, Sheng Tianqin almost always brought Sheng Ling along. Whenever any renowned senior came to chat, that old lady would brush off any mention of herself lightly, with all—or rather, the entirety—of her attention stolen by Sheng Ling.
In any setting where Sheng Ling was present, she was forever just a foil.
What right did that woman have?
Wasn’t it just because of her good family background that those people fawned over her, catching the eye of one senior after another?
And what about her?
Every day, she coaxed and flattered Sheng Ling, serving as her model, discussing inspirations with her.
But why was it that, even though it was the two of them brainstorming, Sheng Ling was always the one credited with the new ideas?!
Those rare moments of genuine sincerity twisted into jealousy.
Lack of inspiration? No problem.
Over these years, she had deliberately taken in so many students with no background, teaching them knowledge. Some were so poor she even provided funds for their food and clothing.
They owed her their gratitude, didn’t they?
There were over a dozen Muses in the basement, always able to produce a work that suited her tastes.
Song Lan had originally been searching painstakingly.
What she wanted was a true genius, ideally from an ordinary family background with no connection to art whatsoever.
She resented everything Sheng Ling had back then and swore to surpass her, but her own first moment in the spotlight had come from Sheng Ling’s work.
She needed to prove that even without the backing of a family like the Shengs, a true genius could rise and captivate the entire printmaking world.
Was it to prove it to a dead person, or just to vent the resentment in her heart?
Song Lan no longer cared.
With so much blood on her hands now, what she wanted wasn’t justification or righteous motives. She just wanted to feel good.
Lu Jia was the perfect fit.
She matched every requirement in Song Lan’s vision perfectly.
More importantly, in that girl’s graduation project, Song Lan seemed to see Sheng Ling’s shadow.
From the imagery to the overall style, Lu Jia bore a striking resemblance to Sheng Ling from back then.
Even though their carving techniques differed, and there were moments of immaturity in her cuts, that was exactly what Song Lan wanted— that raw greenness.
Song Lan had immediately looked into Lu Jia’s past works.
She discovered the girl’s printmaking style had always leaned in this direction, just not prominently until her graduation project, when it suddenly clicked.
At first, she was determined to claim Lu Jia.
Later, as reports kept coming in, she had to adjust her plans, settling for molding Lu Jia into her prized “Muse.”
Still, it was a pity; who knew how long it would take to find another genius like this.
“Lu Jia, you only have yourself to blame for disappointing me so much.”
Finishing her drink, Song Lan’s tone darkened. “I had Zhiwei invite you so many times, but you refused every one, only to turn around and latch onto Sheng Shubai.”
Mentioning Sheng Shubai’s name, she couldn’t help but scoff mockingly. “Little Bai has hated me to the bone these years and trusts no one. Guess how much sincerity she could possibly have toward you?”
“Maybe the moment she returns to the country, she’ll be in some bar with a new girl as a fling. Wouldn’t you say?”
The woman’s tone was flippant, unconcerned by the chill hardening in Lu Jia’s eyes, even flashing her a smile.
“You think you’re worthy of mentioning her name?”
Furious at Song Lan’s slander of Sheng Shubai, Lu Jia finally couldn’t hold back.
“You stole the work of the ‘privileged heir’ you claim to despise, and used it to gain recognition from top artists in the field, establishing your fame from there.”
“You go on and on about hating the elite, hating inherited privilege from bloodlines.”
“But aside from your birth, which step did you take without riding on those people’s achievements and fame? Haven’t you long since joined the very class you despise most—and prided yourself on it?”
“You say you want to prove you’re better than Senior Sheng, but in what way do you measure up to her?”
“Aside from this hypocritical facade, aren’t all your so-called inspirations and ‘works’ over these years built on the blood and bones of ordinary students?”
“Song Lan, you’re truly disgusting.”
Other than reciting texts back in school, Lu Jia had never spoken such a long string of words in one breath.
She just felt exhausted.
Compared to dissecting human nature, she’d rather spend a whole day carving prints.
At least a woodblock wouldn’t suddenly knock her out or pull a syringe from her bag to inject anesthetic into her vein.
She was an ordinary person, and she knew some leveraged their family backgrounds to bully others, enjoying resources unimaginable to most.
But that didn’t mean they all did.
What had Sheng Ling done wrong? Her life’s biggest mistake was failing to see her lover’s true face.
Song Lan wanted to provoke her, but Lu Jia had never intended to borrow the Sheng Family’s power or conveniences.
Otherwise, despite Old Madam Sheng and President Sheng’s repeated overtures, she wouldn’t have stayed at C University after the New Year, diligently honing her competition piece under Rong Yi’s guidance.
If she’d wanted a shortcut, she’d have bought a plane ticket to Z City long ago.
After her outburst, Lu Jia wasn’t worried about enraging Song Lan.
From the woman’s earlier words, as her “most valued Muse,” she wouldn’t be killed easily.
Since death wasn’t on the table, she chose to vent fully first.
Who let this madwoman badmouth Sheng Shubai and Sheng Family’s little aunt like that?
She didn’t deserve to.
As expected, it enraged her.
