Chapter 239: Shadow Puppets and Lamplight (5)
Originally, even if Zhang Wubing had to suddenly change the filming location, there were many options available for him to choose from.
The production team was no longer the same as it had been at the beginning, when it was an insignificant, low-budget variety show.
By now, the show had gained significant attention and success. Each filming location had brought great benefits, with many places experiencing a revival as a result of the show.
Not only did various entertainment companies recognize the commercial value of this program, but the different regions also realized the positive impact it had on local economies.
Even in the southern regions, where a joint collaboration had failed, a series of unexpected positive results had emerged. The previously overlooked Nanming Mountain Scenic Area, despite its failure, had revived the entire southern region’s tourism industry.
Many viewers who had been captivated by the beauty of Nanming Mountain chose to travel south, bringing the region’s landscapes into the public eye.
Those who traveled to the area, along with the show’s audience, frequently left messages on the southern region’s official social media accounts, wishing for Nanming Mountain’s recovery and promising that they would be the first to visit once the restoration was completed.
The southern region’s staff was deeply moved. Whether out of economic or personal sentiment, they had grown increasingly fond of the production team.
And other regions had also been paying attention to this.
So, before this particular episode’s filming, the director’s team had received a wide range of proposed locations. The variety was overwhelming, with each location offering something unique and meaningful, making it a tough choice for anyone, even those without a fear of making decisions.
Even though Zhang Wubing later changed his mind and decided to focus on promoting something related to cultural heritage, there were still many “heritage” topics available for him to choose from.
There were towns that had focused on the ancient art of hand-made Xuan paper for centuries, regions with a deep tradition of porcelain-making, and artisans specializing in the ancient art of the guqin…
But among all these options, Zhang Wubing chose the shadow puppetry of Baizhi Lake.
Why?
Because the shadow puppetry of Baizhi Lake was on the verge of being lost.
Like other cultural traditions, shadow puppetry had many different schools, each with its own characteristics and focuses. The stories performed varied greatly from one school to another.
Some schools had become widely known, even synonymous with the term “shadow puppetry” in the minds of the general public.
For example, the Sichuan shadow puppetry, the Liangjiang shadow puppetry, the Beijing shadow puppetry, and the Linhai shadow puppetry.
However, there were also smaller schools that were in danger of being lost.
Baizhi Lake’s shadow puppetry was one of these.
The making of shadow puppets was a highly intricate process, from choosing the skin, preparing the leather, to attaching the connecting parts that made the figures move fluidly. There were strict standards for each stage of the process.
Though each region’s shadow puppetry had its own unique traits, the basic production methods were similar, with regional and folk influences making the final performance styles differ.
But Baizhi Lake’s shadow puppetry was different.
While other schools of shadow puppetry focused on the leather, Baizhi Lake’s shadow puppetry focused on the bones.
Thanks to the region’s skilled woodworkers, the puppets were crafted with a unique design that made their movements more flexible, shifting the connection from the leather to the bones. This technique was known as “bone seams” or “bone joints.”
The puppets were first made from thin wooden sticks to form the bones, and then the skin was placed over the bones, with detailed facial features painted on the skin.
It was a method that gave the puppets both structure and flexibility, much like a human body—bones, flesh, and skin were all present.
In the last century, Baizhi Lake’s shadow puppetry had reached its peak.
Critics at the time had praised it, calling it “beauty in the bones, not in the skin,” and considered it a unique treasure within the world of shadow puppetry.
But now, Baizhi Lake’s shadow puppetry had suffered heavy damage and was on the brink of being lost. The only traces of its former glory could be found in old newspapers and reports.
When Zhang Wubing saw the proposal for Baizhi Lake among a pile of folders, it struck him as a pitiful little thing, overshadowed by a group of much more glamorous and eye-catching proposals.
It was like an unnoticed, shabby little beauty, struggling to stand out.
So, almost without thinking, he reached out and pulled out the folder about Baizhi Lake, flipping through its long history and the changes it had undergone over the centuries. He felt deep pain for its current state, on the verge of vanishing.
In that moment, Zhang Wubing thought of Yan Shixun.
Brother Yan had taken on responsibilities that didn’t belong to him, providing support for countless lives. If he could do such a thing, then why couldn’t Zhang Wubing do what he could to help?
For example, save the shadow puppetry of Baizhi Lake.
As long as the Baizhi Lake shadow puppetry was promoted, even if the chances were small, there would surely be someone who would appreciate it. Perhaps there would even be young people willing to learn and carry it on, saving it from fading into obscurity?
