Chapter 243: Shadow Puppets and Lamplight (9)
After receiving a message from Taoist Ma, the official in charge found it strange. Why did it seem like Taoist Ma wasn’t aware of the filming location this time?
As he puzzled over this, Taoist Ma sent a second message, asking if he knew about the student death cases from six months ago.
Reading Taoist Ma’s description of those deaths, the official’s brow slowly furrowed.
If each case was viewed individually, one might find them eerie or absurd, but they still seemed like unfortunate accidents—tragic instances of life’s unpredictability.
After all, falling down, objects falling from above, suffocation—these are all low-probability events.
One could simply say these people were incredibly unlucky to encounter such rare misfortunes.
However, when these cases were viewed together, the chance of them all happening around the same time dropped so low it was almost negligible.
When the probability becomes that low, it no longer seemed like coincidence.
It suggested a kind of inevitability caused by some presence.
The official realized that Taoist Ma must have encountered that presence, which led him to trace things back to those earlier incidents.
Because all of those deaths occurred during school holidays, and the students had died either at home or near their residential buildings, there appeared to be no connection—once they had left the campus, they were scattered in different locations.
No one had thought their deaths could be related to any supernatural phenomenon.
So although there was some doubt at the time, the cases weren’t deeply investigated. They were closed quickly to allow the deceased to be buried without delay.
As a result, the incidents had never reached the attention of any special department.
But now, the situation had changed.
All those deaths pointed to a single possibility.
The official pondered this, idly spinning a pen between his fingers.
Then he called Taoist Ma back, asking him why he had brought up those previous deaths.
That’s when he learned about the statue.
“The ebony statue?”
He raised his voice in surprise and needed a moment to collect himself before urgently asking, “Are you saying the artifact that was once worshipped in the temple near Baizhi Lake was taken away from the area?”
“I’m not sure what exactly the statue was meant to suppress, but if there was something in Baizhi Lake that required it, then I fear that thing has already escaped,” Taoist Ma said urgently, rushing toward the southwest. “At first, I was still clinging to a bit of hope, but once you mentioned that Director Zhang’s episode is being filmed at Baizhi Lake…”
“Based on past experience, something is bound to go wrong at Baizhi Lake.”
Taoist Ma let out a sigh. “I’m already on my way there with Taoist Wang. If you’re not too busy, you should go take a look too.”
“Even though everything still seems normal for now, and there’s been no reports of incidents, still…”
Taoist Ma gave a bitter laugh. “Just one statue already led to three tragic deaths. I really don’t know what might happen next.”
After hanging up the phone, the official was silent for a while before asking someone nearby for a tablet.
He first checked the main screen of the program and then switched to individual screens for each guest to confirm everyone was safe and sound.
A few guests appeared tired, resting in chairs inside their rooms.
Song Ci and Lu Xingxing sat quietly with their eyes closed, surrounded by props used in shadow puppetry. In front of them was the stage curtain for the shadow puppet play.
They looked like audience members quietly waiting for the performance to begin.
The stage was set. The audience was in place.
All that remained was to beat the gong and drums—the show was about to start.
The official stared at their split screen for quite a while, and even at such close range, he could see the two were perfectly fine, breathing steadily.
It really did seem like they were just tired from walking around and had sneaked off to rest in an empty room.
The live comments on their screens also appeared normal. No audience member had noticed anything amiss.
[Young Master must still not have recovered fully, huh. Sigh, he really was seriously injured last time.]
[Song Ci didn’t look too great when he arrived either. I saw him nearly falling asleep in the car.]
[Well, Binhai City is quite far from the southwest. No one would be comfortable after sitting in a car for four or five hours. Plus, the young master only just recovered.]
[Wait, Xingxing fell asleep too? Wow, it’s rare to see him this quiet.]
[He probably played too hard—just like my dog at home. Full of energy outside, but once he’s tired, he drops like a rock and won’t move no matter how much you call him. You just have to carry him home.]
[Hahaha, that’s actually accurate. