Chen Qu Fei’s Fantasy Flash Fiction No. 3
by Chen Qu Fei

“Rent-A-Girlfriend”

Nicknamed by colleagues as the “last virgin,” Cai Shinan is a quiet, frugal country boy from southern Taiwan. After working for twenty years in the tech industry, he’s risen to the position of assistant manager—but, because he lacks social grace and dislikes networking, he’s stayed put while many former peers and subordinates have moved ahead. Optimistic by nature, he doesn’t mind.

Colleagues know him well; “still single at home” wasn’t just a joke. He lives a blameless life—no scandals, no nightlife, and he sees everyone as gender‐neutral. Their attempt to set him up on dates was politely refused. But he’s certainly not gay: he simply lacks sexual or romantic interest in both women and men. He lives alone, perfectly content.

One day, he receives a call from his father: his mother has liver cancer and only has half a year to live. His father demands that Shinan, before she passes, must find a partner and get married—and visit her in their hometown in the south within a month, with a girlfriend in tow.

The news hits him hard. Ashamed, he doesn’t want anyone at work to know—he fears their mockery. Then he remembers the “rent-a-girlfriend” services advertised online. He finds a company, calls, and is told to come in person: “We have a full roster of options.”

Dressed casually and wearing sunglasses, Shinan goes to their showroom and inspects several “products,” finally choosing one. The saleswoman wheels out a long case, sets it on a desk, and says:

“Mr. Cai, you’ve got good taste. This ‘virtuous housewife’ model is our flagship. She can’t bear children, but aside from that, she fulfills every role you could want.”

“How’s rental priced?”

“Monthly or yearly?”

“Let’s start with a month,” Shinan says—he wants to try before committing longer.

“One month is NT$15,000. Not overpriced—you’re basically getting a housekeeper.”

“And if it malfunctions?”

“Our after‐sales service is top‐notch. But reliability is 100%; we’ve never had one returned for repair.”

“Wow!” Shinan thinks. “Worth every cent.”

“Guaranteed value. Now please move to the brainwave‐sync room. Once it’s activated, we’ll link her to your brainwave and program her functions.”

He follows the attendant into the brainwave room, lies on a bed as instructed. They unpack the case, gently lift a naked female humanoid “doll,” and place her on another bed. Then technicians attach sensors to his temples, connect wires to a port at the nape of the doll’s neck, initiate her activation, and start brainwave transmission. After about thirty minutes the setup is done. The saleswoman brings out a box of outfits and accessories, escorts the doll into a fitting room, and fifteen minutes later returns with a sleek, lightly mature-looking woman in a tailored skirt-suit. Shinan’s jaw drops.

“With such a modern appearance... I look so old next to her,” he hesitates.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Cai—she will redesign your look so you match.”

“Alright!” he’s quickly persuaded. They leave the room, he pays by credit card, and leads his “girlfriend” out.

He names her “Chen Yulian”—a girl from his elementary class who once made his heart flutter before emigrating to the U.S. Yulian links arms with him and they stroll down a stylish shopping arcade, looking like a couple—turning heads. They enter a men’s boutique; after thirty minutes, Shinan emerges transformed into a modern gentleman. Then Yulian leads him to a barbershop for a total makeover.

They return home to his spacious suburban villa, bags in hand. Yulian efficiently organizes everything, slips on an apron, and starts cooking dinner—instantly turning the house into a home. She handles chores with left‐right speed, and though Shinan remains emotionally reserved, she proactively hugs and snuggles him like a newlywed wife.

Monday morning, Shinan goes to work looking sharp. Colleagues immediately notice and ask if he’s dating someone; he smiles without answering, fueling gossip. That evening he calls HR to request leave and use up his vacation days—he must return south to see his mother.

He drives a brand-new luxury German sedan and brings Yulian to his hometown. His parents and sister are floored when they see him entering the house with a stylish young woman on his arm. At dinner, his sister peppers “future sister-in-law” with questions; Yulian replies graciously, spinning a touching “Harry Met Sally” anecdote. The family is delighted that Shinan seems to finally have a happy future ahead. The only skeptical one is the family pup, who shadows Yulian, sniffing curiously…

“Role‑Experience Potion”

Working in tech is envied by many, and as an R&D engineer, I bought a house and car quickly. But behind the handsome salary was endless exhaustion—body traded for money.