Zhang Wubing could hardly wait to see Baizhi Lake shadow puppetry rise again and reclaim its past glory.
However, because they were still in the middle of filming for the show, Zhang Wubing didn’t reveal his true intentions—after all, it wasn’t necessary for the audience to know about it.
He focused on elaborating on the long history of Baizhi Lake shadow puppetry and, with enthusiasm, told the guests, “In order for everyone to appreciate Baizhi Lake shadow puppetry firsthand, we’ve also arranged a trip to a shadow puppetry museum on our way to Baizhi Lake.”
“Although the last living inheritor of Baizhi Lake shadow puppetry is quite elderly and unable to perform shadow puppetry for us at the moment, the museum holds many archival materials from the past. Everyone can see what the shadow puppetry looked like during its peak.”
Zhang Wubing scratched his head, smiling a little awkwardly. “I’m a bit embarrassed to say, but I’ve never actually seen shadow puppetry before.”
“It’s okay, Director Zhang, don’t feel bad. I’ve never seen it either.”
An Nanyuan responded with a smile. Then, he suddenly said, “Hmm?” in confusion and asked, “But since it had a peak period, how come there’s only one inheritor left now? Isn’t that a bit fast?”
Zhang Wubing: “Ah…”
“You’ve really asked a difficult question.”
Zhang Wubing quickly lowered his head and flipped through his script frantically, but clearly, the production team hadn’t covered this part during their background research.
It had only been brushed over briefly.
But when An Nanyuan asked the question, Xie Lin’s face showed a brief moment of hesitation, as though lost in thought.
This brief anomaly didn’t escape Yan Shixun’s sharp eyes. He slightly narrowed his eyes, watching as his phone slid elegantly through his fingers before being snapped back into his hand. He quickly opened the private account of the official in charge.
Soon, the official in charge, who had just picked up his medication from the hospital, received an inquiry from Yan Shixun.
Yan Shixun: [Has the name Xie Lin appeared in any events handled by the special department, or has anyone in this circle heard of him?]
Yan Shixun: [And what about Baizhi Lake?]
“Xie Lin?”
The official in charge murmured under his breath when he saw the name, frowning slightly. The name sounded very familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it.
However, the name “Baizhi Lake” was something the official definitely remembered.
And it left quite an impression.
After all, there were few cases involving the destruction of an entire village…
“Are you also a fan of Xie Lin?”
A curious voice interrupted the official’s thoughts.
The official snapped back to reality and looked up to see another person, who had also just come out of the hospital, looking at him excitedly, as though they’d found a kindred spirit.
Clearly, when the official had inadvertently repeated Xie Lin’s name earlier, this person had overheard and assumed the official was also a fan of Xie Lin.
The person was holding their phone, which displayed the trending search page on Xie Lin.
The official suddenly realized why the name Xie Lin sounded so familiar.
Ah, yes, that retired song god.
The official didn’t pay much attention to celebrity gossip.
Since he’d been dedicating all his time and energy to the special department, his need for entertainment and leisure had been squeezed to a minimum.
Even a famous name like Xie Lin, who had once been known far and wide, only left a faint impression on him.
What truly stuck in the official’s mind were the things Xie Lin had done after retiring from the entertainment industry.
Because the special department dealt with all sorts of supernatural and eerie incidents, they often worked with real experts.
And Xie Lin’s name had come up in conversations with a number of these masters.
When the retired song god was mentioned, many of the masters would sigh and mutter.
“Xie Lin… poor guy.”
Though these masters often only spoke casually, revealing little bits of information, the official had heard enough over time to piece together a picture of Xie Lin’s past.
Xie Lin’s real name wasn’t actually Xie Lin; he had adopted that name after entering the music industry with the help of a talent scout.
At that time, Xie Lin was young, in his teens, full of ambition, feeling like the world was at his feet, and believing he was on par with the sun and the moon.
He thought, with such talent, he was destined to be extraordinary.
So, he took the name Xie Lin, meaning “Qilin child,” inspired by the mythical creature, as a symbol of his uniqueness.
It was as if a name alone could sever all the suffering and tragic past he had endured, and from that moment on, open the door to a brand new life.
Xie Lin had also given his younger sister a new name—Xie Jiaojiao—hoping her life would blossom with joy, be smooth and fortunate, and never again be filled with hardship.
But the name was too grand.
Her fate couldn’t bear the weight of it.
“If only Xie Lin had chosen a more ordinary name, perhaps it wouldn’t have ended like this. But… alas.”