Song Lan’s gaze shifted from indifferent to cold, then to fury at having her sore spot prodded.
The highball glass shattered on the floor, the remaining drops of liquor splashing with the shards, grazing Lu Jia’s ankle and drawing blood.
She slammed down the controller in her hand, and the handcuffs tightened again.
This time, it wasn’t just the chain between the cuffs shortening; the cuffs themselves constricted, from fitting snugly around Lu Jia’s wrists to mechanically squeezing inward, nearly embedding into her flesh.
The sensation was the same at her ankles.
Lu Jia bit back a pained grunt as Song Lan shoved her back.
Descending the stairs, the ankle chain was slightly lengthened, but it still chafed tormentingly with every step.
She was locked back in her cell.
Only in a still position did the vise-like grip on her flesh and bones ease somewhat.
From above came the sound of the iron door sliding shut again—Song Lan had left.
From a sneaky glance at the woman’s phone lock screen earlier, Lu Jia knew this was her second day imprisoned.
Or more precisely, not even twenty-four hours yet.
She’d been brought here yesterday evening, woken up to confront Song Lan and Shen Zhiwei once, and now it was just past ten in the morning.
No one would come for a while.
Her taut nerves relaxed a fraction, and Lu Jia leaned against the bed’s foot, propping herself on the cold wall.
Song Lan claimed Sheng Shubai wasn’t looking for her at all, that even knowing who was behind it, she hadn’t sent a single message to negotiate or contact.
How could Lu Jia believe that?
But she did worry about the woman’s state.
Earlier in Zangguan, she’d tried observing the surroundings. The central hall’s floor-to-ceiling windows were vast, with the sea visible just beyond the nearby platform. The entire place had been silent except for them.
How was Sheng Shubai supposed to find her?
Lu Jia sighed softly, a sense of helplessness washing over her.
After listening to Song Lan’s self-righteous nonsense and enduring a sleepless night, she lay back, intending to rest a bit.
Almost simultaneously, the girl in the opposite cell spoke up. “You’re actually back alive.”
Lu Jia sat up. “You can actually speak.”
When she’d been taken out, she’d passed the left half of this underground prison, catching glimpses that showed the other girls’ mental states weren’t normal.
Some giggled at her, others lay motionless under their covers.
Two matched the symptoms of the girl across from her.
Lu Jia went to the iron window, meeting the girl’s eyes through the double bars. Compared to the bloodshot, manic gaze from yesterday and this morning, the person behind the bars now seemed normal.
Or at least temporarily restored to normalcy.
“Why do you say it like that—’back alive’?”
Lu Jia knew the surveillance had audio, but her question wasn’t out of line, so she wasn’t worried about punishment.
Perhaps because she’d just scored a “cigarette,” or maybe because the empty cell opposite finally had a new occupant, the girl smiled faintly. “Because the ones who leave from here are basically carried out horizontally.”
In other words, the ones who left were dead.
Lu Jia fell silent for a few seconds, then changed the subject. “I’m Lu Jia. May I ask your name?”
“Number 23.”
The answer came almost reflexively.
Lu Jia paused, her gaze hesitant. “Excuse me… is your name…?”
She saw the girl’s eyes drop slightly, staring blankly without responding.
“…Chihan. My name is… Shu Chihan.”
The first half was very soft.
The trailing end carried uncertainty, as if doubting whether that was truly her name.
Lu Jia stayed quiet for a moment before asking, “Then… Miss Shu, do you remember how long you’ve been locked up?”
It had been so long since anyone addressed her that way; even the sound of her surname felt strangely foreign.
Shu Chihan blanked out for an instant before shaking her head. “I don’t remember.”
In the early days of captivity, she’d scratched marks on the wall with her nails to track the days, but later… she stopped.
It had been too long.
Endless confinement made recording dates a form of self-torture.
Plus, after being forced to try that stuff, her addiction episodes blurred time even more.
Reflecting now on that initial despair, Shu Chihan found her current state almost acceptable.
Over pain, she chose numbness.
As long as she was obedient, as long as she kept producing inspirations steadily, Song Lan wouldn’t mistreat them.
Alive was better than dead, or worse than dead.
Shu Chihan could no longer recall how she’d struggled at first.
She was one of the only two tough ones in her batch.
So they’d locked her in the Dark Room with three snakes for a day and night. The trauma had long blurred those memories, but the mere words “Dark Room” still made her flinch instinctively.
Lu Jia asked, “Besides the Dark Room, are there other methods?”
“Of course, if you keep being stubborn, you can try them all.”
This wasn’t from Shu Chihan.
The tone was casually indifferent, clashing with the oppressive gloom here.
Seeing the girl’s gaze drift sideways, toward the cell to her left.
Lu Jia remembered.
It was the girl buried under her blanket on the bed.
Tough bones?
She caught the implication.
“I overheard your whole chat with those two crazies last night by accident.”
The girl yawned, her voice drawling lazily. “Mainly, you were so loud you kept me from sleeping.”
“You’ve got guts. Nice to meet you—I’m Ren Si.”
She paused, then added, “Number 29.”
“Excuse me, what do these numbers mean?”
