Chapter 241: Shadow Puppets and Lamplight (7)
Even though Song Ci was extremely reluctant, he had been injured before and was naturally delicate and frail, lacking any real strength.
Lu Xingxing simply dragged the young master into a nearby room, slinging an arm around his shoulders like a pair of close buddies. He was visibly excited as he bombarded the young master with questions about Xie Lin from every angle.
The young master was nearly driven mad by Lu Xingxing. He hadn’t expected that this guy, who looked so wild and rebellious, turned out to be no wolf at all. Compared to Yan Shixun or Taoist Song Yi, Lu Xingxing clearly belonged to a different category—he was basically a husky pretending to be a wolf!
“Lu Xingxing, do your fans know how crazy you are?! Are you seriously mentally ill?!”
Infuriated, the young master threw a punch at Lu Xingxing. “If you want to know more about Xie Lin, why don’t you go watch the interviews yourself? Anything not mentioned in them is what Xie Lin didn’t want to talk about! If even he didn’t want others to know, what makes you think I would tell you?!”
“And we’re still live right now!”
Lu Xingxing froze. “Ah…”
He looked around guiltily, staring at the ceiling and the floor, doing everything except making eye contact with the young master.
No way could he admit that in all his excitement, he’d completely forgotten they were still on a live broadcast, right?
Meanwhile, the audience watching Lu Xingxing’s split-screen were both sympathetic toward the young master and utterly entertained by the duo’s antics.
Contrary to what the young master imagined, no one was criticizing Lu Xingxing at all.
[Young master, just endure it for now. Treat it like being pounced on by a crazy dog… The last time I saw Xingxing this excited was probably when his first film score won the Best Newcomer Music Award.]
[Sobs sorry, young master, it’s not Xingxing’s fault—it’s God God’s fault for being too irresistible. Who could possibly resist the temptation of getting up close and personal with him?]
[Okay, to be honest, I thought Lu Xingxing was a bit crazy at first. But now that you put it that way… I imagined myself in that situation, and, ummm… I’d probably be worse than this.]
[You think you’re worse? If it were me, Brother Yan would’ve already shouted, “Demon! Where are you running?!” and captured me.]
[I’m definitely the craziest. Stop fighting, guys! I’d show up wherever Director Zhang goes!]
[…I concede.]
[??? Sorry, that was reckless of me. You win, you win.]
[I wouldn’t dare provoke any of you. Just think about the kinds of things Director Zhang usually runs into… shudder.]
[LOL what are you all even doing? Why is this screen so different from all the other ones? Does husky energy actually spread?!]
[But Xingxing is so adorable like this.]
[Even Song Ci couldn’t stay composed in front of Lu Xingxing, haha. These two are hilarious together.]
It wasn’t just the viewers who found it amusing—even the other cast members who hadn’t walked far yet couldn’t help but chuckle at the two roughhousing in the distance.
“These two, huh.”
Zhao Zhen shook his head with a smile. “I didn’t expect the young master to get along so well with Xingxing. They actually seem pretty close?”
An Nanyuan found Song Ci’s helpless expression so funny that he was laughing all over.
Hearing Zhao Zhen’s remark, he shrugged and said, “Honestly, Xingxing’s personality just happens to click with Young Master. Not really that surprising.”
An Nanyuan patted Zhao Zhen’s shoulder, mimicking Lu Xingxing’s move by slinging his arm around Zhao Zhen and dragging him toward a museum room.
“Let’s make the most of the time—we only have one hour of free activity.”
He urged, “Since we’re already here, we should see everything before leaving.”
“Huh?”
Zhao Zhen laughed, slightly exasperated. “I never said I wasn’t going to look around. I’m not like Young Master… Actually, I think it’s a good opportunity to check these things out—it really broadens your perspective.”
After all, Zhao Zhen was an actor, and one who was willing to put in the time to hone his craft and skills.
Many actors would complain that directors were too strict, that doing multiple takes for the same scene was exhausting, or that spending time preparing behind the scenes for a project was too much of a hassle.
But Zhao Zhen wasn’t like that.
He treated acting not just as a job, but as a genuine passion—his soul, his calling.
After debuting as a child star, he had acted for over ten years, which meant he’d been learning for over ten years.