One weekend, my friend Xiao Qiu dragged me to church, where I met a priest and some believers. I was non‐religious—faith had always been “go straight to bed.” At the service, I sneered to God: “Unless you get me out of this misery, I won’t believe in you.”

That night, I dreamed of a winged angel—sent by God after hearing my complaint—bringing a mysterious chest of potions, each to let me experience different roles.

“After you try several roles, if you like one and decide to quit the rest, pour the remaining potions into the empty bottle—it becomes the antidote. And if you want to return to your original role, drink one sip.”

A few nights later I began. First I chose “Gifted Young Woman”. I drank it, lay back, silently wished, and slept. Next morning I woke in a room redecorated like a singer’s: pastel lace pajamas, concert posters, everything female. I heard my phone: “Xiaoyu, makeup artist is coming in an hour. Lunch meeting is important—Mr. Gu is our big sponsor. Control yourself, okay?”

“Who are you, and why do I have to go to lunch?” I muttered.

“I’m your manager, Xiao Qiu! Stop taking sedatives you bought yourself—it’s making you scatterbrained…” he nagged. I hung up.

That lunch meeting was worse than a nightmare. Mr. Gu, disgusting and gross, groped me and tried to grab my “headlights.” I pushed him away and left after feigning consideration—it took all my wits.

Back at the studio, I felt worse. Two takes later, I still couldn’t nail the song. After a month in the singer role—and the day before the album wasn’t even recorded—I sat by the vanity and realized I didn’t fit this role. I picked up the chest, selected the “Boss” potion, drank it, lay back and slept.

The next morning, I was woken by the butler. Maid A‑Tao primped me and after breakfast, my driver took me to a meeting with all department heads. Each manager presented PPT slides for ten minutes. After a long, grueling meeting with piles of paperwork, I realized:

“Being a big boss is inhuman,” I muttered. After hours, weekends, and endless schmoozing, I confronted my assistant: “Why must I spin like a top, with no time for myself?”

She replied softly: “Sir, because it’s your company.”

“Can I take a ten-day or half-month vacation?” I asked.

She hesitated: “That… might be hard, unless you entrust everything to Deputy Qiu…”

“Deputy Qiu…” I thought. “He’s not sharp enough. If I hand over the company, managers will run wild. No.”

Day in, day out—meetings, paperwork, schmoozing, overpriced spa visits. After two months I was burnt out; I decided to switch roles again. This time I chose “Travel Writer.”

As a travel writer for a magazine, it felt ideal. Inspired by Kawabata Yasunari’s Snow Country, with its novelist hero Shimamura visiting geisha in the snow country every winter, I’d longed for that life. I dressed in a coat, slacks, carried a digital camera and laptop, covering Kyoto, Nara, and Kamakura. Magazine assigned me a bilingual assistant—Xiao Qiu again, a lively Taiwanese-Japanese mix.

Working like honeymooners, I began to yearn for family life. This role trip made my final decision: no more big boss, no more life‑draining work. Life should be about freedom and happiness—not sold out for career or wealth.

"The Tumbler’s Collapse"

My Japanese friend Ōta Tokuichi, who lives in Kyoto, has been a close friend of mine for nearly thirty years. We met during my university years when he was my roommate. We often went to soak in the hot springs at Yangmingshan or Beitou together, becoming close buddies who “saw each other naked,” both literally and metaphorically.

Over the years, we stayed in touch. Whenever he came to Taiwan, I hosted him and took him all around the island. When I visited Japan, I usually made a point to drop by Kyoto to see him.

Ōta’s family lives on the lively Hanamikoji Street near Gion in Kyoto, one of the five famous flower districts. His family runs a traditional wagashi (Japanese sweets) shop.

This time, I was visiting Kanazawa City in Ishikawa Prefecture to meet with the mayor, the president of the Hokuriku Newspaper, and the TV station director to discuss a Taiwan-Japan co-production of a TV drama titled Taiwan’s Water Pioneer: Yoichi Hatta. After two days in Kanazawa and revisiting the Kenrokuen Garden in the outskirts, I took the high-speed rail to Kyoto as scheduled.