The master shook his head and sighed. “His fate was strong. It would have been fine if he were alone, but it harmed those around him. His sister, on the other hand, had a fragile fate, and naturally, this imbalance led to such an outcome. All the luck was taken by Xie Lin, leaving Xie Jiaojiao like a rootless duckweed—she had a home, but no destiny.”
Xie Jiaojiao’s life or death remained unknown. Xie Lin searched for her like a madman. Every master in the field had received pleas from him at some point. Many of them pitied the siblings and genuinely wanted to help.
But no matter how they read the divinations, it was as if Xie Jiaojiao had never existed in this world. No one could find her—not in heaven, nor on earth.
It was as if, from the very beginning, the person Xie Lin had brought home simply never existed.
The masters were horrified by such an omen, but when faced with the haggard and grief-stricken Xie Lin, none of them could bring themselves to say such a cruel thing. In the end, they could only express helplessness and advise him to seek out even greater experts.
Because of this, over the years, whenever the official in charge worked with masters, he would occasionally hear news about Xie Lin—whom he had gone to see next, and how there had been no progress in the matter.
Now, the image of Xie Lin filling the screen of his phone jolted the official’s memory. He froze for a few seconds, then smiled and nodded at the people around him—who had assumed he was just another fan—without explaining further.
He immediately opened his social media apps to check the trending topics related to Xie Lin and the show.
It wasn’t out of idle curiosity—Zhang Wubing’s constitution was just too strange. Even walking on a perfectly normal road, he could somehow turn it into an Yin path.
And now, with Xie Lin—who had already spent years consulting masters in search of his missing sister—in the mix, the official found it impossible to relax.
But unlike the official’s unease, the rest of the fans were overjoyed to see Xie Lin appear on camera again—it felt more exciting than the New Year.
Even people who hadn’t originally liked the show tuned in to this episode just to see Xie Lin.
On the real-time trending charts, nearly all the top topics were about Xie Lin.
Since Yan Shixun had risen to fame because of this program, this was the first time that the show had aired without his name appearing on the trending list. Instead, discussion about Xie Lin was absolutely everywhere.
The official randomly clicked on one trending tag and was instantly greeted with the chaotic excitement of what seemed like thousands of screaming groundhogs gathered in one place.
“It’s really Xie Lin! He’s back—my youth has returned!”
“Who didn’t copy Xie Lin’s lyrics by hand back in the day? I remember how we used to buy pretty notebooks after school just to read and re-read his lyrics.”
“Thanks to Xie Lin, I realized a person could live freely and recklessly, not just like some assembly-line product. I’m crying—he was my idol!”
“Sadly, I was too young to witness that golden era with my own eyes.”
“Does anyone know where he’s been all these years? I miss him so much.”
“I think he returned to Song Entertainment years ago—that’s Song Ci’s family company. But since he didn’t want to make a comeback, the company didn’t push him to do anything.”
“There were a few interviews, right? Otherwise, where do you think all those Xie Lin video edits came from over the years?”
“He’s just unreal! I can’t believe he’s over forty now—he doesn’t look it at all. He’s aged so well, he’s even better-looking than in his youth. He has this calm and mature charm that only time can bring.”
“He’s the king of the uncle fanbase. Do you think we’re joking? With just a few interviews, he still made it onto the annual lists of entertainment’s most beautiful men. If Xie Lin wasn’t on the list, that list had no credibility.”
“Sigh, what a shame. We never really knew why he left the industry back then…”
The official only scrolled briefly through the social media feed before he noticed that Xie Lin’s popularity was visibly skyrocketing with the live broadcast. It was as if the attention of the entire internet had converged on this show and on Xie Lin.
This level of attention made the official uneasy.
He immediately contacted the public opinion leader
and said sternly, “This episode is nothing like the others. The level of attention is way too high. We absolutely cannot afford to have anything go wrong.”
The public opinion leader agreed at once but couldn’t help asking out of curiosity, “I actually asked Director Zhang a few days ago. He said Taoist Wang from Haiyun Temple had already checked the filming location and said it was fine. Why are you still so worried?”
“Intuition?”
The official thought for a moment, then shook his head with a bitter smile. “Honestly, it’s not just that. It’s mainly that… Director Zhang Wubing is giving me PTSD at this point. How does he keep running into ghosts everywhere he goes? That kind of probability isn’t something a normal person can hit.”
The public opinion leader burst out laughing. “Come on, no one can be unlucky forever, right? Director Zhang’s had a string of bad luck for so many episodes—it’s about time his luck turned around.”
The official sighed. “Let’s hope so.”
But after hanging up, he still didn’t feel reassured, so he called Taoist Song Yi.
After hearing the official’s concerns, Taoist Song Yi fell silent for a moment, then immediately stood up to prepare to head to the filming site.
“Don’t worry too much. I just recovered from my injuries and haven’t taken on any new tasks yet. I’ll make the trip.”
He reassured him, saying, “Taoist Wang already told me about it. Director Zhang Wubing brought him the location to check, and it was fine. Now that I’m going too, even if something does happen, we’ll be in time to deal with it. Rest assured.”
A young acolyte boy came over when he heard the voice and asked Taoist Song Yi where he was going.
Taoist Song Yi smiled and showed the paper that Taoist Wang had brought. Clearly written on it was the destination in the northern Jingang area, along with a divination result indicating all would be peaceful there.
That location was exactly the filming site Zhang Wubing had decided on before he suddenly changed the original plan.
At the same time, after introducing Baizhihu Lake to the guests, Zhang Wubing happily opened his tablet to check the show’s current popularity.
One glance, and he was shocked.
“Oh my god…”
Zhang Wubing stared at the rapidly increasing number of subscribers to the program, dumbfounded, and muttered under his breath, “Song God’s popularity is insane.”
“Brother Yan, I really think we’ve got a shot this time.”
Zhang Wubing scooted over to Yan Shixun and whispered excitedly, “Look, even if just one in ten thousand people are interested in shadow puppetry, based on this kind of exposure, thousands—even tens of thousands—could end up learning about Baizhi Lake’s shadow puppets! Doesn’t that mean there’s a market for it?”
“Once this episode wraps up, let’s talk to the folks in the Southwest region and plan a joint shadow puppet performance, huh!”
He slapped his thigh, thrilled, and said, “Wouldn’t that just breathe new life into Baizhi Lake’s shadow puppetry?!”
He looked incredibly proud of his idea and was already joyfully imagining the future.
Yan Shixun lazily fluttered his lashes and glanced sideways at him.
Though he remained cautious about the prospects of shadow puppetry—after all, modern people had so many more entertaining options now.
Whether it was short videos or games, these things were far more appealing to most people than shadow puppetry, which belonged to the entertainment of a bygone era.
Still, he didn’t want to discourage his silly little companion’s enthusiasm, so he half-heartedly responded with a few “mm-hm” sounds, not saying much else.
But Zhang Wubing clearly didn’t catch on to Yan Shixun’s lack of enthusiasm and kept pestering him to do a fortune reading on how successful Baizhi Lake shadow puppetry might be in the future—could it even go international?
Yan Shixun: “…………”
If you weren’t Zhang Dabing, I’d honestly want to beat you to death right now.
Yan Shixun stared wordlessly at Zhang Wubing for a long moment, then finally pinched his fingers together to calculate a divination.
But as he looked at the resulting hexagram, his brow unexpectedly lifted.
It actually looked… good?
Yan Shixun was a bit puzzled, but with Zhang Wubing looking at him with such hopeful eyes, he gave a slight nod and offered an affirmative answer.
He said, “You’ve become the wild card for Baizhi Lake’s shadow puppetry. Because of you, it really might bounce back.”
Zhang Wubing let out a cheer, completely unaware of Yan Shixun’s earlier inner conflict, and kept rubbing his hands together excitedly, giggling away.
Seeing Zhang Wubing like that, Song Ci immediately made a face and said with disdain, “Da Bing, are you a dog? You’re drooling. Gross.”
Yan Shixun nodded in agreement with Song Ci’s comment.
Zhang Wubing whimpered, “Boo hoo, Brother Yan QAQ…”
The rest of the people in the vehicle witnessed the interaction and burst into laughter, the atmosphere turning lighthearted and cheerful.
Meanwhile, in the logistics vehicle, a staff member on the directing team was flipping through a notebook when something suddenly came to mind.
“Assistant director, what was the final result of the divination from the Taoist at Haiyun Temple? All I have here are the results from before the location was changed to Jingang.”
The staff member kept writing as they spoke, not even looking up. “Give me the results—I’ll write them down.”
The assistant director scratched his head and replied with some confusion, “Huh? Wasn’t that handled by Director Zhang? Weren’t we all busy scouting the new filming site then? Since Director Zhang had better communication with the folks at Haiyun Temple, we just let him take care of it.”
The staff member paused in their writing, puzzled. “Really? I don’t remember that.”
