Wang Yu's last stroke fell, and he stood up satisfied, gently shaking the drawing paper in his hand, allowing the freshly completed portrait to unfurl and hang in the air.
He carried the portrait step by step towards Liu Yang.
As the portrait swung lightly in the air, the lines on it seemed to come alive, every detail vividly horrifying and nauseating.
The sunken cheeks looked corroded by time, the furrows filled with despair; the shriveled chest had lost the inflation of life, as if the organs had been emptied of warmth; the withered limbs resembled dehydrated old tree roots, leaving only their jagged outlines; and those hollow eyes had no color, like two dead holes.
Liu Yang stared wide-eyed, his entire body stiff in the chair, unblinkingly watching the portrait.
As the portrait shook, it appeared to him as if the decayed corpse in the picture had been reawakened, emerging in a twisted and terrifying manner, staggering and on the verge of collapse, crashing into his embrace.