During that time, Zhao Zhen had learned horseback riding, archery, diving, rock climbing—even flying a plane to some extent. He could drive race cars pretty well too.
He couldn’t claim to have mastered the traditional arts like music, chess, calligraphy, and painting, but by modern standards, his skills were well above average. Whenever he played a cultural master on screen, there was no sense of disconnect.
This might have been a major reason why Zhao Zhen’s works were often popular while he himself wasn’t—a case of successful projects but low personal fame. Still, for his personal growth, the benefits had been immense and swift.
Zhao Zhen truly enjoyed this process.
—What better way was there to broaden one’s perspective and improve oneself quickly?
Most importantly, it was free.
The production crew paid for it. All he had to do was learn.
Compared to those who complained about the crew demanding too much or being forced to learn new skills, Zhao Zhen sometimes even felt a little guilty and gleeful, like he was getting away with something.
The same went for the Baizhi Lake shadow puppetry.
After hearing Zhang Wubing say that the Baizhi Lake shadow puppet tradition was dying out, Zhao Zhen even started making mental notes. If there was a chance, he wanted to try learning a few shadow puppetry skills himself.
Even if he couldn’t match the level of a true inheritor of the craft, just picking up the basics seemed interesting enough.
In fact, on the way here, Zhao Zhen had already messaged his agent to ask whether there were any roles for shadow puppeteers—maybe after finishing this episode, he could try playing one.
At the end of the message, Zhao Zhen added: [The role’s level doesn’t matter—even a background actor at a market or festival would be fine. I think it’d be a really interesting character.]
Agent: “???”
At that moment, the agent was in a meeting with another production team. Startled by Zhao Zhen’s message, he accidentally burned his mouth on a freshly brewed cup of tea and coughed violently.
Someone nearby quickly came over to ask if he was okay.
The agent waved them off, then stared at his phone, full of question marks. He glanced back at the multimillion-dollar proposal sitting on the table in front of him and thought: Does my actor have any idea of his current status or public image? A background actor?!
Look at other celebrities. Anyone with Zhao Zhen’s kind of opportunity would be scrambling to work with big-name directors and land high-budget films!
Out of everyone, it just had to be Zhao Zhen, that big goof, who actually went out of his way to message people saying he wanted to act as an extra?
What kind of TV drama or movie would go out of its way to shoot a scene with background actors performing shadow puppetry? Usually, productions just slap something together for background scenes like that!
Don’t they know? If Zhao Zhen played an extra today, rumors would be flying by tomorrow saying he had fallen off, and no director would want to cast him in a lead or major supporting role again.
His agent was so angry they rolled their eyes to the heavens.
But after calming down a bit, gritting his teeth and cursing Zhao Zhen internally, the agent still went ahead and contacted every single production team and director they could, asking if any of them had a role involving shadow puppetry.
Production teams receiving these inquiries: “…………”
Are my eyes playing tricks on me, or has Zhao Zhen’s agent lost their mind? Why would a top-tier, highly respected actor—one who’s well-liked by the public—insist on playing an extra?
Even the production team of renowned director Li Xuetang received the request.
The casting director silently looked up at the ceiling, then went to find Director Li and recounted every word from Zhao Zhen’s agent.
Initially, Director Li Xuetang had thought Zhao Zhen was using his fame to demand special treatment and assign himself a role, so he frowned in annoyance before the casting director even began speaking. But once he heard the full story: “…?”
He stared silently at the casting director, who nodded gravely: Yes, you heard right. Zhao Zhen has gone mad.
Who would believe such a thing?
A top-tier actor going to every major production and director, not to beg for a starring role, but to try and use his “privilege” to land an extra role.
Casting Director: I’ve seen people bring in money to get popular roles, but I’ve never seen someone stubbornly insist on playing a background character. It’s like everyone around Mr. Yan has been influenced by him—they’re starting to act like they don’t belong in the entertainment industry at all.
An Nanyuan’s one. Lu Xingxing too. And now even Zhao Zhen’s gone off the rails.
Director Li Xuetang thought for a moment, then surprisingly gave the green light to add a shadow puppeteer role in the background scene for Zhao Zhen to play.
