Little Pink Starfish

The gaze from behind felt too intrusive. Zhang Qiu turned to look, but Bai Guang’an had already sat down with his friends to eat. The burning sensation of being stared at vanished.

As they walked through the hallway back to their rooms, they ran into Qi Xi, accompanied by his assistant, Xiao Wang. Qi Xi’s hair was a mess, and he looked exhausted. He nodded in greeting when he saw them, while Xiao Wang urged him to go to bed. “We have to leave for the desert at four in the morning.”

Qi Xi groaned, rubbing his head as if the mere thought was making it hurt. Yawning, he complained, “They’re seriously trying to kill me. I’ve never seen a production team this desperate before.”

“No choice, it’s Director Zhang’s film. Qi-ge, just hang in there and get some rest.”

“I was going to carve a melon fox for the little Jiangshi, but I barely arrived before they dragged me off to set. Shooting all day, then straight to the desert tomorrow—I swear, I’m never taking a role like this again.” Qi Xi ruffled the little Jiangshi’s head and grumbled, “What’s the point of being a big-name director? Wouldn’t it be better to just be a pretty face? Sister Ping seriously overestimates me.”

Xiao Wang nervously glanced around and whispered, “Qi-ge, this isn’t the place to say that so openly. What if someone from the crew hears you and thinks you’re badmouthing the director?”

Qi Xi was about to respond, but Li Shu had already picked up the little Jiangshi and started walking away. Zhang Qiu followed, grinning as he waved. “Good night, Qi Xi.”

Back in their room, Zhang Qiu checked the time—just before ten. Thinking that his senior brother might still be awake, he called him. The phone rang for a long time before it was finally answered. Lu Feng’s breathing was uneven, and just as Zhang Qiu was about to ask if he wasn’t feeling well, the call abruptly ended.

Holding his phone, Zhang Qiu immediately realized what was going on. The suppressed, slightly breathy sound from before…

So even someone as proper as Lu Feng can get wild.

Zhang Qiu looked up and found Li Shu watching him. He tensed up instantly. “No! My waist still hurts!”

“You looked like you wanted it,” Li Shu said, pulling Zhang Qiu into his arms.

Zhang Qiu stiffened, but then a cold hand pressed against his waist and started massaging it. The pressure was just right, and soon, his tense posture relaxed.

Li Shu continued kneading his waist, and Zhang Qiu, drowsy from comfort, muttered, “The desert trip… No one told us yet—”

“They already know,” Li Shu assured him. Seeing Zhang Qiu’s eyelids drooping, he kissed his forehead and murmured, “Sleep.”

Zhang Qiu was so tired that the moment Li Shu spoke, he drifted off.

Li Shu tucked him in, stood by the bed for a long moment, then turned off the light and lay down. Before long, the person who had been sleeping soundly rolled into his arms.

Li Shu’s usually cold expression softened as he held Zhang Qiu close and fell asleep.

---

When Zhang Qiu woke up, he was in a car.

Ever since meeting Li Shu, waking up in a vehicle had become a regular occurrence.

Up front, Lu Feng was driving, with Hua Ting in the passenger seat. King Hui of Xiapi and Li Shu sat in the middle, while Zhang Qiu had the entire back row to himself—well, him and the little Jiangshi. The child was sitting cross-legged, resting his chin in his hands, lost in thought.

“Papa.”

The little Jiangshi was the first to notice him wake up. He immediately climbed onto Zhang Qiu’s lap. Zhang Qiu stroked his soft hair and looked out the window. The vast desert stretched endlessly before them, bathed in the orange glow of the rising sun. The sight was breathtaking.

Li Shu handed him a bottle of milk. “Drink something first.”

“Where exactly are we headed?”

“The Taklamakan Desert.”

Back in high school, Zhang Qiu had learned about this place. The locals called it the “Sea of Death”—a desert where people could enter but never return. Many explorers had ventured inside, never to be seen again. Even if a film crew needed a desert backdrop, they wouldn’t normally pick somewhere this dangerous.

We’re definitely on the right track.

“I heard the original plan was to shoot in a smaller desert, but Su Zhichai increased his investment at the last minute and insisted they film here for ‘authenticity,’” King Hui of Xiapi said with a faint smile. Director Zhang, oblivious to being used as bait, was still grateful to Su Zhichai. He even praised him in interviews, saying that China needed more investors who truly respected the film industry.

