Chapter Sixty-Four: Together

Suddenly jolted awake, I returned from the dream to reality.

So it had all been a dream.

The scenes in the dream seemed to be what Hu Sandao experienced back then. That yellow dog, hated for no reason all these years, must be deeply hurt. Or perhaps, seeing its former master become so extreme, it could not bear it?

I sat up abruptly, gathered my tattoo needles and colored inks, called out to Old Liao, and prepared to look for Hu Sandao.

“What are you thinking? After the way Hu Sandao acted yesterday, going there now is just asking for trouble,” Old Liao muttered, clearly reluctant, but unable to dissuade me, so he had no choice but to come along to Hu Sandao’s shop once more.

It was early morning, the dog meat restaurant hadn’t opened yet, and there were no diners outside. Only some bathhouse staff, who had spent the night there, came and went through the side door.

We slipped in through the side entrance.

“Hey, what are you two up to?” The young receptionist, just starting her shift, noticed us sneaking around and questioned us with a puzzled look.

“Heh, is your boss Hu around?” Old Liao put on an exaggeratedly sleazy expression, tilting his head as he asked.

She frowned. “He’s in the office. Do you have business with him?”

“Oh, we’re from the management committee. We need to see him about something,” I lied hastily, intent on finding Hu Sandao and telling him the truth about the past.

“Oh, alright. He’s in his office on the top floor. I’ll call the elevator for you.” Clearly inexperienced, the receptionist was easily deceived.

So, the top floor was used for offices. Despite Hu Ji’s restaurant roots, the divisions here were clear and the management well-organized. The average person couldn’t get to the top floor, but the receptionist dutifully swiped her badge to unlock the elevator and then stepped aside.

“Just go to the end of the top floor—you’ll see the boss’s office. Excuse me now.”

The elevator doors closed softly, and we began our ascent.

“This receptionist is well-trained. Hu Sandao really knows how to run a business,” Old Liao commented.

“Yeah, I heard next year he wants to move into real estate. His empire is growing.”

“Maybe we should expose the dog-stealing incident, ruin him publicly,” Old Liao whispered darkly.

I shook my head. “That won’t do. I know the truth now—it wasn’t all his fault. I just hope he can see things clearly.”

With a soft chime, the elevator doors opened to reveal a carpet and a tastefully decorated corridor.

We walked toward the end, our nerves taut. After all, Hu Sandao was not a minor figure—he commanded hundreds, if not thousands, of lives. If things went wrong, Old Liao and I were hardly a match.

After years of dealing with the supernatural, I’d come to realize that compared to the human heart, ghosts and spirits were much more straightforward.

The office door at the end of the corridor stood open. Hu Sandao lounged in his boss’s chair, staring at his computer.

“Boss Hu, we meet again.” I knocked on the door.

His expression shifted from relaxed to confused, then to astonished, and finally to angry.

“What are you doing here?”

His tone was full of disdain and irritation as he waved us away. “Get out—now! I don’t want to see you.”

He seemed barely able to contain his fury, speaking through gritted teeth as he grabbed the desk phone and swiftly dialed a few numbers.

“Send some security up.”

Tension filled the room.

“Woof!” Just as we hesitated, a dog’s bark suddenly rang out.

Hu Sandao looked instantly alarmed, grabbing a desk lamp as a weapon.

“We’re here today to tell you the truth of the past—the yellow dog was loyal, not vicious.”

“Woof!” Another bark, and the yellow dog’s spirit began to materialize, standing lightly on the carpet, neither advancing nor retreating, just staring silently at Hu Sandao.

“Don’t you want to see for yourself what really happened back then?”

He said nothing.

Two security guards burst in, batons in hand, ready for a fight.

But Hu Sandao waved them off, and they retreated, understanding his meaning.

“I saw it with my own eyes—that beast killed my wife, and would have hurt my daughter too.”

“But sometimes what we see isn’t the truth,” I replied, sitting on the sofa and opening my backpack. The yellow dog obediently came over and nudged my trousers.

I stroked its head and drew a slender tattoo needle.

“I can help you relive the past.”

I met his gaze, searching for something deeper in his eyes.

“I don’t need that. Get out before I change my mind,” he snarled, expelling us once more.

