Kiwi Beyond the Cage 012

**Honeyed Blade (I)**

"……"

This is a basement that has been abandoned for many years.

To create an atmosphere of solitude and silence, the walls are painted black, and even the floor is a matching dark hue, forming a square space akin to a giant urn.

As Sheng Long had said, they found food and water in the basement. If Meng Qingde had wanted to live, she could have waited for the police to rescue her. But six days passed, and though they arrived, Meng Qingde was found dead by suicide.

Not far from her body lay an old camera, which had ceased recording. It contained two video clips, one filmed this morning, showing Meng Qingde alive.

Dressed in her favorite gown, hair coiffed and nails polished, Meng Qingde applied meticulous makeup. Before the lens, she displayed her most radiant self, a joy unparalleled, "Today is a special day."

"I will make everyone remember me."

"I will make the whole world remember me."

She had created her greatest art, for which she was willing to sacrifice her life.

Meng Qingde recorded the entire process of her death—starting with slicing her wrists, lying flat on the floor as blood pooled around her, then slowly crawling toward a specific direction. Facing her was a massive oil painting.

In the dim light of the unlit basement, the feeble illumination failed to penetrate the entire space, leaving most areas shrouded in obscurity.

Kneeling before the painting, she laboriously climbed onto the tripod, moving from the enveloping darkness toward the light. Below her waist, darkness prevailed, while her upper body, bathed in light, was pierced by a utility knife.

With blood welling from her chest, Meng Qingde trembled as she traced the painting, then collapsed onto the floor strewn with discarded canvases, swallowed by darkness.

The recording continued to tick, freezing the frame, life ebbing away. In the final two seconds of the video, a faint whisper could be heard: "I have given birth to…"

"Death."

*Click—*

Sheng Long located the hidden switch, and light flooded the basement, dispelling the darkness.

Ou Yang Lin shook off the chill and secured the camera as evidence. Under the bright light, she finally beheld the oil painting Meng Qingde had called her magnum opus, her eyes widening in shock.

The floor-to-ceiling oil painting was a violent clash of red and blue.

Varied shades of red merged to depict a rising sun, beneath whose blazing rays a youth in white stood blindingly bright, his face swallowed by golden light. Below his waist, azure seawater stretched calmly, reflecting the youth’s visage—clearly visible, with a blood-red mole on his nose, and a bloodied hand emerging from the depths.

What it grasped was not itself, but another figure bursting beyond the frame, left uncarved and undefined.

The youth in the painting was… Sheng Long.

The red mole on his nose, depicted with Meng Qingde’s very lifeblood, remained moist and vivid, as if freshly applied, never to dry.

Sheng Long stood before the frame.

With his back to Ou Yang Lin, no one could see his expression now.

The art world had deemed Meng Qingde as possessing modest talent, awaiting a breakthrough—in cruder terms, ordinary and lacking spirit, passionate yet soulless. Her foothold in the art scene was carved out by wealth and connections, her fame and talent forever mismatched, still without a single representative work.

Ou Yang Lin knew nothing of art, nor what constituted true artistry, but the final piece Meng Qingde left behind could, in her eyes, be called art.

Though painted with the most vibrant, life-infused pigments—so much so that viewers could feel the creator’s intense emotions toward the youth—the effect was paradoxically one of bloodshed, brutality, and distortion, a canvas of darkness…

All negative emotions piled and fused, warring with the vitality the creator yearned for. This painting was a first glance stunner, a second glance horror, and on further viewing, it stirred the darkest evils within the heart.

It was a demon’s portrait symbolic of death.

A death conceived by Meng Qingde.

Beneath the frame lay a blank label, inscribed with deliberate strokes: For Ji Wei.

“You… why did you store food here?” Stepping over the blood-soaked canvas, Ou Yang Lin approached Sheng Long, noting his position perfectly framed by the painting’s shadow.

Sheng Long’s voice was steady. “Long ago, this wasn’t a studio.”

It was his “home.”

A “home” with nothing at all.

After every quarrel with Sheng Linrong, Meng Qingde would lock Sheng Long here. “She didn’t love me, hated my crying, detested the sight of my face.”

Parents’ arguments and destruction, to a perceptive child, were roaring waves. Young Sheng Long was swallowed by these waves countless times, buried deep in the farthest reaches of the greenhouse’s soil. Here, no light penetrated, no food existed, not even insect chirps disturbed the silence, a stillness so profound time itself seemed suspended.

Who could have guessed?

Above the ceiling lay a sunroom vibrant with blossoming flora, while beneath the floor, darkness consumed a child’s soul.

Sheng Long couldn’t recall how many times he’d been locked away.