The assistant director pulled out his phone and messaged Zhang Wubing: “I’ll ask him.”
Because this episode featured guest Xie Lin, and the buzz he generated, plus the partnership with Song Entertainment, the workload this time had increased significantly.
There were still many tasks left to do, and the staff didn’t have time to focus on everything. So, with a quick “OK” hand gesture, he buried his head back in his work, setting the matter aside for now.
Inside the guest vehicle, the laughter and chatter completely drowned out the faint buzz of a vibrating phone.
Zhang Wubing was currently egging on Xie Lin along with the other guests, asking him to sing a few lines.
“There’s still about three hundred kilometers to go before we reach the Shadow Puppet Museum. That’s a few hours’ drive. If you don’t sing something for us, Brother Xie, everyone might fall asleep.”
Bai Shuang’s eyes sparkled like stars, her expectant look making it hard for anyone to say no.
Xie Lin thought it over, then helplessly shook his head and said, “Alright, but I haven’t sung in years. I don’t even know if my voice is still on key. If I sound bad, don’t laugh at me.”
“Of course not!”
“Sing! Sing!”
Even the audiences in front of the main screen and side screens were overwhelmed with excitement, their hearts pounding so fast it felt like they might leap out of their chests.
[Sister Bai Shuang, I love you! You voiced what everyone was feeling!]
[In my lifetime! I can’t believe I get to hear song god sing again. I’m so moved.]
[I can die without regrets now!!!]
[I hereby declare myself a die-hard fan of this show from today onward! If it weren’t for this program, if it weren’t for Song Ci, if it weren’t for Director Zhang, who knows how many years it’d be before I’d hear the song god sing again.]
[My youth… it’s back!]
[I’m a little nervous. Please, please, let nothing bad happen this episode. Heaven help us, I still want to hear song god sing more.]
[What are you thinking? It’s just a shadow puppet show. What could possibly go wrong?]
Yan Shixun rested his head on one hand, quietly watching Xie Lin, who was getting along well with everyone else, blending seamlessly into the cheerful atmosphere.
He wasn’t like the others—he didn’t look excited. His eyes remained as calm and sharp as ever, as if he wanted to dissect Xie Lin to uncover what kind of truth was hidden beneath the surface.
In Yan Shixun’s vision, the dark aura around Xie Lin’s forehead gradually expanded, almost engulfing his entire face.
A few dark lines had even begun to extend downward from the crown of Xie Lin’s head.
They seemed to follow the paths of his meridians, connecting his limbs and torso.
These dark lines stood out starkly against Xie Lin’s flesh and blood, running through him so naturally it looked like they were a part of him.
Yan Shixun couldn’t help but furrow his brows deeper and deeper.
Whether he consulted Ye Li and Song Ci or divined the matter himself, all signs pointed to nothing being wrong with Xie Lin. At most, he had a few minor ailments that were common in ordinary people, but nothing major.
And yet, what Yan Shixun saw contradicted the results of his divination—Xie Lin appeared to be completely consumed by karmic forces.
It felt like some long-forgotten karma had come back to claim Xie Lin, vowing to make him repay everything from the past, filled with resentment, trying to drag him into hell.
Such a contradiction made Yan Shixun even more wary of Xie Lin.
If it were any other episode, such a long journey would have exhausted the guests.
The first half would be lively, while the second half would have everyone dozing off.
But this time, thanks to Xie Lin’s presence, all the guests were buzzing with energy. Even the usually indifferent Young Master Song Ci, who never bothered to engage in what he considered childish topics, couldn’t help being drawn in and joined the conversation.
By the time they arrived at the shadow puppet museum, none of the guests showed any signs of sleepiness.
In fact, when Zhang Wubing announced they could get off the bus, everyone still seemed reluctant to leave, as if they hadn’t had enough.
“Director Zhang, why don’t we just turn this episode into a talk show with Brother Xie instead?”
Bai Shuang clung to the back of the seat, unwilling to get off, looking pitifully at Zhang Wubing.
Zhang Wubing: “………”
Then what did I spend all that effort preparing for?
Xie Lin chuckled and was the first to stand up, following Zhang Wubing’s cue to get off the bus. “I remember when I was a kid, whenever there was a market or a festival, there would always be shadow puppet shows. All the kids were so excited and wouldn’t leave the puppet stand. It’s been so many years, and now I get to relive that childhood memory—it’s really nice.”
“Oh, right, I almost forgot.”