“You’ve slaughtered so many—can your wife truly rest in peace?”

“Shut up! You have no right to speak of my dead wife!” he shouted, fists clenched in rage.

A heavy silence fell.

The dog spirit sat quietly, whimpering softly, an expression of deep emotion on its face. Then, out of nowhere, it leaped straight at Hu Sandao.

None of us expected it. We watched as the spirit vaulted onto the desk.

Hu Sandao, panicked, hurled the desk lamp, which crashed to the floor with a sharp, shattering sound.

And as the dog spirit collided with him, it vanished.

Hu Sandao’s body suddenly stiffened. His eyes widened, pupils turning black and yellow, mouth gaping as he panted wildly, frozen in his chair.

Minutes passed. Then, a glimmer of light returned to his eyes and hot tears rolled down his cheeks. He bit his lip so hard that blood trickled out, staining his mouth.

Gradually, his expression normalized. The dog spirit reappeared at his feet, but Hu Sandao was still wracked with sobs, weeping so hard his body bent forward.

The burly man sat in his chair, covering his face, pounding his fists on the desk. The yellow dog frowned but only nudged his trouser leg in comfort.

Hu Sandao finally raised his head, his face streaked with tears.

“What I just saw—was all of it real?”

Only then did I realize the dog spirit had just shown him the events of the past.

“Are you a tattoo artist?” Hu Sandao asked, struggling to regain his composure.

I nodded silently.

“Could you tattoo its likeness on me?” he asked, voice still trembling, pointing at the dog spirit at his side.

I took a deep breath and nodded.

“It’s a loyal dog. I will tattoo its spirit onto you. I believe that’s its wish—to stay with you for life.”

Hu Sandao nodded, and the yellow dog barked excitedly.

I sat on the sofa, took out my tools, sterilized the needle, and pulled out a sketchpad. Guided by the dog’s spirit, I began to draw.

Soon, the yellow dog’s head appeared on the page.

“It’s suffered long enough. Let it accompany you for the rest of your days.”

“Thank you…”

Even the fiery-tempered Hu Sandao managed words of gratitude. I gestured for him to sit, baring his forearm, where I would tattoo the yellow dog’s image.

As the needle pierced his skin, redness and swelling appeared, but he paid no mind. Instead, he reminisced about the past.

This yellow dog had been with him through school, marriage, and fatherhood.

The years he spent as a butcher at the market were his happiest—he, his wife, daughter, and the yellow dog living in harmony.

But fate is ever cruel, and sorrowful partings are inevitable.

“I’ll close all my dog meat restaurants soon. It’s time to let go of that obsession,” he said, his tone tinged with regret and remorse.

“It was never the dog I hated. I hated myself—for not coming home earlier, for not calling to warn my wife not to wander in the rain, for failing to protect her, for…”

As he spoke, the strong man wept quietly on the sofa. I knew that his disappointment in himself was its own obsession.

In the meantime, the tattoo was complete—a portrait of the yellow dog, grinning happily. Hu Sandao gazed closely at his arm, a genuine smile finally breaking through.

I patted the can on the sofa, and the yellow dog leapt up, circling joyfully before dissolving into a wisp of blue smoke that flew straight into the iron can.

Then came the coloring, cleaning, and antiseptic.

Thus, the yellow dog’s wish was fulfilled—it would accompany its master forever.

Hu Sandao stroked the dog’s image on his arm, lost in thought, and on his face we saw a sense of release.

We left him to himself—he needed time to process all his misunderstandings and obsessions. Stepping out into his chain of businesses, we walked into the sunlight, feeling the warmth of its rays.

Back at our shop, Old Liao and I discussed the matter.

“Brother Xu, would you call this a new kind of Yin-Yang tattoo?”

I couldn’t quite answer. This time, I hadn’t used any classic Yin-Yang technique. I chose to record the yellow dog’s likeness because, for Hu Sandao, no other image could be more fitting.

It was a reconciliation between dog and master—his own redemption.

Perhaps you could call it a new form of Yin-Yang tattoo.

I took the sketch of the yellow dog’s head, slipped it into the final page of the Yang section in my tattoo collection, and wrote a few words beneath the drawing:

“A loyal dog as companion, together for the rest of life.”