Dimensional Hotel

Perhaps it was the thrill of his very first proper journey through the Otherworld. Or maybe it was that his head felt crammed with too much new information, leaving his thoughts racing in circles. In any case, he realized he would not drift off so easily tonight. After two hours of tossing and turning, he gave up. He slipped a jacket over his pajamas and quietly left his room.

Just as Yu Sheng eased the door open, the small doll sitting on the bed suddenly shot upright. Its eyes remained closed, yet it spoke in a sleepy, muffled voice. “Heading out? Where to?”

Yu Sheng froze, startled. He was about to answer when Irene flopped back down onto the bed with a dull thud. Still half-asleep, she mumbled, “Don’t forget your helmet if you’re buying money… You and that silly fox ate so much and never took me to play games…”

Nonsensical sleep-talk, of course. Yu Sheng couldn’t help but wonder why a doll would need sleep—or how it could talk in its sleep at all. He stifled a sigh and checked that Irene was truly still dozing. Assured that she hadn’t really awakened, he quietly slipped into the hallway.

The sun had yet to rise, and the world outside the house lay submerged in a deep, pre-dawn darkness. This was the quietest time of the night. All was so hushed that the faint scuff of Yu Sheng’s slippers seemed oddly loud in the silence.

He paused, glancing around. At the end of the hall was a door. Yu Sheng walked over, gently cracked it open, and peeked inside. Finding everything exactly as it should be, he relaxed. He then headed back toward the staircase at the opposite end of the corridor.

Near the top of the stairs, Yu Sheng noticed a jacket hanging over the banister—his jacket from the night before. He remembered coming in late, too tired to do anything more than toss it there carelessly.

Dark stains stood out across the fabric. The cloth was torn where the giant wolf had clamped its jaws, and the bloodstains looked grim, as if they belonged in a crime scene photograph.

Yu Sheng picked up the jacket and examined it more closely. He hadn’t paid much attention to it last night, but now he realized it was beyond saving. The tear was huge, the blood would never wash out, and it hadn’t been anything special to begin with. He might as well throw it out.

That said, tossing something so bloody into the rubbish might cause trouble. It would frighten anyone who saw it—neighbors might even call the police, worried something dreadful had happened.

Yu Sheng’s mind drifted as he stared at the bloodstains. He imagined how much blood he’d lost. He recalled how, if he’d thought to use that blood differently—maybe smearing it around the museum’s walls—he might have gained more control over that strange space or discovered new abilities. He wondered what kind of creature that giant wolf really was, that wolf that emerged from the shadow of Little Red Riding Hood’s tale.

Eventually, all these thoughts led him to one lingering question: What, exactly, was his blood?

This notion had been swirling in his mind for a while now, but he’d never had the time or a good idea for how to test it. Tonight, with sleep off the table, he felt a spark of inspiration. After a moment’s hesitation, he decided to act on it and climbed the stairs to the attic.n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

Moonlight filtered through the attic’s small window, bathing the space in a dark, shadowy blue. The large table Irene had once used as an “alchemy workbench” stood quietly in a dim corner, still scattered with tools and scraps from when they’d crafted her body. A few old books were piled in one corner, next to an ancient desk lamp.

Yu Sheng didn’t turn on the main light. Instead, he switched on the small lamp, its dim glow focusing his attention. He took a seat at the table and let his thoughts wander.

He remembered the time he’d replaced Irene’s arms with chunks of lotus root—an impromptu fix that had actually worked. Irene had complained fiercely, but the fact that such a crude repair had functioned at all was curious. If Irene was a “professional doll,” then random materials like clay, flour, or even garden dirt could potentially work for her repairs. But lotus root? That had been unexpected.

After pondering this a while, Yu Sheng opened a drawer and took out a disposable mixing cup. Then, with a craft knife from the table, he hesitated only briefly before cutting a small gash on the back of his hand. He let a few drops of his blood drip into the cup.

He knew very little about the arcane side of things. Irene had taught him a few basic principles for channeling, summoning, and activating objects—just the bare minimum. But for now, that was enough to pique his curiosity.