They continued driving along the desert’s edge, where small settlements were visible. Some locals made a living by offering camels, food, and water to tourists. Though they guided visitors, they rarely ventured deep into the desert themselves.

Ahead, two vehicles were parked—a bus and a black SUV. The sun had fully risen.

Zhang Qiu recognized the SUV as the one that had picked up Qi Xi from the airport.

They got out of the car. A burly middle-aged man stepped forward to greet them. His tanned, rough skin bore the marks of years in the desert. He looked fierce, but when he smiled, he seemed kind.

Introducing himself as Kamba, he spoke fluent Mandarin and asked if they were here to explore the desert.

Zhang Qiu and the others, with their pale skin and refined looks, seemed even more delicate than the actors who had arrived earlier—especially with Zhang Qiu holding a chubby child.

“Yes, just sightseeing,” Hua Ting replied.

Zhang Qiu smiled and added, “We came to Hami for fun and heard that a film crew was here, so we thought we’d check it out. Maybe even get an autograph. I’ve never met a celebrity before.”

King Hui of Xiapi glanced at Zhang Qiu’s completely straight face and then at Li Shu. He wasn’t sure which one was corrupting the other—Zhang Qiu had become so good at making up excuses.

Kamba believed them. “You picked the right spot! See those vehicles? That’s the film crew. My younger brother took them into the desert earlier. If you want to see them, I can take you there. But just a warning, those film folks are arrogant and look down on people. Except for one guy—he looks like a girl but is really nice. He takes photos with people and doesn’t act all high and mighty.”

A guy who looks like a girl? Must be Qi Xi.

They agreed on a price, and Kamba began gathering supplies. Even though they weren’t going deep into the desert, he insisted on bringing enough provisions.

“Don’t think of it as unnecessary,” he warned. “The desert changes in an instant. These supplies could save your life.”

Zhang Qiu and the others followed his advice without complaint.

As they mounted their camels, Kamba grinned. “You’re lucky. The film crew only took six camels because they didn’t like the smell, leaving just enough for you.”

Before setting out, Kamba and his family knelt in the sand, offering prayers to the desert’s guardian deity.

“Let’s go!” Kamba declared. “The True God will protect us.”

One camel per person, Zhang Qiu secured the little Jiangshi against his chest, shielding him from the wind and sand. The camels swayed as they moved, but after a while, Zhang Qiu got used to the rhythm.

The morning was still cool, and the shifting desert scenery was mesmerizing. But after half an hour, the novelty wore off. The sun rose higher, and the heat became oppressive. Despite their protective clothing, they were drenched in sweat.

Zhang Qiu hugged his son closer, grateful for the small comfort of his naturally cool body.

After another ten minutes, Kamba blew his whistle.

Something was wrong.

Up ahead, Kamba, who had been leading the way, turned back. Even with only his eyes visible beneath his protective gear, his anger was obvious.

“These film people are completely reckless! I told them not to go too far, but they’ve already reached the True God’s boundary!” Kamba cursed. “I’m going to teach Aishan a lesson when we get back!”

Aishan was Kamba’s younger brother. Despite his angry words, Kamba was clearly worried about him. He turned to the group. “If we go any further, it’ll be dangerous. I can take you back now, or you can wait here while I go after them—”

Li Shu interrupted, “No need. They should still be nearby. Let’s find them first.”

Kamba hesitated for a moment but then nodded. “Alright, stay close and don’t get separated.”

The golden desert stretched out before them like an endless range of sand dunes. Kamba led them up a ridge and walked along the crest. After about ten minutes, they finally spotted a group of people filming amid the ruins of an ancient city, surrounded by swirling sand.

They urged their camels forward, quickly closing the distance. The film crew, consisting of about a dozen people, had set up their equipment on the ground. Two off-road vehicles were parked nearby, and a few camels were resting in the shade of the ruins.

In the distance, two actors were engaged in a fight scene. The director called “cut,” looking pleased with the shot.

Kamba wasted no time in finding his brother and scolding him harshly.

