Chapter 64 — Recruiting a Mystic as My Bodyguard

“The butterfly is too conspicuous. Let’s go with the plum blossom you mentioned,” Mu Ran said, sitting casually on the tattoo parlor’s chair, addressing the conflicted tattoo artist before her.

She was far from superstitious enough to believe a tattoo could alter one’s fate. What mattered now was concealing the scar at the end of her brow.

The tattoo artist glanced at Mu Ran, scratched his bald head, and pondered a moment before saying, “Miss, maybe you should reconsider. The color of a plum blossom is quite bold—it might look too abrupt on your face.”

The woman didn’t want to dwell any longer. She simply wished to cover the scar on her face as quickly as possible. Today’s accident had caught her completely off guard. Never in her life had she imagined being disfigured by an obsessive fan.

The bald artist watched Mu Ran, reading her hesitation. He knew that getting a tattoo was a lifelong decision—especially one on the face.

“Miss, why not take my advice? Use the machine to remove the scar; you won’t need a tattoo, and your face can be restored just as it was!” he suggested.

“Miss, don’t agonize over it. All that talk about fate is just superstition. You can treat me as a charlatan. A tattoo on your face can’t possibly affect your career! With such a beautiful face, you really shouldn’t risk it.”

Mu Ran glanced around the room, noting the pictures of customers’ tattoos on the walls, silently questioning if she should go through with it.

Though the entertainment industry had no explicit ban on tattoos for artists, if she made the wrong choice—inking a conspicuous pattern on her face—it could limit her future roles.

While Mu Ran was still deliberating, the tattoo artist, after a moment of silence, clapped his hands together as if struck by inspiration.

His eyes gleamed with excitement as he turned to her. “Miss, our shop has just gotten a new material. The pattern only shows color in extreme heat; otherwise, it stays flesh-toned!”

Mu Ran looked at him, her voice resolute. “Then use your new material on me.”

“What pattern would you like?”

“Peach blossom.”

The tattoo artist instructed her to remain seated and went to fetch his equipment.

“Miss, it’s going to hurt a little,” he warned.

“It’s fine,” she replied.

Such pain was nothing to Mu Ran, who had returned from the brink of death. The agony she’d suffered in her previous life was a thousand times worse.

Throughout the process, her face remained impassive, betraying no hint of pain.

The artist grew curious—was this girl numb to feeling? Usually, the women he tattooed would writhe and cry as if in torment. Yet she was a refreshing anomaly: not a single cry, not a single complaint, her delicate face utterly expressionless.

Twenty minutes later—

“Miss, here’s a mirror. Take a look.” The artist was brimming with satisfaction, gazing intently at the end of her brow, his head shaking in admiration as he muttered, “Brilliant, simply flawless.”

To him, Mu Ran’s face was an unrivaled masterpiece.

“This is the most perfect work I’ve done in years. Miss, may I take a photo of your peach blossom?”

Mu Ran held the small mirror, gently touching the slightly swollen end of her brow, where the scar had been replaced by a tiny peach blossom. At this moment, the blossom was flesh-toned, blending seamlessly with her skin.

“It’s beautiful. Thank you,” she murmured, absorbed in the unique charm of her face, not noticing what the bald artist had just said.

“Silence means consent.” He whipped out his phone and snapped a picture of her face, the flash causing her to close her eyes tightly, her brows knitting.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

He waved his phone triumphantly, “Taking a photo for my social media, as a promo! This material is a first-time trial, and it turned out so well—maybe it’ll become the shop’s signature in the future.”

Mu Ran slowly opened her eyes, her gaze icy and tinged with anger.

She rose and strode to the bald man, who was so stunned by her fierce aura that he froze in place. She snatched the phone from his hand, deleted the photo, and tossed it aside.

“Hey! You—” he protested.

Mu Ran’s lips parted slightly as she looked straight into his helpless, wary brown eyes. “You have no right to photograph me. Is your shop the only one with this material?”

He nodded dumbly, intimidated and eager to get away from her—her presence was unnerving.

He swallowed, eyes darting toward the door behind Mu Ran, edging aside and wiping the sweat from his brow. “Yes, we’re the only shop in the country with it.”

“I’ll buy the rights to use this material. Name your price,” she said.

The tattoo artist exaggeratedly dug at his ear, his tone rising in disbelief. “Miss, did I hear that right?”

