One year later, Nie Jiuluo’s solo exhibition opened as scheduled.
Before the opening, Old Cai approached Nie Jiuluo to confirm a key matter.
If during the touring exhibition, someone liked a piece and could offer an appropriate price, would she sell it?
Yan Tuo’s thought was: Of course not, art is priceless.
But unexpectedly, Nie Jiuluo blurted out: “Sell, of course, we’ll sell.”
After a pause, she added: “But we must guarantee its display throughout the tour period. They can pay a deposit first and collect it after the tour ends.”
After Old Cai left, Yan Tuo asked Nie Jiuluo: “Didn’t you say art is priceless?”
Nie Jiuluo glanced at him: “Art itself is priceless, but artworks have a price, and artists need to eat too.”
Under Old Cai’s arrangements, the touring exhibition had a list of key cities. The premiere avoided popular cities like Beijing, Shanghai, and Guangzhou, choosing instead Datong in Shanxi Province, known as “China’s Ancient Sculpture Museum” and home to one of the country’s largest ancient grottoes, the Yungang Grottoes.
Premiering here carried meanings of respect, inheritance, and subtly, a fearlessness of comparison.
As the creator, Nie Jiuluo needed to follow the tour, though not necessarily the entire journey. Multiple city appearances were necessary, which meant she would have a lengthy journey ahead. Previously, she traveled to view others’ works and gather inspiration. This time, she was bringing her works for others to see—naturally, the feeling was different.
This being her first exhibition, its significance was immense. Yan Tuo decided to accompany her throughout the entire tour.
Besides, wasn’t he also a sponsor? Having spent the money, he ought to inspect the results and gauge the response.
Additionally, he contacted Yu Rong in Thailand, hoping she and Que Cha could visit if they had time.
Yu Rong showed no interest in the exhibition: “It’s just an exhibition, not a ground owl hunt, why should I come back to see it? Just send me some photos. As for Que Cha, she’s preparing for her IPSC shooting certification… she wants to work at a shooting range…”
Thailand didn’t prohibit firearms, and shooting sports were popular. Que Cha had real talent in this area—whether archery or shooting, once she started, she quickly approached professional standards.
…
The night before departure, Sister Lu packed Nie Jiuluo’s luggage and hesitantly submitted her resignation.
Familiar help being better than new, Nie Jiuluo naturally tried to retain her, asking if she was dissatisfied with her salary.
Sister Lu quickly waved her hands: “No, Miss Nie, I’m very satisfied. It has nothing to do with the salary.”
She explained that she had wanted to bring this up earlier but knew Nie Jiuluo was preparing for the exhibition and didn’t want to distract her, so she had delayed until now.
Seeing her determination, Nie Jiuluo didn’t press further, but casually asked: “So what are your plans for the future?”
Sister Lu actually choked up, and after a while stammered: “I have a friend who invested in a small restaurant and wants to expand. I’d like to take a share and help out.”
That seemed quite good—jumping from an employee to a small business owner.
Nie Jiuluo was genuinely happy for Sister Lu.
The Datong premiere wasn’t particularly spectacular, which was normal. Sculpture exhibitions were niche, unlike popular movies that could create immediate buzz upon release.
But it met expectations, aligning with Old Cai’s “word-of-mouth fermentation” strategy: create unexpected impact, first catching the attention of industry masters, gaining authoritative approval before engaging various cultural KOLs to maximize attention from art enthusiasts.
Old Cai gleefully said: “The scale needs to grow gradually. This way, when the exhibition reaches Beijing, Shanghai, and Guangzhou, it will be among the hot exhibitions of that period.”
Indeed, by the second stop in Xi’an, the buzz had increased several levels compared to Datong. While most media in Datong had been invited by Old Cai, Xi’an saw many uninvited media actively requesting interviews.