After all, Zhao Zhen’s character in Binhai Nocturne already had some scenes where he disguised himself to go undercover and track someone. Shadow puppetry fit with the historical setting from a century ago, so adding a short scene like that wouldn’t be a big deal.
They decided to have Zhao Zhen’s character disguise himself as a shadow puppeteer. It would be a quick scene—just a passing shot—anyone could play it.
The scriptwriter who heard about this: …
Zhao Zhen still didn’t know that because of Zhang Wubing’s explanation of the shadow puppets at Baizhi Lake, he had been genuinely moved and worried about the dying art—and his spontaneous desire to portray such a role had unexpectedly sparked discussion across multiple production teams.
When he shared his true thoughts with An Nanyuan, he looked completely sincere.
Viewers watching the split-screen interview felt genuinely touched by what Zhao Zhen said.
[Actors as dedicated as Zhao Zhen are truly rare these days.]
[No wonder Director Li Xuetang chose him for his movie—there’s a reason. The man has real talent and a willingness to learn.]
[I’m crying here! When I get the chance, I’m definitely going to see the shadow puppets at Baizhi Lake myself!]
Upon hearing Zhao Zhen’s words, An Nanyuan’s eyes lit up instantly, as if he’d found a kindred spirit. His attitude toward Zhao Zhen grew even warmer.
“Right? I’ve known for a long time—ever since I started following Brother Yan—I’d be able to see a world far bigger than the one I used to know.”
An Nanyuan spoke with deep feeling as he pushed open the door to the adjacent museum room, bringing Zhao Zhen in with him.
But the full human skeleton positioned directly across from the door nearly made the unprepared An Nanyuan leap out of his skin. He instinctively blurted out, “Holy crap!”
Once he regained his composure, An Nanyuan realized it wasn’t an actual skeleton.
It was a human skeleton cleverly crafted from wood, sculpted to mimic real bones with remarkable skill.
Patting his wildly beating heart, still shaken, An Nanyuan added a caveat to what he had just said: “As long as the world doesn’t throw me any more surprises.”
Zhao Zhen replied, “…Maybe you should just wish for world peace instead? That might be easier.”
Zhao Zhen: It’s not that I don’t trust Director Zhang, but this situation… yeah, it’s hard to lie with a straight face.
He hadn’t expected the museum to have something resembling a skeleton either and had been just as startled.
But his personality was more composed than An Nanyuan’s, so his emotions didn’t show as much. He quickly calmed down and stepped forward to take a closer look.
The human body had 206 bones, and the wooden skeleton placed right in front of the door had exactly the same number.
It was like a master craftsman showing off their skills.
Every bone segment had been carved from wood, with joints meticulously crafted for movement. Each part could rotate freely, with angles and directions matching a real human body.
Even Zhao Zhen, who was inspecting it up close, couldn’t find anything that felt off.
If not for the wood grain, it could easily be mistaken for an actual human skeleton.
Standing upright again, Zhao Zhen laughed and exclaimed in admiration, “I have no idea how the craftsman pulled this off. It’s incredible.”
“If the shadow puppets at Baizhi Lake had reached this level of craftsmanship, that old man really wasn’t exaggerating.”
Zhao Zhen concluded confidently, “There’s no way a machine could replicate this.”
He had once visited an ancient building constructed entirely without nails, using only mortise and tenon joints. It was a marvel of engineering.
But this wooden skeleton exceeded even his imagination.
After all, achieving this level of realism required not only a craftsman’s dexterous hands and skill but also a deep understanding of human anatomy. They had to know the position and connection of every bone to complete such a complex piece.
For a brief moment, Zhao Zhen even wondered if the woodworker who made this had studied medicine.
Hearing Zhao Zhen’s words, An Nanyuan hesitated before moving closer, forcing himself to suppress his fear as he examined the skeleton carefully.
Sure enough.
The wooden grain stood out clearly, reminding viewers that it wasn’t a real skeleton, but a masterful display of human capability.
It was as if the artisan had intentionally shown off their skills to declare to all who saw it: this is the height I’ve reached—far beyond what others can achieve.
Even though the intent to show off was obvious, An Nanyuan—despite being scared out of his wits—didn’t feel annoyed. Instead, he was sincerely amazed.
Looking around and seeing no sign saying “Do not touch,” he reached out tentatively, curious to feel the texture of the skeleton.
