Love on the Turquoise Land

Chen Fu was a tough nut to crack. With someone like him, beating him was useless—the more you hit him, the more it showed you had no way to deal with him, and the more he reveled in it.

After venting his anger, Yan Tuo finally stopped.

Chen Fu could no longer even make a sound. His face was nearly caved in, submerged in blood, yet he still wore a faint smile.

Yan Tuo stared at him for a moment, then drove a pair of scissors into his throat—of course, a dixiao couldn’t be killed, and he didn’t know how to truly "kill" one, but letting Chen Fu stay dead for a while was still good, at least to keep him from being a nuisance.

The flashlight had been on for too long, its beam weakening, making the pump house much darker than before. The large pool of blood on the ground gradually congealed, turning black.

Outside, the wind picked up, sweeping across the vast fields of grass with a desolate rustle, flowing over the tips of the blades. In the sky, a waning crescent moon hung like a thin thread, eerily similar to the slit of Chen Fu’s swollen eyes—cold and sinister.

Yan Tuo shuddered.

Time to clean up.

It was nearly midnight when Yan Tuo drove back to the city. As he passed through the urban-rural fringe, it felt like returning from hell to the human world—the lights grew brighter, almost blinding.

The past few hours had been busy.

—He had drawn water from the reeds, repeatedly scrubbing away the bloodstains, covering them with dirt to disguise them as much as possible.

—He had searched the pump house inside and out, leaving nothing behind. Things he thought might still be useful—like Nie Jiuluo’s phone and dagger—he took with him. Items that were useless and could easily cause trouble—like empty bullet casings and the submachine gun—he disassembled into several bundles, disposing of them along the way, either sinking them in ponds or burying them deep.

—Han Guan’s body, along with the front and rear license plates of the Tiguan, personal items, and documents found in the car, were doused in gasoline and burned. The remains were thrown into the deep well.

—Chen Fu had to be taken along, stuffed back into the canvas bag and hidden in the trunk.

—The most troublesome was the Tiguan itself. Such a large object was risky to abandon, and burning it wasn’t an option. The best method was to "dismember" it—repaint the body, let the parts re-enter the market. He took rural roads to an underground parking lot in a neighboring county, leaving it there temporarily. He planned to contact his connections in another province within a day or two to quickly modify the car and make it "disappear."

…

Though it wasn’t murder and cover-up, every single thing he had done—which of them seemed like something a normal person should be doing? Yan Tuo felt dazed the entire drive back. The city was crowded with cars, and at some point, his driving must have angered a nearby driver, who honked furiously at him, even rolling down the window to stick his head out and yell, "F***ing idiot!"

Startled, Yan Tuo snapped back to reality and pulled over at the nearest street parking spot. Looking down, he noticed blood on his wrist that he’d forgotten to wipe off. He grabbed a wet wipe and slowly cleaned it away.

What else did he have to do?

Right—he needed to buy clothes for Nie Jiuluo. At the very least, a clean, comfortable set of pajamas.

Just as he was about to get out of the car, he caught sight of his reflection in the window—his expression was terrifyingly stiff, his eyes just as lifeless.

He had to snap out of it. He was back in the mundane world now, where he had to interact with ordinary people, go shopping.

Yan Tuo vigorously rubbed his face, occasionally slapping himself, then forced a smile at the glass, pushing the corners of his lips up with his fingers to mimic a normal expression. He blinked repeatedly, took deep breaths, until he gradually felt more like himself.

Taking one last deep breath, he opened the door and stepped out.Entering the street, Yan Tuo noticed most shops had already closed their shutters, realizing how late it was. Unwilling to give up, he continued walking further in. By sheer luck, he stumbled upon a home and apparel store—though it wasn’t open for business. With the year-end approaching, the staff were working overnight to stock up for the upcoming sales rush.

Customers were always welcome, so a middle-aged saleswoman was assigned to assist Yan Tuo.

He first bought a blanket, then asked her to help pick out a full set of clothes: "About 166 or 167 cm tall, very slim, around 90-something pounds. Pajamas, underwear, socks, and slippers—get her a full set. The clothes should be high-quality, comfortable, and breathable. Price isn’t an issue."

The saleswoman asked, "Do you need a bra too?"

Yan Tuo hesitated. "Yeah... sure."

Truthfully, he figured Nie Jiuluo would be bedridden for a while and wouldn’t need a bra anytime soon, but it was better to have everything ready.

The saleswoman pressed, "What size?"

Yan Tuo froze. "What... what size?"

"Size, of course. These can’t be one-size-fits-all. You need the right measurements."

Yan Tuo thought to himself, How would I know?!

His palms suddenly grew clammy, that excruciating sense of awkwardness creeping up again. Avoiding the saleswoman’s gaze, he glanced up and spotted a display of bras on a shelf nearby—lace, satin, intricately embroidered, with styles ranging from demi-cups to deep V-necks.

He pointed at random. "That one’s fine."

