Chapter 955: Art Studio (End of Month, Requesting Monthly Tickets)

Sifangjie is near Yangdu’s famous attractions, part of the old district; Jinxiu Dongfang Community is also quite old, with no building exceeding six stories and no elevators installed.

Lumian followed Anderson’s back, turning toward the building closest to the community entrance.

As he climbed the stairs, he couldn’t help raising his right hand to pinch his nose.

Strong, mixed odors filled the air.

Anderson turned his body sideways and laughed.

“The whole building is under renovation.”

Two wads of white paper had somehow been stuffed into his nostrils.

“Why is everything being renovated?” Lumian didn’t hide his confusion.

Anderson glanced at him and smiled.

“This community is too old—most owners have moved out and are renting out their empty units. Someone rented all the rooms in this building, planning to…”

Here, Anderson paused. His smile became more visible in the dim stairwell, his voice dropping lower.

“...to open a themed guesthouse.”

“The ‘Mute Art Studio,’ right? That person is you, isn’t it?” Lumian had prepared himself for this, frowning slightly.

“But isn’t there still an art studio in this building?”

“How can you say you rented all the rooms?”

Anderson tightened the white paper wads in his nostrils.

“Is it possible the person who runs the art studio is also the one who rented the other rooms?”

“He wants a guesthouse near the attraction, hidden in the community, themed around art.”

Lumian still pinched his nose, feigning sudden understanding.

“I see.”

Due to the overpowering renovation smell, neither slowed their pace as they reached the top floor—the sixth floor.

Both units on this floor had open doors; on the wall directly facing the stairwell was a vivid mural, its center featuring four characters:

“Mute Art Studio”

“That’s quite a peculiar name,” Lumian honestly remarked.

Here, the renovation odor had faded.

Anderson removed the white paper from his nostrils and explained seriously:

“Painting uses hands, not mouths. ‘Mute’ represents the studio’s expectation of its students: focus, silence, dedication.”

“That’s a great explanation,” Lumian clapped loudly.

Anderson didn’t take offense, smiling.

“I didn’t make that up—it’s what the studio owner said.”

“My sister once taught me dialectics—she believed even the worst words have a positive side. Do you agree?” Lumian asked with a smile.

Anderson nodded.

“If you think it’s right, then it’s right.”

He led Lumian toward the left door.

Lumian didn’t rush in; he stood at the threshold, surveying the fairly spacious living room.

The space had clearly been modified: oil paintings hung on the walls—

one depicting darkness with distant gold-red “dawn,” another showing surging deep-blue waves of “storm,” a third with countless blurred figures walking a wasteland as “pilgrims,” and also a grotesque “monster” emerging from the seabed and “pirates” desperately saving their ship.

The “pirates” painting triggered a sudden memory in Lumian: the latest issue of “The Great Adventurer,” where he’d seen vines sprouting from the figures’ heads, bearing watermelons, and milky-white liquid spurting everywhere on deck.

Is this recreating Germaine Sparrow’s experiences? As Lumian pondered, he stared for two seconds at the monstrous leech-like creature, its mouth bristling with sharp teeth.

Anderson walked to the easel in the center of the room and turned around.

Lumian glanced around, then stepped inside at a steady pace, “puzzled.”

“Where’s the studio owner?”

Anderson raised his right hand and pointed at himself.

“You’re the studio owner?” Lumian “surprised” to confirm.

Anderson nodded.

Lumian suddenly smiled.

“Why aren’t you speaking? Did your throat suddenly go mute? Did you become a mute?”

Anderson, in his black T-shirt, began signing.

Lumian stared for a long time but couldn’t understand what he meant, then mused:

“I wonder if there’s an app that translates sign language...”

Anderson picked up a brush, took a blank sheet of paper, and wrote in dark red ink.

Unlike Lumian and the others, he could write the universal script of the Dream Metropolis.

Lumian focused his gaze and read what was written:

“It’s best not to speak inside the studio. Pretend you’re mute.”

Lumian raised an eyebrow, but before he could speak, Anderson’s expression darkened as he added another line in dark red:

“You just spoke.”

Lumian suddenly felt a chill at the back of his neck, as if a cold wind had brushed past.

He didn’t turn around—he seemed to feel nothing.

Anderson wrote another line; the dark red pigment now appeared brighter, almost vivid:

“Do you know this person?”

After writing, he turned the easel to reveal the painting to Lumian.

It depicted a woman: tall, slender-faced, with pale blue, clear eyes, strikingly beautiful and dignified, carrying an odd sharpness.