Creak…
The skeleton was incredibly sensitive.
Just a light touch on its forearm made its entire arm sway. Every joint moved realistically, as if it had been pulled from a living body.
No, even better than real bones.
Actual bones, once lifeless, moved stiffly even when manipulated.
But this wooden skeleton had joints that were smooth and responsive—as if at any moment, it might step off its rusted iron stand and start walking on its own, almost lifelike.
An Nanyuan jumped, then let out an amazed, “Wow!”
“This really is… it must be considered a true treasure!”
His eyes sparkled as he looked at the skeleton, as though he were admiring a top-tier piece of art.
The viewers watching before the split screen reacted much the same way as An Nanyuan.
Some had even already opened up web pages, eager to search for more information about the Baizhi Lake shadow puppetry.
[I admit I’m a coward. I really got scared just now—almost ran off to Brother Yan’s split screen to scream for help.]
[It’s exactly like a human skeleton! Amazing!]
[So why did something this incredible become lost over time? Such a shame.]
[Suddenly I’m interested in shadow puppetry. There just happens to be an exhibit near my house—bought tickets immediately to check it out in person.]
[Director Zhang is incredible! How did he even find a place like this?]
The staff monitoring the livestream, while thrilled to see the subscriber count skyrocketing, also took note of the scrolling comments.
Curious, one of them turned to a colleague from the directing team in charge of location scouting and asked, “How did you guys find a place like Baizhi Lake? I’ve never even heard of it before.”
The colleague looked up from his work, thought for a moment, and said with some confusion, “I’m not too sure myself… Maybe someone else found it? Anyway, it was just one of the backup options, and Director Zhang happened to choose it at first glance.”
“Anyway, it wasn’t submitted by any region or official channels.”
The colleague glanced at the materials describing the Baizhi Lake area and muttered, “Apparently there’s barely any population around here, which made preparations really difficult. It was hard to find anything.”
The staff member didn’t press the question. After asking casually, his attention was drawn back to An Nanyuan’s split screen.
The room that An Nanyuan and Zhao Zhen entered didn’t just contain that one skeleton—it also had many shadow puppet bones made of wood.
Just like the old man had said, the first courtyard was filled with finished and semi-finished shadow puppet figures and props.
Clearly, the first room they entered had been a showcase of completed works.
But this room mainly displayed the bones underneath the puppet skins.
After all, what made Baizhi Lake’s puppetry unique was the supporting skeleton beneath the skin—a technique they took pride in, worthy of dedicating an entire room to its introduction.
Zhao Zhen looked around and saw wooden human skeletons of various sizes.
They hadn’t yet been covered with painted leather to complete the final step of becoming a shadow puppet. Instead, they were displayed alone, silently revealing the truth beneath the surface to visitors.
As if saying—
Even if the shadow looks real, I am still a falsehood.
Zhao Zhen bent down to examine the skeletons on the platform. Regardless of their size, each one was exquisitely crafted, showing the pinnacle of craftsmanship.
But as soon as Zhao Zhen was no longer beside him, An Nanyuan, standing alone in front of the life-sized skeleton, suddenly felt a chill.
The skeleton’s eye sockets had been meticulously carved from wood and shaped with a rasp, down to the seams between bones, resembling a real human skull. At that moment, the dark, hollow sockets seemed to silently watch An Nanyuan, sending a creeping coldness up his spine.
Worse still, An Nanyuan felt for a moment as if all the skeletons in the room began to emit faint “clack… clack” sounds. Their carved wooden skulls slowly turned toward his direction.
Dozens of dark, eyeless sockets stared directly at him, filled with a hungry longing for the flesh that clothed him.
Where there is emptiness, there’s always a desire to fill it.
What they lacked, they seemed eager to seize from others.
A skeleton without skin couldn’t be considered a completed shadow puppet.
Yet these skeletons had been crafted as shadow puppets. Perhaps… they too were obsessed with the idea of becoming whole…
A wave of dread swept over An Nanyuan. He felt as if he couldn’t breathe. His mind involuntarily conjured up scenes from horror films and dangerous encounters from earlier episodes.
“Nanyuan? What are you doing standing there?”
Zhao Zhen had intended to comment on the exceptional craftsmanship of the place. But when he turned around, he realized An Nanyuan wasn’t beside him.