The saleswoman eyed him skeptically. "70C? Generally, slimmer girls tend to have smaller cup sizes..."

Yan Tuo cut her off. "C. Just C."

……

By the time he stepped out with multiple shopping bags, it was already past midnight. Lü Xian’s phone was out of the question, but that was an easy problem to solve.

Before driving into the residential complex’s underground garage, Yan Tuo checked the lights on the third floor: the shared apartment where A Peng and the others lived was dark, but Lü Xian’s unit still had its lights on.

Judging by the lights, nothing seemed amiss.

Still, to be cautious, Yan Tuo avoided taking the elevator straight to the third floor—he took the stairs instead. Pausing outside the door to listen for any movement, he finally unlocked it and stepped inside.

Lü Xian was sprawled on the couch, munching chips while watching TV. Hearing the door, he turned and immediately scolded Yan Tuo, "You locked the damn door from the outside? What’s that about?"

Yan Tuo replied, "I was worried A Peng and his crew might barge in. You’re not exactly sharp—what if you couldn’t stop them? Locking it gave me peace of mind."

Lü Xian, predictably, took the bait. "I’m not sharp? I made it through med school, dumbass!"

Mid-rant, his eyes landed on the bags in Yan Tuo’s hands and instantly concluded there was no phone inside. He grew agitated. "Yan Tuo, where’s my new phone? I’ve been waiting up all night... How’s a guy supposed to live without a phone these days?"

Yan Tuo casually hung his keys by the entryway. "You know how it is in this small town. I wanted to get you a foldable model, but they’re out of stock. Was planning to buy it in Xi’an. If you’re in a hurry, I can just grab you any random one tomorrow—"

Lü Xian barked, "Hold up!"

Then, his face lit up with excitement. "A foldable? You mean that brand-new one that just dropped? The one that costs over 20 grand?"

Yan Tuo nodded. "Yeah."

Holy shit! Lü Xian felt every pore on his body tingle with anticipation. "Bro Tuo! You’re the man! No rush, no rush at all. Just get it for me when we’re back in Xi’an."

With that, he tossed aside his chips, turned off the TV, and gleefully headed for his room.

Yan Tuo called after him, "Where do you think you’re going?""Go get some sleep."

Yan Tuo pointed to the operating room: "You sleep, but what about her?"

Lü Xian didn’t understand: "Me sleeping, how does that affect her?"

Yan Tuo said, "Her condition is unstable, still under observation. What if something happens in the middle of the night..."

Lü Xian finally got it: "You want me to stay awake and keep watch?"

Yan Tuo nodded.

Lü Xian was furious, but for the sake of the phone, he tried to be as diplomatic as possible: "Bro Tuo, are you trying to kill doctors? Have you ever heard of any doctor performing surgery all day and then staying up all night to observe? If you were the hospital director, how many doctors would drop dead from exhaustion?"

It sounded reasonable, but Yan Tuo still couldn’t wrap his head around it: "But what if she has complications..."

Lü Xian was exasperated by his stupidity: "What are the nurses for? What are family members for? If something happens, just come get me."

Once Lü Xian went to sleep, the room fell silent.

After washing up, Yan Tuo turned off the lights in the outer room and entered the operating room. During the day, it hadn’t seemed eerie, but at night, the place felt unsettling—the surgical lights cast a cold glow, and the gleaming array of medical instruments—scalpels, scissors, forceps—gave off a vaguely sinister aura.

Nie Jiuluo lay on the operating table, still unconscious, her lips dry and cracked. Yan Tuo opened a bottle of water, dipped a clean cotton swab into it, and moistened her lips. "So you’re Mad Blade," he murmured.

She couldn’t hear him, lying there perfectly still.

Being able to sleep was a good thing. Yan Tuo unfolded a blanket and draped it over her, then pulled a chair to the bedside. Although the room was heated, winter had set in, and the temperature dropped at night. A single surgical drape was far from enough.

Just as he was about to tuck her hand under the blanket, he noticed it was moving.

It was the same right hand, not as violently as during CPR, but still twitching occasionally.

How strange—her entire body was so still, hovering on the edge of death, except for this one hand. It reminded him of the time Nie Jiuluo had fallen asleep in his car, when one hand—he couldn’t remember if it was this one—had remained slightly raised, refusing to rest with the rest of her body.

What did it mean? That there was a part of her, a nerve of insecurity and anxiety, like a panicked little animal, that kept running and looking around even when the rest of her was submerged in unconsciousness, never finding peace?

Yan Tuo reached out and gently enclosed her hand in his palm.

Sure enough, just like last time, her hand—and her entire body—immediately stilled.

Holding her hand, Yan Tuo leaned back in the chair and looked up at the ceiling, at the cold surgical lights overhead.

The building was so quiet. In the reflective surface of the surgical light, his own distorted image flickered faintly.

Yan Tuo thought of his father, Yan Huanshan.

Yan Huanshan had died when Yan Tuo was eight. Two years before that, his biological mother had been "mostly" dead—her body still present, but her life collapsed.