At first, Nie Jiuluo enthusiastically cooperated, but after several rounds, the novelty wore off and she grew tired. Being naturally willful, she told Old Cai that while she would continue following the tour, she wouldn’t participate in exhibitions constantly. She would only make occasional appearances, spending the rest of her time, as before, wandering nearby counties for inspiration.
Old Cai very readily agreed.
He had his considerations—artists should maintain an air of mystery with unpredictable whereabouts and rare appearances to better captivate the public. If they were always available and easily interviewed, they would seem less precious, and too easy to access.
That evening, Nie Jiuluo and Yan Tuo checked into the Jinguang Hotel in Shihe County.
This was revisiting old grounds. Nie Jiuluo specifically chose the same room as their first stay, regaling Yan Tuo with tales of how Ground Owl had broken through the window at midnight and how she had remained calm in response.
As Yan Tuo listened, he felt somewhat lost: the broken window had long been repaired, and outside was completely peaceful. Ground Owl and other such matters seemed like just a nightmare he had once had—when daylight broke, golden rays dispersed everything, and it all passed away.
…
Yan Tuo had a dream.
He dreamed someone was knocking, bang bang bang. Fearing they would wake Nie Jiuluo, he hurriedly got up to open the door.
As soon as he opened it, he stepped into a pitch-black tunnel.
Yan Tuo grabbed a mining lamp and walked along the tunnel. The lamp’s light swayed left and right, each time illuminating only a small-table-sized area, making the surrounding darkness seem even more eerie.
As he walked, Yan Tuo realized.
This was his father Yan Haishan’s mine—he had descended to the bottom.
Suddenly his foot stepped on something slippery. Yan Tuo yelped, sliding several meters on whatever it was before falling flat on his back.
He sat up angrily, sweeping the mining lamp around to find the culprit that had caused his fall—it was a piece of muskmelon, the part near the stem.
Then, at the edge of the lamplight, in the dim and hazy darkness, he saw someone standing.
He instinctively raised the lamp.
It was his Aunt Lin, Lin Xiru.
Lin Xiru just stood there, her face as beautiful as ever, her hair thick and dense, her eyes fixed on him, full of hatred and fury.
Her voice burst through clenched teeth, every word venomous: “Yan Tuo if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have lost.”
Yan Tuo’s heart was very calm.
At this point, what meaning did winning or losing have?
He said: “You still lost.”
Lin Xiru’s face gradually twisted, her throat making venomous strange sounds. Her bright, thick hair gradually turned gray-white like scorched dead grass, her eyes grotesquely diverging and expanding, the old skin on her face sagging down layer by layer.
She looked exactly like an ancient grasshopper.
Yan Tuo heard her sharp hiss: “I was just not smart enough, there will be someone smarter than me…”
With a crack, the ground beneath her feet split open, and Lin Xiru’s body fell completely in, leaving only two clawed hands desperately gripping the edge.
She tilted up her inverted triangular head, her insect-like mouth grotesquely writhing, mumbling to him: “I was just not smart enough…”
…
Yan Tuo woke up in a cold sweat, sat up, and couldn’t fall back asleep.
The curtains weren’t fully drawn, and there was a faint light outside.
Half-asleep beside him, Nie Jiuluo asked drowsily: “What’s wrong?”
Yan Tuo said softly: “Nothing, go back to sleep, I’ll get up first.”
Get up?
Nie Jiuluo fumbled for her phone beside the pillow, still groggy.
6:57.
Not even seven yet. She spoke with a hint of morning grumpiness: “It’s not time yet, sleep a bit more.”
As she spoke, she reached over to wrap her arms around Yan Tuo, resting her head on his chest before drifting back to sleep.
Trapped by her octopus-like embrace, Yan Tuo couldn’t get up but couldn’t lie comfortably either. He could only half-recline against the headboard, caught between laughter and resignation.
But this was typical of Nie Jiuluo.
When she couldn’t get up early, she often dragged him down with her, as if having someone else stay in bed made her feel more at ease and sleep more soundly.