He glanced back, surprised to see An Nanyuan standing dazed in front of the skeleton.
Zhao Zhen’s voice snapped him out of it. An Nanyuan shuddered, then finally came to his senses.
He gasped for air, still visibly shaken, and looked around nervously.
But now, everything appeared different from before. The skeletons remained lifeless, quietly displayed on the exhibit stands, coated in dust.
None of them were moving. None were looking at him.
Everything he saw had just been a hallucination conjured by fear.
Steadying himself, An Nanyuan raised a hand and tiredly wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I’m coming,” he responded.
He shook his head and sighed, feeling like he was becoming more cowardly by the day. Still, he didn’t dwell on it and walked over toward Zhao Zhen.
Just as both of them turned their gaze toward the small puppet skeleton in front of Zhao Zhen, the piles of wooden skeletons filling the room suddenly stirred ever so slightly. Their neck joints began to rotate, slowly and quietly turning toward where the two were standing.
Every pair of hollow wooden sockets locked onto their backs.
But the two were still huddled together, murmuring praises about the skillful woodwork, completely unaware that behind them…
Countless black eye sockets were silently watching.
The life-sized skeleton standing by the door subtly moved the joints of its wooden fingers. Then, it slowly straightened its spine from the iron rack supporting it.
Like a real corpse, stripped of flesh and blood.
It turned its head, staring at An Nanyuan in a dead silence.
After a long pause, the skeleton tilted its head. Though it had no flesh, its face seemed to curve into a smile.
…..
Song Ci had been hoping someone might “rescue” him from Lu Xingxing’s grasp, but whether it was Zhao Zhen or the variety show celebrity, they all just watched him being dragged away with amused smiles—none had any intention of helping.
That heartless Zhao Zhen!
The young master ground his teeth and snorted in frustration, feeling thoroughly “betrayed.”
“No matter what you ask, I’ll just say one thing—I don’t know.”
The young master snapped at Lu Xingxing, “You act so well-behaved in front of Xie Lin. Does he even know you’re actually as wild as a husky? I swear I’ll tell him everything you did on the show.”
Lu Xingxing’s expression turned horrified. He stared at Song Ci as if he’d just seen a ghost.
“You’re cruel! You’d destroy my entire image in front of my idol?”
Clutching his chest, Lu Xingxing cried out dramatically, “I misjudged you! I didn’t know you were this kind of person! I’m going to report you to Brother Yan!”
Lu Xingxing: Come on then! Let’s mutually destroy each other!
Song Ci: “…………”
“You are seriously mentally ill!”
He spat the words viciously, then stormed off toward the exhibit, puffed up with indignation.
Seeing the crisis resolved, Lu Xingxing also spread his hands with a cheeky smile and said, “The one who’s sick is Zhang Dabing, not me. Honestly, where else are you going to find such a suave and elegant Taoist like me?”
He trailed behind the young master, paying no attention to the exhibits at all. With his hands stuffed in his pockets and a lazy, sloppy posture, he chatted idly with the young master, trying to fish out any tidbits about Xie Lin from his mouth.
Even though Song Ci was clearly annoyed, he couldn’t do anything about it. He couldn’t beat Lu Xingxing, nor could he curse him away. The guy stuck to him like a stubborn leech.
Left with no choice, Song Ci could only stew in his frustration and storm forward in silence.
Trying to shake Lu Xingxing off, the young master walked faster and faster.
As long as there was a path ahead, he didn’t even bother looking up to check his surroundings and just charged ahead blindly.
Meanwhile, Lu Xingxing gradually picked up his pace too, shifting from a leisurely stroll to a brisk chase.
By the end, the two of them were practically racing each other like kids in a sprint.
The viewers watching through the split screen were speechless: …What kind of elementary school-level way of expressing anger is this? Can you two grow up and just have a proper fight already?
“Lu Xingxing!”
Finally, Song Ci couldn’t take it anymore. He came to a sudden halt, spun around, and glared at Lu Xingxing. His beautiful peach blossom eyes blazed with fury, shining brightly with rage.
“Will you ever quit it?!”
Even Lu Xingxing, who was usually fearless and only showed respect to a few elders and senior Taoists outside, was caught off guard by the intensity of Song Ci’s glare. He quickly slammed the brakes, his shoes screeching against the floor.