Yan Tuo hadn’t felt much about either of his parents’ deaths. He’d been raised by Aunt Lin. The name "Lin Xirou" had never meant "mother" to him.

His memories of early childhood were hazy, and he couldn’t tell if they were real or imagined.

For instance, he vaguely remembered having a sister—adorable, pretty, with a sweet, childish voice. When he mentioned her to Lin Xirou, she said, "You’re remembering wrong."He had insisted on his opinion once or twice, and each time, Lin Xirou had thrown a tantrum. Eventually, he stopped bringing it up altogether and gradually became unsure whether he even had a sister.

...

Yan Huanshan died of cancer.

Before his death, he had been incoherent for a long time—emaciated, sluggish in movement. The hospital suggested home care, saying further treatment wouldn’t make much difference.

He would stubbornly hover around Yan Tuo while he did homework, giggling incessantly until drool dripped onto his books, refusing to leave no matter how much he was shooed away.

After a few times, Yan Tuo got used to locking his door, and Yan Huanshan got used to squatting outside, occasionally whispering cautiously to the air, “Xiao Tuo is doing homework.”

He would wake up early in the morning to fold clothes, packing them one by one into a suitcase, then sneak over to Yan Tuo with it, lowering his voice conspiratorially: “The train’s tonight. Meet me at the station.”

Then he’d grin, his face brimming with happiness.

Yan Tuo was utterly exasperated, sick to death of this lunatic.

Later, the family also gained an ugly addition—Lin Ling. He didn’t understand what Aunt Lin was thinking. Hadn’t she said there was no sister? Why bring one home now?

And such an ugly one at that, with sparse yellow hair tied up like a pig’s tail!

At eight years old, he was like a pressure cooker, filled with inexplicable rage—perhaps because of pent-up grievances he didn’t even realize he had. Fortunately, aside from Aunt Lin, everyone else was fair game for his outbursts. He kicked Yan Huanshan, who reacted so slowly it took him ages to turn around, still giggling. He also hit Lin Ling, who never dared to report him, hiding in corners to cry pitifully instead.

On the day Yan Huanshan died, Lin Xirou had taken Lin Ling for vaccinations, leaving only him at home.

He remembered playing a single-player game— Diablo —his character named “Blazing Tuo,” engrossed in running, fighting, and leveling up across dark landscapes, aiming to become the “Master” of his race.

Just as he was deep into the game, a dull thud came from Yan Huanshan’s room, like something heavy hitting the floor.

Yan Tuo paused the game. The sound gave him a bad feeling.

Sure enough, after the thud came the scraping of furniture being dragged.

Yan Tuo followed the noise to investigate.

As soon as he entered, he saw Yan Huanshan desperately crawling toward the door, his whole body convulsing violently, struggling for breath, veins bulging across his gaunt face.

Even a young child could tell something was wrong, let alone an eight-year-old. He turned and ran to the living room to call for help.

Yan Huanshan called out urgently, “Xiao Tuo! Xiao Tuo!”

Yan Tuo froze, then turned back.

Yan Huanshan’s voice was different—no longer the usual vacant tone. Perhaps in his final moments, clarity returned. With all his strength, he crawled toward Yan Tuo, a spasming hand gripping his calf.

Yan Tuo stared at him blankly.

Yan Huanshan lifted his face, enduring wave after wave of pain, and with great effort, left him a message: “Xiao Tuo, remember… there’s an Uncle Changxi, Liu Changxi. This man… can be trusted.”

Yan Tuo didn’t understand. When he went out with Lin Xirou, he’d met many uncles—Uncle Zhang, Uncle Wang—but never an “Uncle Changxi.”Yan Huanshan said, "Xiao Tuo, don't... follow your father's example. Your father was useless, a good-for-nothing. You can't be like that. The Yan family depends on you now, alright? Bring Xinxin back... so we can... reunite..."

That was all he managed to say.

Even in death, he maintained his upward gaze, eyes bloodshot, with two trails of tears slowly trickling down from the corners of his eyes.

Yan Tuo stared at the surgical lamp, feeling a warm streak slowly roll down from the corner of his own eye.

He raised his hand to wipe his eyes when suddenly, he heard Nie Jiuluo moan softly, "Water..."

Water?

Did she want to drink water?

Yan Tuo quickly sat up, but Nie Jiuluo fell silent again, leaving him unsure whether she had actually asked for water or not.

Moreover, he wasn't certain if patients could drink water immediately after surgery.

Letting go of Nie Jiuluo's hand, he stood up and grabbed a bottle of water and cotton swabs from nearby, moistening them to dab her lips. As he glanced down, he noticed her hand trembling slightly again.

Both his hands were occupied now, making it impossible to hold hers. After a moment's thought, Yan Tuo pulled out his shirt and tucked the hem between her fingers.

Sure enough, her fingers immediately curled around it, and she quieted down again.

Yan Tuo smiled.

So, she just needed something to hold.