Ōta came to Kyoto Station to pick me up in person. The moment he saw me, he burst out laughing and said I looked even fatter. “Surely youre basking in the joy of good things happening!”

I responded with a sigh, “The project is only in preliminary talks. Nothing’s confirmed yet. You Japanese are so meticulous and rigid—it drives people crazy even if they’re usually patient!”

Ōta, who understands a fair amount of Taiwanese, caught the words gui-mao (overly picky) and ki-siao (going nuts). I used to tease him with gui-mao a lot, since his personality is the epitome of Japanese meticulousness—slow, cautious, and hesitant to make decisions until he’s thought everything through.

Ōta chuckled and offered, “Let’s do this. I’ll take you to Yasaka Shrine near my house. There’s a high monk there who’s said to worship a very spiritual Tumbler Daruma. You can ask him about your project and let him divine your fortune.”

“Sure,” I replied, “when in Rome. Besides, I could use the distraction.”

That evening, in Ōta’s study, he and his wife joined me for some sake and wagashi from their shop.

He asked, “Brother Fei, aren’t you eligible for retirement from your teaching post by now? I remember you saying two years ago you’d retire and enjoy life.”

I sighed deeply and said, “Plans can’t keep up with changes. Last year, the ruling party slashed the pension rates for civil servants and suddenly, on August 1, revoked many of our benefits. One of them was the education subsidy for our children. I have three kids in college. If I retire now, we’d lose that subsidy, and I’d have to fork out nearly 600,000 yen more per year for tuition.”

Ōta nodded, “Ah, I see. I had hoped we could travel the world together with our wives after your retirement. Looks like that’ll have to wait a few more years. But we’re both still healthy, so no problem waiting.”

The next morning, Ōta took me to the shrine to meet the high monk. The old monk, with white hair and beard, looked well over ninety, exuding an aura of calm and transcendence. Upon seeing me, he stared at me for a long time before Ōta explained my purpose in Japanese. The monk replied, and I caught a few words, including Natsume Sōseki.

Ōta translated solemnly, “The master says that in a previous life, you were the Japanese novelist Natsume Sōseki. Japan will be a land of fortune for your career.”

I frowned. “But I’ve run into a snag. Chairman Nakagawa, the one who promised to push this co-production, passed away two years ago. My key benefactor is gone.”

Ōta reassured me, “The master says he knows of your difficulties. If you sincerely make a wish to the Tumbler Daruma, the god of wishes will surely aid you.”

I followed the attendant monk’s instructions—pressed my palms together and bowed deeply before the Daruma. The high monk lit incense and began his chanting. Strangely, the normally immobile Daruma began to rock along with the chant. It rocked more and more—until it actually toppled over, landing on the altar table and continued to sway left and right. Everyone looked stunned, except for the monk.

I whispered to Ōta, “The tumbler collapsed? What’s going on?”

Ōta said, “I don’t know. I’ve never seen it fall before. Let’s wait—he should explain.”

Sure enough, the high monk turned to me and gently said, “The wish god has granted your prayer, but asks one promise in return: when this drama airs in Japan, you must publish this story as a novel here in Japan. Let the Japanese people know that once there was a Japanese official who loved the people and contributed greatly to Taiwan, leaving behind many lasting legacies.”

I roughly understood and bowed to thank him in Taiwan-accented Japanese.

The monk added, “Like Natsume Sōseki, you were once a teacher, upright and principled. In this life too, you follow a literary path. Sadly, your people don’t appreciate your accomplishments.”

His words touched something deep inside me.

Natsume Sōseki… Do you know how suffocated I feel living this life? That thought echoed in my heart like a sound reverberating through an empty valley.

"Borrowed Body, Returned Soul"

After our “civil marriage” ceremony, we had planned a honeymoon trip to Europe. But fate had other plans. The infamous water park dust explosion at Formosa Fun Coast occurred, and that night, our hospital admitted over thirty burn victims.