Under Song Ci’s furious gaze, Lu Xingxing coughed awkwardly. The arrogant spark in him instantly fizzled out.
In his heart, he muttered that although this young master looked frail and delicate, like someone who would fall over with a push, once he got angry, he was actually quite scary. That kind of aura… yeah, that was exactly what you’d expect from the wealthy third-generation heir of the Song family.
“Alright, alright, my bad.”
Lu Xingxing made a surrender gesture and grinned. “I won’t ask about the God Xie thing anymore. Let’s just enjoy the exhibit, okay?”
“We’ve run all the way here—if we don’t look around, wouldn’t that be a waste? Besides, it looks like this museum hasn’t been maintained in years. Wouldn’t be surprised if it collapsed one day. Who knows, maybe this is our last chance to see it…”
As he spoke, Lu Xingxing looked up, trying to change the subject and distract Song Ci.
But midway through his sentence, his voice suddenly cut off.
The finger he had raised to point at something froze in mid-air, unmoving, as if he had forgotten how to bring it back down.
Still fuming, Song Ci noticed Lu Xingxing’s stunned expression and frowned. “What now—”
However, his words got stuck halfway in his throat too.
—Because following the direction Lu Xingxing was pointing in, there was absolutely nothing there. Just an empty room bathed in golden-red sunset light.
But that was the strange part.
The room they were currently in… it was supposed to be filled with shadow puppets on display, wasn’t it?
Where were the puppets? The exhibits? Why had everything vanished?
Song Ci was stunned at first. Then he slowly recalled that when they had just entered this room, he had caught a glimpse of a shadow puppet stage set up here.
Even though the white cloth on the stage had been thick with dust and he couldn’t see what lay behind it, Song Ci had been sure that this room was where they kept the other props and tools used alongside the shadow puppets.
Yet now, everything around them was gone.
Lu Xingxing realized something even more chilling: he had been chasing after Song Ci for quite a while.
Based on their walking speed and rough estimation, they should have covered several hundred meters.
—But was that a reasonable length for a single room?
Lu Xingxing stood where he was and looked back in the direction they had come from, but he couldn’t see where it ended. Nor could he see any of the exhibits that should have been in the rooms.
All he saw were rooms connecting endlessly to other rooms, each drenched in the same golden-red sunset.
Turning his head forward again revealed the exact same scene.
He and Song Ci were now standing in an empty space, surrounded front and back by an endless sequence of rooms.
It was like they were trapped between two facing mirrors, each reflecting the other’s scene infinitely. The space extended endlessly within the mirrors—one nested inside another, with no end in sight.
“This is…”
Song Ci muttered, “What’s going on?”
But no one answered their question.
Outside every window, they could still see the courtyard of the four side enclosed courtyard. The sun was now slipping behind the mountain peaks, about to fall completely.
The light stabbed at Lu Xingxing’s eyes, making him squint and instinctively turn his head to the side.
And then, in the next moment, his eyes flew wide open.
—At some unknown point, a figure had appeared behind him.
That person’s face was as pale as paper, with two bright red circles of blush on their cheeks. Their features were stiff, like they’d been carved by a craftsman, and their pitch-black, lifeless eyes were staring unblinkingly at Lu Xingxing’s back.
And the smile stretching across their mouth…
Was twisted at a degree no normal human could manage.
In the distance, a haunting opera tune echoed—ya-ya-yee-yee—a traditional shadow play melody, every syllable laced with rich folkloric cadence.
But in such a vast, dead-silent space, the sound became bone-chilling.
Viewers in front of the screen felt their hair stand on end, the shiver crawling all the way up to their scalps.
…….
“You said the DVD player was in the last courtyard?”
Yan Shixun turned to ask Zhang Wubing beside him, “How did you end up going so deep in with the staff?”
A three-layered four side enclosed courtyard wasn’t exactly small. Walking from front to back and returning, even without stopping or exploring, took at least ten minutes.
But Yan Shixun remembered that when Zhang Wubing and the staff had first entered, although everyone had felt they’d waited a while, it had only been about ten minutes or so. Not really a long time.
Now that Yan Shixun had walked the whole length of the four side enclosed courtyard himself and measured it with his own steps, he couldn’t help but feel puzzled.
