Chapter Text
Chapter 1.
Gao tu's POV :
They used to call me "China's Future Superstar." A title that felt like a crown when I was three, and a noose by the time I was fifteen.
I started in diapers, a face for 'Boba' baby soap that cleared shelves in hours. My life was a carousel of camera flashes, neon lights, and the soft, suffocating adoration of a country that loved the bunny-eyed boy with the elegant temperament. I was a puppet, performing grace on cue, until the night of the Weibo Awards. That night, I held the "Artist of the Year" trophy—heavy, gold, and cold—never realizing it was the last thing I would ever legitimately own.
Mr. Lee. He had called me to his car, whispering promises of a career-defining project.
The memory is a jagged shard of glass in my mind. I remember the smell of leather and cheap cologne, the sickening jolt as the locks clicked shut. I remember the weight of him—the hands that weren't meant for a child, the breath against my neck that felt like rot. When I finally threw the door open and scrambled onto the pavement, my suit jacket was a ruin, my lips smeared with someone else's filth, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"I... I’m not just a product," I had sobbed, staring at my reflection in a puddle, seeing only a broken thing.
The industry didn't care about my trauma. They only cared that I had become "difficult." The auditions stopped. The brand deals evaporated. One day I was the highest-paid actor in the country; the next, I was a ghost haunting the casting offices, hearing the door slam shut before I could even speak.
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...Until today.
A script arrived. It’s heavy, bound in black, the paper smelling of cedar and something ancient. The character is a side role—a sacrificial lamb in a cult-ridden, abandoned village. He dies a tragic, bloody death.
"A tragic death," I whispered to my empty living room, a bitter laugh tearing from my throat. "Funny. I’ve been dying for years."
The pay is astronomical. My phone rang, and a voice—smooth as velvet, cold as ice—introduced himself as Mr. Shen. I didn't recognize the name, but when he spoke, the air in my room seemed to thin.
"Gao Tu," he purred, the sound vibrating in my very marrow. "The role is yours. But be warned... the village demands absolute devotion."
I didn't ask questions. I couldn't afford to. I just packed, my fingers trembling as I folded the few things I had left. I am a moth returning to the flame, praying this time it burns me to ash rather than leaving me to starve in the dark. I am twenty now. Jobless. People like me don't have the luxury to reject offers anymore after all .
The drive was silent, save for the hum of the engine and the way Mr. Shen watched me in the rearview mirror. When we arrived at the village, the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and something sweet, like blooming nightshade.
On reaching the dilapidated filming location, all I found was .... emptiness. No cameramen ,no crew. Just. Means Mr . Director who had driven me here on the pretext that others already were on the way , and since I didn't have any means of travel, it would be a hassle so why not just travel together.
The "shoot" went wrong within the hour before it even began.
A man—crazed, eyes white with a feverish madness—tore through the brush, blade raised. I didn't think. I lunged, I fought, and the steel meant for my heart found his instead.
I stood there, gasping, my hands stained with hot, sticky crimson. I expected the crew to rush in. I expected police sirens.
Instead, the villagers stepped from the fog, bowing low. Their eyes were not those of people looking at a murderer, but at a god. They moved closer, surrounding me with a terrifying, rhythmic intensity, their gazes stripping away my pride, my history, and my fear, leaving only... lust.
I backed away, colliding with something solid. A chest.
"Beautiful," a voice breathed against my ear.
I spun around. Mr. Shen stood there, his videocam pressed to his eye, the red light blinking like a malicious, unblinking heart. He didn't look like a director. He looked like an owner.
"Director Shen, what is this?" I spat, my voice cracking. "Stop filming! This isn't in the script!"
He lowered the camera, his thumb tracing the rim of the lens. His eyes—dark, predatory, and burning with a terrifying hunger—raked over my trembling frame.
"The script?" he chuckled, reaching out to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on the sensitive skin of my neck. "Gao Tu, you never understood the industry. You were never meant to act the part. You were meant to be the offering."
He leaned closer, his shadow swallowing mine. "And I have finally decided... I don't want to just film you. I want to break you, piece by piece, until you belong only to this village. And, of course, to me."
My blood turned to ice. I looked at the villagers, the way they watched my every movement, waiting for his command to move in.