Though I wasn’t a dermatology specialist, the director assigned me to the burn ward to help with wound cleaning and skin grafts, all while continuing my surgical shifts. In that chaos, the honeymoon was canceled.

My wife, a fellow med school student two years my junior, had been with me since sophomore year. Every winter and summer break, we joined rural medical outreach programs—work that also let us travel a bit. Sensitive and literary, she reminded me of a cat. During college, she immersed herself in literature, taking electives in poetry and fiction. Her works often appeared in literary magazines. When upset with me, she’d mock me in her poems or stories.

She chose psychiatry as her specialty. When she asked my opinion, I simply said, “Not surprised.”

That night after the explosion, she rushed to the ER straight after work. Seeing me running around, she put on her doctor’s coat and joined me. One young girl, over 90% burned and suffering severe inhalation injury, went into cardiac arrest. I tried everything I could, but failed. My wife gently closed the child’s eyes and sat nearby, quietly weeping.

We worked through the next night until we were both delirious. Dr. Shao told us to rest for half a day and come back at 2 p.m. When we got home, flowers from our wedding well-wishers still lined the hall. She showered first, then I did. By the time I came out, she was fast asleep, even snoring softly. A glass of water sat half-drunk on the dresser. I knew she took sleeping pills occasionally when under stress, so I wasn’t concerned.

I collapsed into bed.

Near noon the next day, I was woken by sobbing. I found my wife in the living room, crying while talking on the phone. She turned her face away when she saw me, but I caught a glimpse of her tear-streaked cheeks.

“What’s wrong, kitty?” I asked softly—kitty was my pet name for her.

She ignored me and kept talking. “Mom, Dad, I’m temporarily borrowing an older sister’s body. I miss you so much... I shouldn’t have gone to that water park...”

What the—?! I was utterly confused.

“Kitty, what’s going on?” I reached to touch her forehead, but she slapped my hand away.

“Doctor, keep your hands to yourself!” she barked, glaring at me.

Shocked, I stammered, “I… I’m your husband, remember? Bunny? Don’t mess with me!”

“I don’t even have a boyfriend. Husband? Who are you? Why were you in bed with me last night? Did you do anything to me? Pervert! Get away from me!” Her accusations came with absolute seriousness.

I backed off as she demanded. When she hung up, she said she needed a ride to the hospital morgue—she had arranged to meet her parents there.

Stunned, I could only nod.

From the bedroom, she yelled, “Doctor perv! Doesn’t your wife have any decent clothes? Just these frumpy auntie dresses? Can’t you help her dress a little better?”

“Pick whatever you like, and stop complaining,” I muttered, wondering if this was some sort of soul possession. If so, where was my wife’s soul? If she stayed like this, how would I explain to our colleagues and families?

I drove her to the hospital. At the morgue, a couple and a young boy were waiting.

She walked up, tearfully hugged them. I stood aside like a block of wood. She asked the morgue attendant to open a drawer. The family surrounded the body of a girl and said their final goodbyes.

The attendant glanced at me curiously. After they left, he asked, “Dr. Chen, was that your relative?”

I cleared my throat and replied, “Uh, my wife’s… cousin. Yeah, cousin.”

“Sorry for your loss,” he said.

I rushed out and caught up with “my wife” and her “family.”

Outside the hospital, after watching them leave, she turned and smiled brightly at me. “Bunny, let’s go have lunch. I want some beef soup. You should have a big bowl too—recharge your energy.”

“Kitty, are you back?” I asked, overjoyed.

She playfully scolded me, “Silly! I never left you.”

“But earlier you were—”

“Oh, that,” she said calmly. “Little Ling borrowed my body last night. She asked for seven days to finish something. Helping others brings joy, so I said yes.”

Seeing her radiant face, I didn’t know what to say. Thank goodness it’s only seven days. I can manage that.

“After lunch, I’ll buy a box of chicken essence for you. Take one bottle every three hours at work, okay?” she said, her usual tenderness fully returned.

“The Parasitic Ghost”

“You were unconscious for seven days straight—how pitiful!” the woman sitting by my bed, claiming to be my mother, said tearfully. Yet the cost was steep: twenty years of my memories had vanished as if erased by a devil’s eraser.