It was Lumian himself.

His female form!

Lumian’s face broke into a smile as he answered Anderson’s question:

“I don’t know her.”

As his voice echoed, something cold and wet pressed against his back.

Lumian whipped his hand backward, palm igniting in crimson flame.

As the flame compressed layer by layer, he saw what had attacked him.

It was the giant “leech” from the “monster” painting—its pink, translucent body extended from the canvas, its mouth gaping wide enough to swallow an adult’s head.

Seeing the dense rows of pale, blood-soaked fangs, Lumian slammed the now nearly white-hot fireball directly onto it.

BOOM!

The fireball exploded instantly, engulfing the leech emerging from the painting.

The fiery shockwave surged outward, threatening to ignite every painting, every easel, every person here!

At that moment, blue seawater surged from the “storm” painting, flooding the room and dousing all flames.

Lumian vanished from his spot, reappearing behind Mute Anderson.

His eyes had turned utterly iron-black, reflecting a pale white.

Lumian clenched his right fist and thrust it forward—CRACK!—striking Mute Anderson’s back.

The punch carried a thunderous explosion, tearing through Anderson’s flesh, piercing his body, and striking the oil painting and easel bearing Lumian’s female form.

Mute Anderson’s body shattered instantly, thinning rapidly into a portrait with a massive missing section.

That portrait, along with the painting of Lumian’s female form, burst into crimson flame and within seconds turned to black, lightweight ash.

As Mute Anderson reverted to a painting, the seawater flooding the room and the monsters struggling to emerge vanished instantly, leaving only the still, silent oil paintings.

Lumian scanned the room and saw the “monster” painting truly lacked the giant leech; the studio floor was littered with water stains and unburned paper scraps.

The place became eerily silent—no living thing remained except Lumian.

Lumian then checked both rooms composing the studio and found no other anomalies.

The paintings no longer felt strange or mysterious.

He left, descending the stairs, and saw tenants in the community gathered in small groups, glancing around curiously.

They had heard the explosion but found no source, and no building showed damage—they could only attribute it to a high-speed fighter jet flying overhead.

Lumian walked through them, returning to the community entrance.

His eyes suddenly caught a figure.

The figure had golden hair, blue eyes, wore a white shirt and black trousers, hands in his pockets, as if just another onlooker.

Anderson!

Anderson Hood!

Seeing Lumian, Anderson feigned surprise.

“You’re already here? You’ve been inside the community?”

Lumian smiled.

“I’m used to arriving early.”

Anderson laughed along.

“Me too.”

As Lumian stepped up to him, Anderson smiled and asked:

"Did you have fun just now?"

"Very much," Lu Mi said, keeping his smile, with implied meaning. "I'd like to do it again."

Anderson Hood gave a slight nod.

He was about to speak when he suddenly glanced left and right.

"Let's do it next time," Anderson said, returning his gaze and smiling. "Contact me on WeChat."

He lifted his right hand, holding his phone.

He didn't mention visiting the studio, nor did he ask if Lu Mi's friend was interested in enrolling; Lu Mi also didn't bring up the topic, and waved goodbye:

"I'll go then."

"Goodbye," Anderson also waved.

Lu Mi passed the tutor and walked toward the roadside.

A gray sedan pulled up and stopped before him.

Lu Mi opened the door and got in, saying to the driver, Anthony:

"To Gongren Road."

Anthony nodded and drove the car into the stream of traffic.

Franca, Rosan, and Zhou Mingrui had arranged to meet for dinner on Gongren Road, where there was a yu er chicken hotpot restaurant.

As the car moved, the sound of chewing echoed continuously from the back seat.

…………

At Gongren Road, inside the restaurant named "Yizhou Shaoji Gong."

Franca and Rosan arrived early and chose a window seat, ordering chicken and taro, but nothing else.

Each ordered a bottle of chilled soy milk, and neither thought it odd that Zhou Mingrui had picked such a noisy, lively, unpretentious place to eat.

What mattered was whether it tasted good!

At nearly six fifty, Zhou Mingrui entered wearing a black shirt.

"Over here, over here!" Rosan waved happily.

Zhou Mingrui walked around other tables and joined them, saying as he sat down:

"Something came up just before quitting time."

"We planned for seven," Rosan said, unconcerned, pointing at Franca. "This is my neighbor and coworker, Luo Fu."

Zhou Mingrui glanced at Franca and smiled:

"We've met already. Let's order."

Franca looked at the darkening sky outside and felt a twinge of unease.

PS: End of month—please vote for monthly tickets~

(End of Chapter)