Aishan, a tanned young man in his early twenties, looked both embarrassed and aggrieved. “Brother, it wasn’t my fault! They didn’t like the other location and insisted on coming here. They said this place had a better view and would look great in the movie. What was I supposed to do?”

“They’re done filming. Now they need to leave.” Kamba’s tone was firm and unyielding.

Aishan was clearly afraid of his older brother and quickly nodded in agreement. However, a man nearby spoke up in protest. “We can’t leave yet. We haven’t finished shooting.”

This led to a heated discussion between the assistant director, the production team, and Kamba’s group.

Meanwhile, Qi Xi was dealing with his own problems. He spat out a mouthful of sand and glared in disgust. “Ugh, I swallowed half the desert!”

His assistant, Xiao Zhang, rushed over with a bottle of water. Qi Xi rinsed his mouth and put on a face mask before striding toward Zhang Qiu’s group.

“I’m starting to think one of you is secretly in love with me.”

Zhang Qiu laughed. “Haha, go ahead, take a guess.”

Qi Xi glanced around at them, but everyone was busy with their own tasks, completely ignoring him. He huffed and said, “Obviously, it’s—” Then, sensing a certain someone’s cold stare, he smoothly changed his answer. “Obviously, it’s your little Jiangshi.”

“You’re ridiculous. My kid is underage—he’s not interested.”

The little Jiangshi poked his head out of Zhang Qiu’s arms, looking pale and sluggish. In a weak voice, he muttered, “Not interested.”

Zhang Qiu immediately became concerned. He knew his son’s constitution was naturally yin-based, and the strong yang energy of the desert was making him uncomfortable. He stopped joking around with Qi Xi and gently stroked his son’s hair. “Are you thirsty? Want some water?”

They took a short break. Kamba had brought plenty of high-energy food, and they gathered behind the ruins to avoid the blowing sand.

Zhang Qiu tried eating a piece of flatbread, but the wind immediately covered it in grit, making his throat scratchy. He tore a piece of dried beef and fed it to his son instead.

The film crew’s dispute with Kamba continued. Zhang Qiu watched from the sidelines, but before long, a shadow loomed over them.

He looked up—and came face to face with none other than Bai Guang’an.

The man held an apple in his hand, smiling like a predator. “Want some, kid?”

The little Jiangshi turned his back on him without hesitation, sitting obediently in Zhang Qiu’s lap and chewing his dried meat.

Li Shu ignored Bai Guang’an completely. He casually brushed the crumbs from Zhang Qiu’s lips and handed him a water bottle. Zhang Qiu, feeling stubborn, didn’t take it himself and just drank from Li Shu’s hand.

Qi Xi suddenly burst out laughing. “Pfft—hahaha!”

Turning to Bai Guang’an, he smirked. “Give it up, old man. Just looking at your face annoys me. Stop wasting your time here.”

Bai Guang’an’s expression darkened.

Xiao Zhang, horrified, nearly choked on his water. He quickly stood up and bowed apologetically. “Mr. Bai, my Qi-ge is just suffering from heatstroke and talking nonsense. Please don’t take it to heart!”

Qi Xi and his assistant played good cop, bad cop perfectly. Bai Guang’an’s face turned red, then white. Without another word, he spun on his heel and left.

Qi Xi, still laughing, held his stomach. “That was satisfying! I’ve been wanting to tell him off for ages.”

Xiao Zhang was on the verge of tears. “Qi-ge, couldn’t you have picked someone else to insult? Sister Ping is going to killme when she finds out.”

Zhang Qiu wasn’t very familiar with the entertainment industry, but even he could tell that Bai Guang’an wasn’t particularly famous. Seeing Xiao Zhang’s miserable expression, he asked, “Why are you so afraid of him? He’s not even that well-known.”

Xiao Zhang sighed and explained.

Bai Guang’an had spent years playing supporting roles in TV dramas and films. Recently, he had won a Best Supporting Actor award, which boosted his reputation. With the help of clever marketing, he had built up an image as a “seasoned actor” and “true artist,” contrasting himself with younger stars. His fans even called him a role model of “virtue and talent.”

However, industry insiders knew the truth. Bai Guang’an was a closeted gay man who had married a wealthy woman for convenience. After his wife passed away, he became even more promiscuous. He had partially funded this film, and since he actually had acting skills, Director Zhang had readily cast him as the male lead.