My sister took me to the garden plaza to bask in the sun. It was the first time I felt such warmth from the afternoon sun. Stroke survivors shuffled by—some with canes, some in wheelchairs, others supported by nurses or family—moving slowly, like astronauts on the moon. A wheelchair wheeled past me slowly, and suddenly, a sharp pain ripped through my legs as if crushed. I saw it rolling over my shadow on the ground, directly on my calves. Instinctively I pushed it away. The nurse pushing looked startled; my sister, confused by my impulsive reaction. Moments later, a cane stabbed into my shadow’s head; my temples, wrapped in gauze, felt the pain as though a wooden stick had struck me. I jumped back again, my sister bewildered. She moved toward me; I pointed at my shadow and said, “Walk around me—don’t step on my shadow.”

She cautiously avoided it. “Brother, what’s wrong with you?” she asked.

“I don’t know! If someone steps on or runs over me, I feel the pain in the same spot,” I replied, near to talking to myself.

“Could it be delusional?” she asked incredulously.

We returned to the ward to rest. My sister’s shadow fell across my chest and abdomen as we walked. Back in the room, I recounted the incident while my sister vouched for me. Our mother called the on-duty doctor, who suggested a psychiatric consult.

That evening, a young psychiatrist—a poised woman under thirty—came in. After staring at me for several seconds, she said, “We’ll write back and forth.” She asked my mother and sister to leave and began her assessment. Writing on a clipboard, she told me: “You are possessed by a female ghost—and I can see her. I don’t want her to overhear us, so we must communicate by writing.” I nodded.

She erased and wrote again: “She seems not to harm you. She’s attached to you because she wants your help. Tonight when you sleep, she may come to your dreams. Don’t be afraid; talk with her sincerely and ask what she wants.”

I wrote back: “Okay, I’ll face her and communicate.”

She erased and wrote: “Tomorrow morning, please write down what you and she discussed.” I nodded, anxious about her clairvoyant abilities and puzzled why she didn’t just exorcise the ghost.

Noticing my silence, she said: “Please don’t doubt my professional skills.” I smiled awkwardly.

After she left, my mother and sister asked questions I silently waved off.

That night, my sister slept on the small bed near the window. I drifted into the dream state. A delicate college girl stepped out of my body while I was browsing soccer match streams. She sat cross-legged beside me and said, “Doctor, you’re awake. For seven nights, I’ve guarded you from the soul-harvesting ghost.”

Startled, I replied, “Thank you for protecting me.”

She said sadly, “What happened to me happened to you too.”

I asked, “What do you mean?”

She explained: “Eight nights ago, late at night, I crossed the road near the school gate when a black sedan ran a red light. It hit me first, then hit you on a bicycle, and fled. My soul left my body, hovering; my body was torn, and you collapsed on the sidewalk.”

I inquired, “Then what?”

She continued: “A soul-harvester with a scythe came to take your soul. I jumped on you to resist until an ambulance arrived. Only then did the spirit give up—and vowed to return for you.”

“So you’ve been attached to me these past seven days to protect me?”

“Yes. According to hospital ghosts, if you survive seven days, you return to life. So I stayed.”

“But why pain from my shadow?”

“In daylight, your living body generates yang energy that negates my yin energy, so I can only cling to your shadow. Thus, when someone steps on it, you feel the pain.”

I asked, “How do you want me to help?”

She replied with anger, “Help me find the owner of the black sedan that killed me—and exact vengeance.”

I responded, “Okay—Ill ask the police to check traffic cams.”

She smiled, “Ghosts can’t enter the station, but you can.”

The next morning, the psychiatrist came back. I explained my vision and our conversation. She warned me by writing: “Don’t fully trust the ghost. Though she means no harm, she might manipulate you to find her killer—and that blood debt will weigh on you.”

I replied: “She protected me—aren’t I indebted to her? She died unjustly; seeking her killer is reasonable!”

The doctor countered: “If she lied and simply wants to manipulate you, revenge only perpetuates the cycle. Don’t become a tool for a ghosts vengeance.”

My mind spun with fear and doubt. Would I be manipulated? Would she abandon me if I refused? “I’ll ask more tonight.”

