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If Destruction
墨書 Inktalez
This is a story I experienced firsthand. I am not a professional writer, and my choice of words and atmosphere may not satisfy everyone. However, the story itself is already shocking enough that it doesn't require me to embellish it further. There are phenomena within this tale that I cannot understand or explain, and I can only present the events as they occurred.
Writing down this story has involved intense inner conflict because it involves some extreme secrets about this world. Knowing these secrets is inherently dangerous, and whether I expose them or not, there is always the possibility of disappearing without a trace. Perhaps revealing them might be safer for me. However, to protect those who worked alongside me, I will use pseudonyms when referring to specific individuals and organizations; I hope everyone can understand this.
I am writing this story from a relatively safe place. If it abruptly ends without warning, there is no need for anyone to wait for more. This could only be due to two reasons: I have vanished from the world, or something even more dramatic has occurred. In any case, the outcome is unlikely to be good, and I am fully prepared for that. Perhaps this is just my fate. From the moment I first stepped into that mysterious passage, I had a premonition that various causes and effects would bind me more tightly to this matter, pulling me deeper and deeper into an inescapable situation.
My name is Zhang Jianqiang; thankfully, my last name isn't Zhu, or I would really have to change it. To tell this story from the beginning, we must go back to a practical activity during my university days. However, the true turning point that led me to become completely entangled in this situation began with the appearance of a key figure—a person with a story…
It was probably an early autumn evening when I sat at the back of the shop. In front of me was a massive Sand Table Model. I was arranging various oddly shaped models on the sand table according to some pattern.
This Street Shop was an Old House—narrow and long, with a five-meter wide gable facing the street and a door leading deep inside, nearly ten meters long. The front half of the room had been tidied up slightly; I hung several pieces of Calligraphy and displayed a few replicas of ancient artifacts. Although it appeared shabby compared to an ordinary Antique Shop, it was clear what kind of business I was running—no one would walk in asking if I sold instant noodles.
The back half of the room resembled a chaotic workshop. The walls were covered with photographs, sketches, and various data. The majority of the space was occupied by a large sand table, with many areas left empty. On the floor, cardboard boxes contained a dozen oddly shaped models, each different yet sharing some similarities. For every model, I had to find its prototype and location among the photos on the wall before placing it on the sand table. This task was tedious, but I had my reasons for doing it.
The gable of the Old House naturally did not face south, and the shop's door was slightly westward. The afterglow of the setting sun filtered through the curtains, casting a golden hue throughout the shop. However, the westward sunlight was exceptionally blinding. I raised one hand to shield my eyes from the glaring light and walked around the enormous sand table to close the door. To me, this shop felt more like a workspace; familiar clients would make appointments in advance or confirm whether I was in before coming by. They rarely engaged in buying antiques from me; instead, they would bring items they were uncertain about for my appraisal. In terms of Hard Porcelain and bronze artifacts, my expertise was considered top-notch in this field. As for those who came out of curiosity or luck, they would sift through the fakes available in the shop; one does not develop a discerning eye without experiencing a few losses.
However, such clients were few and far between; most of my business came from appraising items for fellow dealers.
Just as I rounded the massive sand table, I felt a sudden darkness enveloping me, as if the sun had abruptly dipped below the horizon. Lowering my hand from my eyes, I discovered a towering figure standing at the door. He was completely shrouded in sunlight, casting a dark red silhouette that formed a blood-colored halo around him. His immense black outline obscured everything within the Old House from my view. I froze momentarily. In the backlight, his features were hard to discern, but his tall stature and robust physique exuded an overwhelming presence. The striped shirt clung tightly to his body, paired with his closely cropped hair that hugged his scalp, evoking a single word in my mind: escapee. His bulkiness wasn't due to bulging muscles; rather, he appeared round all over—his arms, thighs, belly, even his face bore an ample softness—he was a bear-like man. Even in silhouette, I could feel his two round eyes fixed intently on me, radiating an unsettling intensity.
One of his hands gripped a large vintage cylindrical backpack as he stared at me directly. My emotions became so complex that I found them difficult to articulate. Suddenly, he relaxed his grip, and the cylindrical backpack thudded heavily onto the ground as his imposing figure lunged toward me. In an instant, we embraced tightly in a bear hug.
“ I thought you were dead.”
“ So did I, and… it almost became a reality.”
His name is Song Gang, my best friend and partner in crime, an orphan. This isn't entirely accurate; he had both parents until he was three. A car accident changed his fate. He was lucky to survive, but he lost his parents and was raised by his grandmother. A boy without parents learns to be sensible yet wild.
We grew up in the same neighborhood, and his reputation for fighting was established early on. We attended the same school from elementary through high school, even sharing the same class. My catchphrase back then was somewhat like a popular internet saying today: “My dad is Li Gang.”
Mine was: “My brother is Song Gang.”
It worked wonders; I never experienced the confusion that ordinary boys have about fearing violence because the most violent person I knew was my buddy.
After graduating high school, I was fortunate enough to get into JD University while Song Gang did not. Following that, like many boys of our time, he chose to enlist in the military. Serving in the army was considered an honorable thing back then, and after completing service, there were job placements available, making it a decent choice. In the first two years of his service, I still saw him during breaks, but after that, I heard some bad news—he had been expelled from the army and nearly faced a military court. However, when I received this news during my summer vacation, I didn’t get to see him. From that point on, he vanished from my sight, and I never heard anything about him again.
I even handled the arrangements for his grandmother’s funeral. Later on, the neighborhood that held our childhood memories was demolished. I fought for it at first, but the developers wouldn’t leave a place for someone who had been missing for years; instead, they used stronger measures to cancel Song Gang’s household registration. It seemed he had permanently disappeared from this world, leaving only me—who had once benefited from knowing him—to occasionally remember him fondly.
"I'm fucking starving from running around looking for you. I haven't eaten a single bite yet, so stop talking and hurry up and fill my stomach."
Half an hour later, we were sitting in a hot pot restaurant not far from my shop, indulging in a feast. Of course, the one eating the most was Fatty.
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