After all, Zhang Wubing had gone in to confirm whether the museum was still open. He wouldn’t have ignored all the other rooms along the way and gone straight to the back courtyard as if he knew the DVD player was there.
As Yan Shixun stepped through the gate into the final courtyard, the mental stopwatch he’d been running paused.
The time and distance needed to walk from the first gate to the last courtyard played clearly in his mind.
The discrepancy in time made him suspicious.
Hearing Yan Shixun’s question, Zhang Wubing scratched his head, also feeling a little confused.
In his memory, it didn’t feel like he had hiked through so many courtyards to reach the DVD player. He had just casually pushed open a few doors before spotting some DVDs piled in a corner.
Before they’d come, the production team had already researched the shadow puppet museum, so Zhang Wubing knew that there was a segment involving old shadow play footage being shown.
His main purpose in bringing the guests to visit the museum had been precisely to show them those videos.
After all, there was only one remaining inheritor of the Baizhi Lake shadow puppetry tradition. According to the available information, that inheritor was already quite elderly and had not appeared in public for a long time. He no longer performed either.
If one wanted to catch a glimpse of Baizhi Lake shadow puppetry in its former glory, video discs were the only option.
After the filming location was finalized as Baizhi Lake, the production team sent people ahead to scout the area. First, they hoped to find the inheritor; second, they wanted to familiarize themselves with the route to Baizhi Lake to avoid any unexpected issues during actual filming.
But the staff never got to see the inheritor in person.
The surrounding villagers all said that the inheritor had gone out to buy groceries and would be back soon.
Yet the staff waited until nightfall without seeing him.
When they came back the next day, the inheritor still wasn’t home. The door wasn’t locked, and if they approached the courtyard, they could hear fierce barking from inside.
That kept the staff from going any further.
The villagers said the inheritor had probably gone to town to see a doctor—he was old, after all, and had many health issues. No one knew exactly when he’d be back.
Despite several trips, the crew never managed to meet him. But with the shooting date fast approaching, they had no choice but to return.
Baizhi Lake had been a last-minute change made by Zhang Wubing. The ample preparation time originally planned had already been spent on the previously selected Jingang region, so the remaining time for Baizhi Lake was especially tight. Many tasks couldn’t be carried out thoroughly.
Fortunately, Zhang Wubing wasn’t a demanding leader. Besides, he knew it was his own decision to change locations at the last minute, so he didn’t say much—just suggested they visit the Shadow Puppetry Museum first.
That way, they could directly see the props and shadow figures used in Baizhi Lake performances, observe how the puppets were made, and even watch old video recordings of past shows.
This would ensure that even if something went wrong with the inheritor and they failed to meet him due to poor communication, at least the guests wouldn’t come all this way for nothing.
However, though Zhang Wubing had planned things well, he hadn’t expected that even the Shadow Puppetry Museum could have issues. The place looked so old and neglected.
That was exactly why, as soon as Zhang Wubing stepped in, he became particularly nervous—desperately searching for the DVD player he had read about online.
Only after testing the DVD player and confirming it still worked did Zhang Wubing finally breathe a sigh of relief.
But he relaxed too soon.
Once Yan Shixun voiced his doubts, Zhang Wubing started to feel something was off.
Still, unlike Yan Shixun—who was naturally cautious and observant—Zhang Wubing wasn’t someone who paid much attention to details in everyday life. So the last time he’d come in, he hadn’t really noticed anything.
No matter how hard he tried to recall, he could only remember vague fragments.
Yan Shixun’s expression shifted from initial anticipation to outright disdain.
“Zhang Dabing, can’t you be more mindful?”
Yan Shixun said in exasperation, “Why can’t you remember what happened earlier? Or what you saw?”
Zhang Wubing gave a sniffle, then muttered a weak defense: “Brother Yan, I think most people wouldn’t remember either. Not many people constantly observe everything around them and memorize it all without missing a beat.”
“At the very least, among the people I know, you’re the only one like that, Brother Yan…”
Under Yan Shixun’s cold stare, Zhang Wubing’s voice grew quieter and quieter, until he finally shut up completely on his own. He clung tightly to Yan Shixun’s arm, leaving him no chance to shake him off.
