HTCYH Ch 5

Chapter 5: Hellscape Reincarnate

Flames gradually engulfed the canopy, the purple tassels on the door whipped by wind and fire, and thick white smoke billowed even in the darkness of night. The curtain, handrails, and steel chains along the top of the canopy exploded, sparks flying up like raindrops… the scene was utterly harrowing. Even more terrifying was the fire licking along the handrails of the carriage, spitting out a thousand tongues of red flame, rising wildly like a crimson sun fallen to the earth, like a sudden eruption of heavenly fire. — Hell Screen

Tu Si gazed at this papier-mâché version of Hell Screen—the burning bridal sedan, the papier-mâché bride bound tightly within. Inside the inferno, she tilted back her smoke-darkened, pale face, her hair ablaze like a torch, the opulent red bridal gown merging with the fire—what a gruesome scene! Especially when the night wind scattered the smoke, revealing amidst the showers of sparks a body writhing against chains, biting down on black hair—so vivid it painted the torment of hell itself. It was an exact recreation of the painting in the main hall.

An incense stick’s time earlier.

Tu Si had been frantically stuffing flavorless food into his mouth, all to conceal the uncontrollable salivation brought on by craving Wuming. But constant eating wore out his jaw, especially when he barely chewed. Just as he was slowing down to take a break, Wuming actually initiated small talk, which surprised Tu Si, leaving him slightly flustered.

So, Tu Si exchanged a few idle remarks with Wuming. Wuming even gently wiped the ink from his face, which left Tu Si both puzzled and wary. This was the second time that day Wuming had made physical contact with him. On the surface, it hinted at potential closeness—but Tu Si knew all too well that his current beauty was like warning colors in the animal kingdom: the more vivid, the more dangerous. Wuming wasn’t the type to be blinded by lust, so this proximity only made Tu Si more alert. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one treating Wuming as prey—Wuming might have his eye on something about him, too.

As Tu Si quietly weighed his own value, the doors of the main hall suddenly slammed shut. The candles inside were instantly extinguished. The sudden darkness caused a moment of panic among the gathered guests.

The darkness lasted only a few seconds before the doors were flung open again—and the scene outside had changed dramatically. The charred and withered peach tree had somehow reverted to full bloom. Red ribbons swayed among the branches, dancing with the bright pink blossoms in the wind. The clash of fuchsia and crimson was jarring, visually aggressive and impossible to ignore.

Beneath the tree stood a lavish bridal sedan. At the main hall’s entrance, eight identical guiding boys stood in neat formation. They led the guests to the outer corridor, where eight small desks were set up in perfect rows, each equipped with brush, ink, paper, and inkstone.

Seated before his desk, Tu Si opened his bronze mirror to see the task displayed:

Side Mission: “Painting Born from the Heart—Wield Your Brush to Depict Beauty.”

“Hah! Beauty?” Tu Si snorted, already guessing what was about to happen just by looking at the bridal sedan.

A boy in red, with a red dot between his brows and vivid red lipstick on his lips, appeared, leading a meticulously made-up papier-mâché bride. The boy placed the bride into the sedan, then skipped away. The moment he left, the bridal sedan burst into flames.

The current scene was eerily reminiscent of Hell Screen, only the painter had changed—and the human hearts behind it had shifted, too.

Or perhaps, these things had never changed at all—only the people. Some say Hell Screen is the tale of a highly skilled painter, Yoshihide, who pursued the pinnacle of art at the cost of cruelly sacrificing his own daughter, thereby completing a world-shaking screen depicting hell.

Others argue it was a father’s desperate love—a helpless man who, faced with tyranny, transformed into the monkey Yoshihide, choosing to perish in the flames with his daughter. What he left behind was a father’s anguished protest. All he could do, in his utter powerlessness, was pour his life’s talent into capturing hell and immortalizing the noble’s crimes in a painting.

So as Tu Si looked into the blazing flames, he felt nothing but revulsion and fury. Lowering his gaze, he saw that a scene of the Sixteenth Level of Hell had appeared on the paper before him.

The sixteenth level was the Volcanic Hell, where fire consumed all sin. Thus, every soul who arrived there had committed unforgivable acts. And the one burning now was not the bride—but this human-eating compound.

“‘Painting born from the heart,’ huh? How interesting. Will this painting come true, I wonder?” Tu Si murmured to himself, staring at the image.

When the flames had burned out, the bridal sedan had turned to ash, and the once-blooming peach tree had returned to bare branches. The guiding boy returned, carefully collected the paintings, and left with mechanical precision. Tu Si’s seat was near the left side, with Wuming and the squinty-eyed, lecherous fat man to his right—so he was just in position to catch a glimpse of their paintings as the boy passed.

Wuming’s piece was strange—white flames, an expanse of void, nothing but faint flickers of pale fire. The fat man’s painting, true to his lewd nature, featured a scantily clad beauty. But the most nauseating part? A closer look at the beauty’s face revealed traces of Tu Si, Fang Xia, and even the skinny, dark-skinned girl.

Tu Si stared at the image of the woman, then turned his gaze to the fat man, who, far from embarrassed, looked back at him boldly—grinning provocatively and whistling lewdly.

Tu Si’s expression darkened. He slid his hand into his pocket and touched the mole-marking pen, raising an eyebrow as he decided to set a trap—a little fishing expedition for justice.

But such a sting operation couldn’t be pulled off tonight. Night had already fallen, and the collected paintings were handed over to the red-clad boy who had escorted the bride. He took them into the same room where the papier-mâché bride had entered, then shut the door.

The other boys returned one by one to escort the guests back to their rooms to rest.

Back in his room, Tu Si once again used his tendrils to cover the space, sitting curled up as he pondered: ghost marriage, burning rituals, tortured bride imagery—these all depicted the harm inflicted on the bride. It made Tu Si feel the mole-marking pen in his hand was somehow out of place. Perhaps it was because he’d wandered off-track planting flowers and painting, wasting too much time. He hadn’t gotten around to exploring the Yue Lao Temple Wuming had mentioned—perhaps that would’ve revealed the pen’s origin.

Collecting his thoughts, he pulled out the pen and approached the vanity. Using lip color, he mimicked the handwriting on the original note and wrote: Mark this mole, and my word becomes law.

He wrapped the note around the pen and tucked it back into his pocket. With preparations complete, Tu Si stopped overthinking and wrapped himself tightly once more, suspending himself from the beam to rest in half-sleep.