Yan Tuo usually just smiled and went along with it.
He reached out, gently stroking her fine eyebrows, his fingertips then sliding into her temples, letting countless soft strands of hair brush through his fingers.
Nie Jiuluo probably felt ticklish, and after shifting twice, slightly opened her eyes, which appeared misty and hazy in the dim dawn light.
She said: “How obedient, you lay back down when told to sleep.”
Yan Tuo laughed, his fingers trailing down the back of her neck, slowly caressing. Through the silk robe, his fingertips could still feel the delicate warmth of her skin.
He said: “Well if I can’t sleep and you won’t let me get up, can I do something else?”
Nie Jiuluo’s eyelids lowered slightly, her gaze growing deep and dark. She rested her chin on his chest and spoke ambiguously: “That would prevent me from sleeping well.”
Yan Tuo said: “No, it won’t. I promise a proper workout will help you sleep even better.”
Nie Jiuluo burst out laughing.
Yan Tuo laughed too, hugging her as he rolled over, pulling the blanket over their heads.
…
When daylight fully broke, Nie Jiuluo’s body was indeed sore and limp, and she drifted back to sleep again.
When she next woke, it was to the phone ringing.
Nie Jiuluo grabbed the phone while yawning. Yan Tuo wasn’t there, probably downstairs having breakfast.
The call was from Old Cai. These days, Old Cai often brought her good news, his voice always excited as if he, not she, was having the exhibition: “Luo, the exhibition opened in Luoyang yesterday, and lots of people came to support. We had to limit entry in the afternoon.”
Nie Jiuluo sat up, her tone neutral: “Really?”
She was happy inside though. Luoyang! The site of the Longmen Grottoes—gaining recognition in such a place held special significance.
Old Cai: “Indeed! Several veterans who rarely appear in public came. They’d seen your work before and said you’ve made great progress this year. They also asked about your godmother.”
Nie Jiuluo made a noncommittal sound, walking barefoot to the window and pulling open the curtains with a swoosh.
The weather was nice and clear.
Over the past year, Old Cai had often tried to probe who she had learned from. Annoyed by his questions, Nie Jiuluo had said it was her godmother, who was low-key and didn’t like socializing and told Old Cai to stop asking.
She had guessed Old Cai wouldn’t give up.
Sure enough.
“When chatting with the veterans about experienced female masters in the field, they all felt it wasn’t your godmother’s style. Luo, would your godmother not consider coming out to exchange ideas?”
Nie Jiuluo drew out her response: “No consideration.”
Such nerve, saying “our godmother”—as Yan Tuo would say, “quite the social climber.”
“What if the industry extends an invitation? There would be certain compensation…”
Nie Jiuluo snorted: “Not interested.”
Old Cai persisted, taking an indirect approach: “We just feel it’s such a waste, with your godmother’s skill level, to not come out. What creator doesn’t want to see their work recognized by the public, right? If your godmother is willing, really, I can arrange first-class curation, excellent display…”
Nie Jiuluo said: “No need. It’s already being displayed.”
Old Cai was stunned, somewhat confused: “Where is it displayed? Beijing, Shanghai? Or abroad?”
Nie Jiuluo remained silent.
She pressed her forehead against the window glass, absently watching the bustling crowds and flowing traffic near and far.
It had long been on display.
Nüwa creating humans, this world of mortal affairs, the myriad faces of all beings—immortals and scholars, demons and spirits—which one wasn’t her work?
Speaking of truth and beauty, of ugliness and evil, which sculpture in any exhibition hall could compare to her creations in their vivid depiction of flesh and bone?
It had long been on display.
Generation after generation, countless people were within the exhibition, viewing and being viewed, some never understanding until death, others achieving enlightenment at the end.
The vast mortal world, the dense crowds, the grand scroll painting, the countless sculptures throughout the land—that was all it was.