Fresh from his adventure in the Otherworld with Little Red Riding Hood, Yu Sheng felt a keener interest in the occult. He wanted to understand more, to expand his experience and knowledge. R̃

Recalling Irene’s instructions, he carefully arranged some candles to form a ritual circle and placed his blood at the center, surrounded by rings and lines meant to guide energy. He tried to summon his “spirit,” to channel its mysterious power into the blood.

Irene had once mentioned that blood was a “natural alchemical material,” an ideal medium for a beginner’s experiments. Blood represented life, the greatest magic of all. Even a novice could conduct simple tests with it.

Yet Yu Sheng quickly hit a snag. He had no idea how to truly summon his “spirit.” Recently, he’d grown more sensitive to what Irene called “spiritual intuition,” but he couldn’t quite treat it as something tangible. He felt no surge of supernatural energy within himself, no controlled force that he could send into his blood.

All he could do was use his imagination—imagine so hard that he nearly lulled himself to sleep with the effort.

After about ten fruitless minutes, Yu Sheng noticed the blood in the cup starting to clot. He sighed, giving up on this particular approach.

Maybe he needed other “supplementary materials.”

Thinking it over, he opened the drawer again and took out a bag of clay. After he’d run out of clay last time, he had purchased extra. He wanted to keep a supply around, especially in case Irene needed emergency repairs. He chuckled to himself. He couldn’t possibly use lotus root every single time; Irene would never forgive him for that.

Clay molding was, in fact, the only alchemical technique Yu Sheng had successfully pulled off so far.

He mixed his blood into the clay, kneading it thoroughly. Following the proportions Irene had mentioned, he then added tea powder, rose oil, and a few other ingredients. With these prepared, he began shaping the clay into the form of an arm.

Since he was already up and working, he might as well practice making doll parts. Irene often teased him about how ugly his creations were. If he could improve his craft, that would be worthwhile.

Determined, Yu Sheng poured all his patience into shaping that arm. He used sculpting tools and needles to define each finger, working with deliberate care. When he finished, he examined the result. It was still rather unattractive, but at least it looked more like a proper arm than his previous attempts. It had five fingers in the right places, which was progress.

Yu Sheng had never dared tell Irene that in his very first attempt at making her body, he ended up with two hands that had six fingers each. Fortunately, once Irene reassembled herself, she had fixed that issue on her own—and never mentioned it.

Satisfied for the moment, Yu Sheng placed the arm at the center of the alchemy circle. He tried to imagine a connection between himself and the arm through his blood, even wiggling his own right hand to see if the clay one would mirror his movement.

Nothing happened.

Frowning slightly, Yu Sheng poked the clay arm with his sculpting knife. Still no response. He decided to set it aside and think further.

Dawn’s first light began to seep in through the attic’s slanted window, though Yu Sheng was too absorbed to notice. Instead, he took more of his blood and mixed it into a fresh batch of clay.

There was a soothing rhythm to this work. The kneading and shaping felt oddly satisfying, and the more he did it, the more his mind seemed to clear and focus. He decided that if he’d made one arm, he might as well try for an entire body. Even if the alchemy didn’t pan out, he’d at least be getting valuable practice.

He imagined the future—perhaps he could prepare a spare body for Irene. She wouldn’t need one for a few months, but this gave him plenty of time to refine his skills and maybe even surprise her with a better-crafted figure.

With renewed enthusiasm, Yu Sheng cut himself a bit more, letting out a little more blood, yet feeling oddly energized rather than drained. He shaped a torso next, followed by another arm, and two legs. Then he opened a new packet of clay and began to sculpt a head.

This was tougher than the limbs. A head required careful detail and subtle features. To make matters trickier, there was the question of makeup. When he’d first made Irene’s body, he skipped the makeup entirely, and she somehow managed to form her own face. This time, Yu Sheng wanted to attempt something more refined. He’d even bought a miniature makeup set, designed for dolls and figurines, and it would be a shame not to use it.

Time slipped by as Yu Sheng became completely absorbed in his work. He didn’t notice anything else.

Not the faint twitch of the arm’s fingers on the table. Not the near-imperceptible rise and fall of the clay torso’s chest, as if tiny lungs hidden within it had begun to breathe.