Xie Lin turned back with a smile and winked at everyone. “My favorite shadow puppet show was The Monkey King Causes Havoc in Heaven.”
Bai Shuang was caught off guard by Xie Lin’s gaze. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. Her cheeks started to flush red.
With Xie Lin taking the lead, the others—though still a bit reluctant—got up, laughing and chatting as they made their way off the bus.
Bai Shuang quickly touched her hot cheeks in a panic, faked a cough, and hurried to get off as well.
Watching her, Yan Shixun felt an odd sense of familiarity.
At first, he thought it was just his instincts warning him that something was off, but when he thought about it more carefully, he suddenly realized why it felt so familiar.
—He had reacted in a similar way when he faced Ye Li!
So his supposedly subtle actions to mask his awkwardness back then… had actually been that obvious to others?
Yan Shixun was stunned.
“Shixun?”
Ye Li, who had just stood up to get off the bus with him, noticed that Yan Shixun had suddenly stopped and couldn’t help but ask, “What’s wrong?”
Yan Shixun: How am I supposed to answer that? Should I say that my supposedly discreet attempt to hide my awkwardness was actually even more awkward than the awkwardness itself?
Realizing just how obvious his reaction had been in front of Ye Li, Yan Shixun felt like his ears—hidden beneath his hair—were burning up.
He forced himself to regain composure as quickly as possible, then resumed his long strides and got off the bus. “Nothing, just thinking about the shadow puppet shows at the old markets.”
Ye Li caught his reaction clearly. He blinked once, and understanding dawned in his eyes.
A soft smile touched his gaze as he kindly reminded, “Shixun, back when we first met at the market, there wasn’t any shadow puppet show.”
Yan Shixun: “…………”
All right, fine. I get it. Your memory is excellent. No need to expose me like that.
Watching Yan Shixun flee in embarrassment, Ye Li let out a quiet laugh. His gaze, as he looked at Yan Shixun’s retreating back, was unbelievably gentle.
After getting off the bus, the guests—who had been too focused on Xie Lin to pay attention to the view outside—finally took a good look at the scenery of the southwest region.
The area around Baizhi Lake sat right on the border between the southwest and the southern regions, combining features of both terrains. But it was noticeably colder than the southern area.
Since it was winter, the plants covering the surrounding mountains were all bare, revealing yellow soil slopes beneath.
A cold wind howled through the mountains, chilling everyone straight through their clothes.
At a glance, the mountainous area, now stripped of green vegetation, appeared especially bleak and desolate.
Once the group took a proper look at their surroundings, the cheerful chatter abruptly gave way to a moment of collective silence.
The shadow puppet museum was located just a short distance from the highway exit. As the paved road gave way to a dusty dirt path, the once-smooth drive turned into a bumpy ride, the car swaying as gravel and potholes jarred its wheels. Clouds of yellow dust billowed with each passing vehicle.
The program crew’s convoy stopped at the intersection. However, they still had a bit further to walk before reaching the shadow puppet museum.
The driver looked helpless. The road ahead was indeed difficult to navigate—several large craters were clearly visible, the path was narrow, and right beside the dirt track was a sheer cliff. This road was unfriendly not only to their spacious van, but also to the tires.
Getting a flat tire in such a remote, desolate place would make it nearly impossible to find help or a repair shop.
After weighing the risks, the driver had no choice but to stop the vehicle there, letting everyone walk the remaining few hundred meters. The convoy would wait at that spot.
Clearly, none of the group had looked into the conditions at Baizhi Lake beforehand—they hadn’t expected things to be like this.
Bai Shuang raised her hand to wave away the dust stirred up by the tires, coughing uncontrollably as it choked her lungs. Her eyes stung, and she could only make out the vague outline of the road ahead through the haze.
At the end of the dirt road stood the shadow puppet museum.
It was called a museum, but in reality, it was just a cluster of low, flat-roofed buildings—nothing like the grand, imposing structures typically associated with well-known museums.
It looked more like a place set up by an enthusiast of shadow puppetry. Someone had simply found a room to house a few puppet-related items.
Still, traces of its former glory lingered faintly outside.
A grand archway stood at the entrance of the museum. The red and green paint on its columns and plaque had weathered away, fading into a dull, dirty pink. In many spots, the original wood beneath was now exposed. Yet, even in the cold wind, it stubbornly supported the sagging entrance façade.
Even the building itself bore the marks of years of wind and rain. The once-red exterior walls had peeled and flaked, mottled and uneven, looking shabby and deserted.