That night, I stayed awake. My mother joined me the first half, my sister the second, to watch World Cup replays. Initially skeptical, they relented. Over midnight, I roused them to keep me company. By 3 AM, they chatted about my childhood until dawn broke.

After breakfast, my sister wiped tears from her eyes in the mirror—and I saw the ghost’s enraged face reflected behind her.

When the psychiatrist returned, I showed her the mirror. She smiled, “I can see her too. The mirror trapped her in a reflective prison—she can no longer torment you. How did you do it?”

I proudly said, “I stayed awake all night. My mother and sister watched soccer and recounted my life story until sunrise, then I saw her in the mirror.”

My sister asked in astonishment, “Why can’t I see her?”

The doctor replied, “Ghosts aren’t for curious eyes—this mirror must go with me. Afterward, your brother can recover and live peacefully.”

"The Book of Confinement"

My friend Old K has always been a struggling, underappreciated screenwriter – overworked and unlucky. After analyzing his situation, I pinpointed a few reasons:

He’s been exploited by unscrupulous producers and directors for free labor.

He ghosts for big-name writers, their names get the credit while he gets the leftovers.

He accepts every job and always delivers, but his compensation never matches the effort.

Despite recognizing all this, Old K stubbornly believes his luck just hasn’t turned and that he just hasn’t found someone to recognize his talent.

Fortunately, Old K and I aren’t in the same field. I write popular fiction, mainly read by daydreaming students. I often use tropes like chance encounters or coincidences and craft intriguing hooks—but I don’t go over the top with melodrama like some writers. Old K always sneers at my work, dismissing it as “leftover stock from failed factory stalls in a night market, not fit for the screen.” Yet the harsh reality is that publishers vie to sign me each year. My advances and royalties are enough for me to travel abroad for a week every season, and my life is quite comfortable.

Travel is my way to recharge and find fresh ideas. This summer, while wandering old streets in Kyoto, I impulsively stepped into a used bookstore. The owner, an elderly man with a full head of silver hair but lively spirit, greeted me warmly:

“Young man, this place is a treasure trove—you won’t be disappointed if you’re earnest.”

Old man, I’m looking for detective master Seicho Matsumoto’s debut work, The Saigo Banknote, in a short story collection. I read online that it won the Naoki Prize in 1950.

The old man studied me for a good fifteen seconds with his keen eyes, then laughed and asked, “You like mystery novels?”

I nodded. “I’m looking to pivot into mystery and fantasy writing.”

“When did you begin writing novels? What genre do you write now?”

Blushing, I stammered: “I wrote my first piece at eighteen, my first bestseller at twenty-five—but they’re all trendy campus, young professional, workplace romance novels.”

“So that’s popular fiction. How old are you now?”

“Thirty-five.” I scratched my forehead sheepishly.

“Did you know? Matsumoto started writing Saigo Banknote at forty-one—and then instantly made his mark. That you’re thinking of pivoting at thirty-five shows you’ve got real potential.” His encouragement struck a chord.

“But I lack his talent or awards—I grew up in Taiwan, on a culturally shallow island.”

He replied mysteriously, “Then I’ll give you a chance to transform yourself. Come to my study.”

Curious, I followed him upstairs into his study, lined with old books, with a grand chair in the corner by the window. He pulled two ancient volumes from the shelf: bound in leather, titled The Book of Fate and The Book of Confinement, and handed them to me.

“Guess what leather covers these books?”

I rubbed the surface: “It feels like deer or lambskin.”

He shook his finger: “Close, but wrong. The covers are made of human skin.”

My scalp tingled even though I tried to stay composed. “Human skin? There must be a story.”

He nodded: “They came from a couple who killed themselves together; the lord had the skin from their chest and back flayed and used.”

“General Saigo Takamori—I’ve heard of him? Satsuma leader in late Tokugawa, one of the Meiji Restoration Trio. Is the story of the Saigo banknote related?”

He smiled, patted my shoulder: “Sharp. You know Japanese modern history. Saigo banknotes were emergency military scrip issued by his Satsuma forces.”