Zhang Wubing: I may be dumb, but Brother Yan, you can’t just abandon me! Don’t even think about leaving me here alone, QAQ.
While they spoke, Yan Shixun followed the sound and arrived outside the room where the performance was playing.
Whether or not Zhang Wubing had turned off the DVD player, he couldn’t recall. Inside the room, ancient opera played tirelessly, the erhu’s mournful notes accompanied by rhythmic drumming—the only sounds in this remote and desolate place.
The erhu’s sorrowful tones pierced the silence and echoed throughout the courtyard, evoking a deep, unshakable melancholy.
Yan Shixun tilted his head and listened carefully. From the vocal tone, he could faintly make out that it was a woman lamenting her tragic fate. The surrounding characters shouted rebukes at her one after another, except for a somewhat childish voice that tried to speak on her behalf—most likely a child’s role.
Different shadow puppetry schools had their own focus.
Some emphasized entertainment and the liveliness of the shadow play. They demanded tight pacing and constant movement—each character action followed by another, not even the overused “Three Battles with the White Bone Spirit” would be dull, and the performers used all their skills to keep the audience glued in place with no time to breathe or leave.
That was the only way to attract crowds at the marketplace and earn money.
But this required great speed and skill from the puppeteer.
Now, as Yan Shixun listened to the performance, he realized that Baizhi Lake shadow puppetry might prioritize vocal performance over action or rhythm. It leaned more toward Peking or Yue opera styles—just with the added element of shadows.
From the sound alone—without even opening the door to see what was inside—Yan Shixun had already gathered a wealth of information.
He paused at the door, then pressed his slender hand against it and gave a push—
“Creak—!”
The rusty hinges let out an unpleasant screech. The sunset light crept in through the widening gap, stirring up a layer of dust that danced wildly in the beams.
An old TV was still playing a Baizhi Lake shadow puppet performance. The screen flickered with static, the worn-out machine occasionally flashing a white streak across the screen. The shaky visuals gave off a strong sense of age—clearly a scene from years past.
Yet everything in the room seemed to have stayed frozen in that moment years ago, unmoved since.
Photographs still hung on the walls—each one showing people with radiant, bashful smiles, wrinkles scrunched together as they shyly faced the camera.
They had spent a lifetime working with their hands, used to wood and leather. They shaped lifeless materials with meticulous craftsmanship, spending months pouring heart and soul into bringing the shadow puppets to life in their hands.
But they were never good in front of a camera.
Still, when they heard that a shadow puppetry museum was being built and that their photo would hang on the wall for all to see, they kept saying they didn’t care for that kind of thing, even as their smiles crept up uncontrollably.
In the end, they changed into nice clothes and stood nervously but proudly in front of the camera, leaving their image forever in the history of Baizhi Lake shadow puppetry.
But after that, everything changed.
No one came to see the Baizhi Lake shadow puppetry anymore. Everything gradually declined.
Even the photographs on the wall faded and gathered dust.
Until… Yan Shixun pushed open that door.
Time, once frozen, seemed to move again. The long-still scene came back to life.
The sounds and images from the TV seemed to cut through the dust and the golden-red light like candle flames, traveling from the past into the present, reenacting the performance before the eyes of those who had arrived.
When Zhang Wubing saw that the TV really hadn’t been turned off, he actually breathed a sigh of relief.
“My brain, seriously.”
He walked over and examined the TV, then knocked on his own head and chuckled awkwardly. “I think the disc starts with a few seconds of black screen. When I turned it on, it was right at that part. So when I left, I didn’t realize it was still playing and just walked out.”
As he spoke, Zhang Wubing crouched down and stopped the DVD player beneath the TV.
The image on the screen froze on a scene of a female puppet character kneeling on the ground.
Surrounding her were shadowy villagers, all holding farming tools aloft, seemingly shouting something.
But the female puppet figure focused only on shielding a smaller shadow in her arms—like a child she was protecting with her life.
Backlit, Yan Shixun stood in silence, his eyes fixed intently on the TV.
Only after a long while did he step into the room.
His Martin boots landed on the cement floor, sinking slightly into the thick dust.
Meanwhile, Zhang Wubing murmured in confusion, “Weird, there’s no electricity—how did it turn on?”
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