And as the wind blew through, the creaking “creak… creak…” sounds from the museum made it abundantly clear: no one had repaired this place in a long time.
Flanking the dirt road on either side were two rows of stone slabs. At first glance, they looked like tombstones in a cemetery—neatly arranged, eerie, and unsettling.
Bai Shuang jumped in fright. Rubbing her eyes, she took a closer look and realized they weren’t gravestones after all.
They were stone tablets inscribed with names.
Besides the names, there were also short descriptions carved on them. The text was a mix of modern vernacular and classical Chinese—neither one nor the other. It seemed someone had racked their brains trying to make the inscriptions sound more formal, but lacking the proper skills, had only managed to make them feel awkward and out of place.
Viewers of the livestream, who had previously been chatting excitedly about Xie Lin, were also startled by the sudden change in scenery.
For a moment, the usually lively comment stream froze, before picking up again with a flurry of reactions.
[Holy crap! What is that creepy thing? Scared the hell out of me.]
[I was just drinking water when I saw this. Almost choked to death. This is so disturbing.]
[Looks a bit like an abandoned graveyard near my hometown. Are those tombstones? Can’t see clearly from this distance.]
[I’m terrified of these kinds of abandoned buildings. Always feel like some serial killer is hiding inside…]
[Isn’t it supposed to be broad daylight? Why do I suddenly feel so cold?]
Bai Shuang hesitated, then turned to Zhang Wubing and asked, “Director, is this really the shadow puppet museum?”
Zhang Wubing actually looked just as confused.
He had seen information about the museum before coming here, but the buildings in the photos looked much newer than what he was seeing now. At least back then, the red paint and carved beams still looked exquisite and carefully maintained—not the neglected, rundown appearance before them now.
A staff member jogged over and whispered apologetically to Zhang Wubing, “After we had to change the filming location last minute, we were short on time. We only managed to scout Baizhi Lake, and didn’t get a chance to check out the museum. We relied on what we found online.”
“We just discovered that the online information seems to be from over a decade ago. It hasn’t been updated in a long time.”
The staff member looked frustrated. “We didn’t manage to verify that in time, and ended up using outdated info.”
Seeing his remorse, Zhang Wubing quickly reassured him, saying it was okay. They were already here anyway—nothing they could do about it now. It might even be interesting to see a place with such a different style.
“It’s certainly… unique. But Director Zhang…”
An Nanyuan glanced at the museum’s weather-worn walls, hesitant. “Is anyone even maintaining this place?”
“It feels abandoned.”
Zhang Wubing thought for a moment, then gritted his teeth and decided to go check the museum himself.
He carefully knocked on the door. “Hello? We’re visitors here to take a look. Is anyone home?”
He called out a few times, but no one came to answer.
Taking a deep breath, Zhang Wubing mustered his courage and reached out to push the door.
The old, unlocked wooden door let out a long creak—“Creeeak!”—as it slowly swung open.
The scene in the courtyard unfolded before everyone’s eyes.
The museum resembled a traditional fully four side enclosed courtyard. At its center stood a massive tree, so large that several people couldn’t encircle it with their arms. All its leaves had fallen, leaving the branches bare. Dead leaves blanketed the ground, rustling eerily in the wind, adding to the desolate and unsettling atmosphere.
It looked like no one had cleaned the courtyard in a very long time. The large red-painted characters at the entrance, spelling out “Ticket Office,” had faded and peeled with time.
The red paint, which had once dripped down the wall beneath the letters while still wet, now resembled dried blood. With every step, Zhang Wubing felt more anxious and uneasy.
Holding onto the main gate for support, Zhang Wubing cautiously leaned forward to peer inside.
He waited a while but saw nothing unusual happen. Only then did he shakily turn around and shout to the others waiting several hundred meters away: “You all wait here for now. I’ll go in and take a look.”
A staff member quickly responded, “Director Zhang, I’ll come with you.”
Zhang Wubing looked over, eyes instantly filled with gratitude. He was moved to the point of tears, as if praising the staff member for being a truly considerate person.
—It was obvious his earlier display of courage had been just an act.
The staff member felt slightly embarrassed. As he stepped over the threshold, which was nearly half a meter high, he was still thinking that Director Zhang was really a good leader. After all, it had been the staff member’s own negligence that caused the issue, and now he was simply making up for it. Yet, Director Zhang hadn’t blamed him with a single word.
With that thought in mind, the staff member followed Zhang Wubing with more enthusiasm, ready to uncover the real condition of the Shadow Puppet Museum.