“I confess—during college I studied modern Japanese history and read a Chinese translation of Matsumoto’s Saigo Banknote.”

Back to the point: you can have these two books—but only one.

“Why only one?”

He said gravely: “Both are cursed with binding spells—if you use or own both simultaneously, you invite fatal trouble.”

“Can I gift one to my friend?”

“Yes—but you must mail it. No meeting or sharing, or you risk a secret swap. So which do you choose?”

I asked, “May I know their difference first?”

“No. Once you choose, I’ll tell you what to do next.”

“Do I have to decide right now?”

He said firmly: “Yes—go with your gut.”

“Okay—I choose The Book of Confinement. What next?”

“Mail the Book of Fate away, and stay here with me for ten years.”

“Ten years?” I felt trapped.

“Yes. Over the ten years, write one novel per year—each must be reviewed and approved by me before publication.”

“What if you dont like them, or I can’t finish ten?”

“At the end, I’ll retire and leave this bookstore to you. Over the ten years, write ten and I’ll help you plan, enter competitions, and publish.”

“Alright,” I thought—my career in Taiwan had stalled. Then I asked, “Can I open The Book of Confinement?”

He grinned mysteriously: “Of course—but the pages are completely blank.”

“Blank? How do I start?”

“This book will resonate with you—once you begin writing inside, it’ll guide you.”

“A magical book with a soul?” I asked.

“Yes—the soul of the woman from the star-crossed lovers,” he said. “For ten years, you must stay in Japan. After each novel, you can take two weeks off to travel—but you cannot return to Taiwan, nor contact the friend who received the other book. Even hearing about him—don’t. It’s our pact. I want you undistracted, focused on finishing ten books.”

“May I ask one more question?”

“You may ask two final questions,” he said kindly.

“Are there any taboos using this book?”

“Yes—two that I know. First, don’t write your own experiences or name yourself as the protagonist.”

“Why?”

He suddenly grew stern: “You’ll pay a price. Don’t doubt it!” He sat, rolled up his left pant leg, and showed a missing calf. “In my last novel I made myself a horseman hero. In the final race he fell, and his horse crushed his left calf. Sure enough, not long after, I was hit by an RV. It broke my left calf, and they had to amputate it in the hospital.”

A cold chill ran down my spine—this book was truly uncanny.

“I want to ask two last things. With my limited Japanese, can I write novels you’ll like? Also, can I publish under my pen name?”

He nodded: “That’s one question. The book will gradually expand your Japanese with practice. And I’ll pick a fitting pen name for your books—but only I will ever know you are the real author.”

I thought: If readers don’t know it’s me, how will I gain recognition?

He smiled knowingly: “A novelist’s life is measured by how far their work travels—if it’s passed through generations, like Dream of the Red Chamber or The Tale of Genji. Isn’t that the dream?”

I nodded, smiling. Yes, enduring literary legacy was my true desire.

That night, I moved my bag into his shop, named Yashe Book Room. My writing room was upstairs, overlooking a serene plum grove. Thus began my ten-year writing journey, guided by The Book of Confinement and Master Arashiyama.

One year later, my first fantasy novel, Paradise Hotel, won the New Fantasy/Horror Prize. My pen name "Arashiyama Seiyo" caught readers’ attention. Each year I won a major literary award; by year ten, I had swept Japan’s biggest ones: Naoki, Akutagawa, Yomiuri, Tanizaki, Mystery Writers Association awards… "Arashiyama Seiyo" became as known as Haruki Murakami. Each novel was adapted into dramas and films—but Seiyo himself never appeared publicly. His grandfather always accepted awards and interviews. I remained the mysterious “shadow author.”

At year’s end, I received horrifying news from Taiwan: Old K, my long-time buddy and screenwriter, was convicted by the Supreme Court and sentenced to death for serial murders and dismemberment. I was stunned—but kept my promise and did not return to Taiwan to see him.

When I handed Seiyo my tenth novel, Master Arashiyama gave me a screenplay novel by none other than Old K—titled The Butterfly Serial Murder Case. I glimpsed the title and immediately understood: Old K must have turned himself into his own story, breaking the taboo of the human-skin book—and invited his own downfall.