“I arrived at the hotel the first night, and that creep was already lurking outside my room, pretending he wanted to ‘run lines’ with me,” Qi Xi added.

At first, Zhang Qiu thought that sounded fairly professional. But when he saw Qi Xi’s teasing expression, he immediately understood the subtext. So the entertainment industry really is messy.

According to Xiao Zhang, Bai Guang’an had strong industry connections, a bit of wealth, and a carefully managed reputation. However, he was also petty and vindictive. Since Qi Xi had become famous too quickly, plenty of people were jealous. Bai Guang’an wouldn’t miss an opportunity to undermine him.

“I guarantee that when we get back, he’ll spread rumors about me being a diva who disrespects senior actors,” Qi Xi said with a shrug.

“Qi-ge, please, I’m begging you—next time, just let it slide!” Xiao Zhang practically begged.

Zhang Qiu knew it was pointless. Sure enough, Qi Xi grinned and replied, “Xiao Zhang, I’m scared of what might happen if I ever start holding back.”

Xiao Zhang: …I give up.

Their conversation was cut short by an argument breaking out nearby. The group fell silent.

King Hui of Xiapi was the first to step outside to check. Zhang Qiu and the others followed.

Kamba’s face was red with anger as he shouted, “No! You cannot go any further!”

The director was just as furious. “I paid you! Show some respect!”

Before the situation could escalate further, Bai Guang’an stepped in, all smiles. “Come now, let’s be reasonable. We just want to film a little farther in. We’ll pay extra, of course.”

He named a price.

Kamba hesitated.

Zhang Qiu’s eyes narrowed. This whole thing is too convenient. Someone is deliberately leading us deeper.:

Kamba wavered for a moment, and the director’s anger subsided. He immediately took advantage of the opportunity, speaking more calmly, “We won’t go far—just a few kilometers more. It’s not a big deal, right? If we wrap up quickly, we’ll leave right away. Besides, I’m willing to pay extra as compensation.”

Zhang Qiu saw the hesitation in Kamba’s face and knew the man was torn between his belief in the True God’s warning and the financial incentive.

After some discussion, Kamba reluctantly agreed under strict conditions: everything had to be done according to his instructions, no one was allowed to stray from the group, and if anything unusual happened, they had to retreat immediately.

Turning to Zhang Qiu and his group, Kamba apologized, “I have to guide them. If you want, Aishan can take you back.” His face was still flushed with residual anger from the argument.

Zhang Qiu and the others quickly waved off the suggestion, insisting that they might as well go along for safety reasons.

As if we’d leave now. This was the moment they had been waiting for. Bai Guang’an’s insistence on pushing the film crew deeper into the desert was no coincidence—he was clearly following a plan. If they left now, they’d lose the chance to uncover the real reason behind all this.

Though suspicious, Kamba trusted Zhang Qiu and his companions far more than the film crew. Throughout the journey, Zhang Qiu’s group had been cautious and obedient, never questioning his expertise, unlike these stubborn filmmakers. He reluctantly accepted their decision.

With everything settled, the group prepared to move deeper into the desert. The black SUV carrying the filming equipment went ahead, while another vehicle carried the director, Bai Guang’an, and two female crew members. Qi Xi, like Zhang Qiu’s group, rode a camel instead.

By now, it was midday, and the scorching sun beat down relentlessly. Every step in the sand felt exhausting, the heat distorting the air and making the landscape shimmer.

Zhang Qiu held the little Jiangshi tightly against his chest, shielding him from the sun. His son’s naturally cool body was a relief in the unbearable heat.

After about thirty minutes of riding, Kamba suddenly whistled sharply.

Zhang Qiu knew they had arrived. He lifted his face covering, and the sight before him took his breath away.

Amid the endless golden dunes, a patch of lush greenery stretched out in the distance—a verdant oasis in the middle of the desert. Even from here, Zhang Qiu could feel the coolness radiating from it.

The film crew, too, was stunned by the sight. Though they had heard of desert oases, seeing one with their own eyes was something else. In the midst of the barren, sun-scorched landscape, the oasis looked like a miracle.