Meng Qingde often forgot to release him. Most times, after leaving this place, he’d spend days in the hospital, only to be sent back soon after, the cycle unending… Calling this his home seemed fitting.

“I just didn’t want to die by her hand.” Speaking this, Sheng Long’s voice remained eerily calm, his lips curving into a faint smile as if recounting someone else’s past.

Accustomed to darkness, to survive, he always prepared ways out for himself. Food and water were paramount—blood, after all, did not quench thirst.

The provisions here had saved Sheng Long’s life before but failed to save Meng Qingde. Regarding her death, Sheng Long simply said, “Thank you.”

His tone paused as he traced the lines in the painting, “Ji Wei will like this painting.”

.

Ji Wei once again fell into a delusional state, right after Sheng Long wished her “Happy birthday.”

She returned to Huanmeng Jiayuan, to the third floor filled with eyes. The ceiling still clicked and groaned, her nails splitting against the floorboards with ear-piercing shrieks. All eyes were fixed on her, repeating over and over: “Wei Wei, happy birthday.”

“Happy birthday.”

“I’ve prepared a birthday gift for you.”

“Can you hear it?”

“It’s coming.”

Blood dripped from the ceiling, revealing a bloodied corpse above.

The sinful eyeballs had been gouged out, stuffed into the gaping mouth. The body, riddled with holes, was marked with numbers—one to fifty-four, fifty-four stab wounds that pinned her to the abyss.

“I killed someone,” Ji Wei murmured.

Searching her entire body, she found no candy box. Panic and anxiety threatened to consume her. Crouching on the ground, she repeated over and over, “I killed someone.”

“The corpse climbed to the ceiling, it’s watching me, they’re all watching me.”

“Do you hear his voice?” The officer calming her was startled, shaking his head blankly.

Ji Wei hugged herself, terrified. “He’s singing the birthday song… he’s wishing me a happy birthday…”

“Every ‘Happy Birthday’ is a gift.”

How many now?

Ji Wei counted on her fingers, wondering how many more gifts she had to receive. “One… two… three… four…”

A shadow loomed before her. The demon, eyes everywhere, crawled toward her, bloodied hands entwining her wrist. “Wei Wei.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Ou Yang Lin hurried to their side.

Sheng Long grasped Ji Wei’s wrist, pulling her into his arms, gently patting to soothe her. “She’s probably just scared.”

The dark basement, strewn with paintings and mixed with blood, was unsettling to anyone. Given Ji Wei’s current state, no further questioning was possible. Sheng Long decided to take her back to the hospital, and Ou Yang could only agree.

“Fifty-four stab wounds.”

“Yes, fifty-four.”

As Sheng Long escorted Ji Wei out, she suddenly clutched Ou Yang’s sleeve, repeating, “Fifty-four stab wounds, I killed someone, in those fifty-four, there’s…”

Someone forcefully muffled her mouth.

Sheng Long lifted her face, gazing down at her, “Xiao Wei, you didn’t kill anyone.”

“I did!! I killed!!”

Ji Wei grew agitated, suddenly biting his palm hard enough to draw blood. Ou Yang and others rushed to pull them apart. “Ji Wei, calm down.”

“You’re a monster, a monster!!”

“Give me my brother back!”

Ignoring their restraint, Ji Wei lunged at Sheng Long again, pinning him to the wall and choking him, her cheeks smeared with his blood. “I can kill you once, I can kill you again!”

Sheng Long was slammed against the wall, arching his neck as she choked him.

He supported her falling body, unafraid of being strangled to death, meeting her eyes steadily, “Only me, no him.”

It had always been just him.

Ji Wei shook her head, tears streaming down, “You’re not…”

“Please.”

The monster with eyes all over gradually transformed into the youth from her memory. He lurked in the mist, silently gazing at her. Ji Wei’s hand on his throat dared not press harder; she sobbed and buried her face in his shoulder, “Brother.”

“Please,” give him back to me.

Drip—

The cyber police sent the decrypted chat records to Ou Yang Lin.

Most messages had been destroyed, only restoring Wu Fali’s final conversation:

【Why won’t the phone call go through?】

【Did you do it?? What have you done!!!】

【I’m wrong, I’m wrong. Please, I’m sick, please take me to the hospital.】

【Please, I beg you, I’m dying, help me…】

Poison rendered Wu Fali increasingly weak. As he slumped in despair before the door, the screen suddenly displayed:

X: 【^_^】

X: 【Please say, Happy Birthday ^_^】

【Save me, damn it! Call 120!】

【Happy birthday to me, damn it, happy birthday.】

【Happy Birthday.】

X: 【Received, wrapping the gift now ^_^】