If it really had long since been abandoned, they would just let everyone get back on the bus and head directly to Baizhi Lake.
The two of them quickly disappeared around the corner of a building, vanishing from the group’s line of sight.
At first, everyone continued chatting and laughing around Xie Lin, picking up where they had left off during the bus ride.
But after Lu Xingxing had talked so much his throat went dry and reached for a bottle of water, he suddenly realized, “Hasn’t Director Zhang been in there for quite a while now?”
Everyone was taken aback: “Now that you mention it, yeah, he has.”
An Nanyuan glanced at his watch and said with concern, “I roughly remember the time he went in—it’s been over ten minutes, hasn’t it?”
“Is the museum really that big?”
“Director Zhang sure is slow.”
Lu Xingxing, who had been chatting casually with someone nearby, slowly sensed that something felt off. His smile gradually faded, and his expression turned serious.
“I’ll go take a look.”
“No need. You all stay here—I’ll check it out.”
Yan Shixun said as he raised his hand to stop Lu Xingxing.
He glanced back at Ye Li, who immediately understood and nodded, signaling him to go ahead without worry—he’d take care of things here.
A barely noticeable smile tugged at the corner of Yan Shixun’s lips before he strode forward with confident, long strides toward the museum.
Just as Yan Shixun passed under the archway and approached the low buildings, Zhang Wubing and the staff member finally reappeared behind the gate.
They looked somewhat excited, as if they had good news to share.
Waving enthusiastically to the group, Zhang Wubing shouted, “The museum’s still open for visiting! We checked—it not only has display cabinets, but also old-fashioned discs that explain shadow puppetry. Just like the info online said! Come on!”
When he first stepped inside, Zhang Wubing had expected the inside to be just as desolate as the outside. To his surprise, the museum’s interior buildings were in much better shape—it turned out to be a three-section courtyard.
Though it couldn’t compare to the grandeur of a nobleman’s fully four side enclosed courtyard in the capital, the sheer size of the grounds genuinely gave it the feel of a proper museum.
That explained why they had taken longer than expected to return.
Moreover, when Zhang Wubing tried opening several doors, he discovered that although the contents inside were covered in dust, many original items remained intact from years past.
Worn down, yes—but it was still undeniably a museum.
The staff member who had gone in with him speculated that because no one had been visiting, and with no income coming in, they hadn’t been able to afford maintenance, which was why it looked so old and neglected.
After discovering this good news, the two of them had rushed back at a jog, eager to invite everyone in to take a look.
But more importantly, Zhang Wubing had been feeling scared.
Perhaps it was because the craftsmanship of the shadow puppets was just too exquisite—each figure looked incredibly lifelike.
Even though the puppets were behind glass displays and covered in a thick layer of dust, Zhang Wubing still felt like they were alive, their eyes fixed on him.
Shadow puppets were displayed everywhere—on all sides. Giant shadow puppet murals even hung on the walls. Though their paint had faded, their eyes still gleamed vividly.
It was as if countless eyes were silently and intently watching every visitor.
Zhang Wubing even felt like in those corners people usually ignored, the eyes of those puppets might suddenly swivel with a creepy little spin.
So vivid, so lifelike—almost human.
Terrified by both the scene and his own imagination, Zhang Wubing turned to the staff member and asked, only to get a blank shake of the head in response. The man simply said the artwork was incredibly realistic, but he hadn’t felt anything strange.
So once they confirmed the museum’s basic functions were still intact, Zhang Wubing quickly pulled the staff member outside. He was eager to rejoin Yan Shixun and the rest of the group—he needed to feel the presence of living people again.
Seeing the two reappear, the group, who had been growing anxious, relaxed and smiled as they walked forward to greet them.
“Director Zhang, did you take a trip around the world? What took you so long?”
“It’s a bit run-down, sure, but wasn’t it said that this shadow puppetry stuff had already declined? Makes sense.”
“It’s kind of nice, actually—pure folk culture, no commercial feel at all.”
But just as everyone stepped under the archway, a sudden sound of musical instruments echoed from inside the museum.
The music was faint and distant, echoing across the empty courtyard. The sorrowful notes of an erhu intertwined with the beat of drums and gongs. The folk instruments carried an ancient tone, like a pair of eyes abruptly opening in the silence of death.
Everyone froze in surprise. “Wasn’t it supposed to be empty?”
Zhang Wubing felt the hair on his arms stand on end, a cold chill creeping down his back.
An old man with a hunched back had, without anyone noticing, appeared in the shadows behind a pillar.
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