“That’s a perfect backdrop!” the director exclaimed, pointing toward the oasis.

Kamba’s face immediately darkened. His voice was firm. “No. That is the True God’s dwelling place. We cannot enter.”

Hearing the absolute refusal in his tone, the director looked displeased but didn’t argue. Instead, he instructed his crew to start setting up their equipment in the agreed-upon location.

As the crew got to work, Kamba stood near the camels, his fingers stroking one of their necks as he stared uneasily at the distant oasis. After a moment, he turned his gaze to the sky. Then, without warning, he dropped to his knees in the sand and pressed his forehead to the ground, facing the oasis.

At first, Zhang Qiu thought he was simply praying.

But when Kamba suddenly stood up, his face filled with alarm, Zhang Qiu realized something was wrong.

“Storm’s coming!” Kamba shouted. “We have to leave! Now!”

Grabbing his brother by the collar, he yelled, “Get on your camel! Hurry!”

The sudden urgency caught everyone off guard. The film crew, who had just finished unloading their equipment, now had to scramble to pack it all up again. Some were frustrated, thinking Kamba was being overly cautious, but the growing fear in his voice was contagious.

“Don’t bother packing! The vehicles won’t be able to outrun it!” Kamba warned, his voice growing more desperate.

Li Shu quickly pulled Zhang Qiu onto his camel, sandwiching the little Jiangshi between them. Seeing this, Lu Feng and Hua Ting also paired up, ensuring they wouldn’t get separated if visibility worsened. Qi Xi climbed onto a camel with Xiao Zhang, though he was clearly annoyed.

Meanwhile, the film crew still hesitated, unwilling to abandon their expensive equipment. The director barked out frantic orders to salvage what they could, loading it back onto the SUVs as quickly as possible.

Kamba, seeing their delay, grew even more anxious. “Forget the equipment! Just run!”

Mounting his own camel, he led the way, the group quickly following.

As they galloped through the shifting dunes, Zhang Qiu felt his stomach churn from the motion. But before he could complain, a fierce wind picked up behind them, sending sand flying through the air.

A deafening howling filled the sky.

Looking back, Zhang Qiu saw the approaching sandstorm—a massive, swirling wall of dust, advancing with terrifying speed.

From the front, Kamba’s voice rang out in prayer, “True God, protect us!”

Just as despair was about to set in, they spotted something ahead—half-buried ruins, the remains of an ancient fortress hidden within the desert.

Kamba’s voice cracked with relief. “A shelter! Over there!”

He blew his whistle urgently, signaling for everyone to head toward the ruins.

The film crew, now in full panic, followed suit, struggling to control their camels while the vehicles, despite their initial advantage, struggled to move through the thickening sand.

As they neared the ruins, Kamba began barking orders. “Dismount! Tie the camels together so they don’t run off!”

Moving swiftly, they led the animals into a partially intact section of the ruins. Kamba and his brother blindfolded the camels and secured them tightly with ropes, ensuring they wouldn’t bolt in fear.

The wind grew stronger, the air thick with dust.

“Dig! Bury yourselves as much as possible!” Kamba instructed.

Even as he spoke, Aishan was already clawing at the sand, digging himself a hole.

In the distance, the film crew’s SUV screeched to a halt, the director pale and shaking. Bai Guang’an looked just as rattled, his usually composed demeanor shattered.

Ignoring them, Kamba repeated his instructions. “Lie down! Keep your bodies low!”

Li Shu, King Hui of Xiapi, and Lu Feng quickly helped Zhang Qiu dig a trench big enough for all of them. They lay inside, piling sand over their bodies, leaving only their faces exposed.

The sunbaked sand burned against Zhang Qiu’s skin, but he gritted his teeth and stayed still.

Suddenly, the wind shifted.

The fierce howling seemed to slow, then abruptly cut off.

Through the crumbling walls, Zhang Qiu spotted a dark shape moving toward them.

At first, he thought it was a trick of the sand.

Then, he saw it clearly.

A second vehicle was approaching.

Kamba cursed under his breath. “Idiots! Stay low!”

Before he could say more, Zhang Qiu saw what Kamba had been fearing all along.

A monstrous sandstorm, taller than any building, was bearing down on them.