“Name your price.”

Mu Ran glanced at her watch, bent to pick up her bag, and prepared to leave.

“Miss, this material is quite niche. Most people want flashy, eye-catching tattoos. You know, Miss, judging by your features, you’re destined for greatness. How about this—I won’t offer this material to other clients!”

Mu Ran moved quickly, and the artist rambled behind her, unsure if she’d heard him. “Miss, did you hear what I said?”

“Name your price.”

They reached the lobby of the tattoo parlor, where Mu Ran paused, her expression gentle.

She wondered if this man was some kind of charlatan—why did he speak so cryptically?

“Come on! No need for money, don’t be so formal! If I ever need a favor, just lend me a hand, that’s all I ask.”

It was the first time Mu Ran had encountered such a way of doing business. She had no idea what her future held—could this man really foresee it?

Suddenly, he leaned in close, his smiling eyes searching hers, half skeptical, half amused. “Are you thinking I’m a charlatan and doubting I can predict the future?”

Mu Ran said nothing, frowned, and stepped back, turning to another room to look for An Lan.

She chose to ignore the bald man behind her. Despite his jovial demeanor and apparent good temper, Mu Ran knew all too well that such people were the most shrewd.

“Miss! I’m not shrewd at all! I’m very straightforward!” The bald artist hurried over, blocking her path, his gaze earnest. “I’ve been waiting for you. Your name is Mu Ran. Right now, you’re a minor celebrity, but in the future, you’ll shine with starlight!”

“Could we keep things practical?” Mu Ran rolled her eyes, her hand pressed to her forehead in exasperation.

Yet the artist persisted, chattering endlessly, none of it making any sense to her.

“Little sister, sit down, don’t rush. Let me say something you’ll understand,” he said, motioning her to the sofa. Noting her simmering anger, he spoke anxiously, “Miss, Bai Zehan—you must not marry that man. He’ll ruin you. At best, destroy your family; at worst, cost you your life.”

“And you’re not an actress, either. For now, stop acting—it’ll be good for you. Miss, take good advice.”

At the mention of “Bai Zehan,” Mu Ran’s gaze shifted from skeptical and resigned to earnest and grave.

She was far from superstitious, nor did she believe in fate. Yet her inexplicable return from death and the man’s words felt disturbingly real.

“Big brother, you’re not just a tattoo artist, are you?” she asked.

He laughed heartily—finally, she believed him. With a meaningful smile, he replied, “Miss, the tattoo material is actually just plain water. But I added something special—only those with the mark of rebirth will see it change color with heat.”

“No need to guess my identity. Just treat me as a legend.”

He shook his head, smiling broadly, fearing Mu Ran would find him mysterious and become infatuated. But the opposite was true.

Mu Ran squinted at him, as if looking at a fool.

“Big brother, you really shouldn’t say things like that to others,” she warned.

He looked puzzled. “Why not?”

“Others aren’t as patient as me. They won’t tolerate your rambling.”

Hearing this, the artist couldn’t sit still. He leapt up and stood squarely before her.

“Miss, I mean it! I don’t care—I’m sticking with you from now on!”

The receptionist at the tattoo parlor watched this scene, jaw nearly dropping, wondering how their boss could stoop so low: after tattooing a beauty for a while, he was ready to pledge himself to her.

“Boss, what’ll we do if you leave?” Who would pay their wages then?

The bald artist turned angrily, hands on hips, shaking his head helplessly. “You’ve still got Brother Guang here. Don’t worry, your wages are safe—when have I ever let you down?”

The receptionist was embarrassed—the boss was using mind-reading again! Ever since he’d started working here, none of his thoughts had escaped the boss’s notice.

“I need a bodyguard. Are you up for it?” Mu Ran asked, chin raised, her tone languid. This man didn’t seem bad; he was skilled, perhaps even a master of metaphysics. Keeping him close might prove useful.

Her words brought a hush to the tattoo parlor’s lobby.

“What? Bodyguard not good enough? Then stick to being the boss,” Mu Ran said, seeing the man’s back turned, silent for so long she lost patience and rose to look for An Lan.

“Yes! I’d be delighted!” The man turned, tears streaming down his face as he grabbed Mu Ran’s hand. “At last, I’ve waited for you!”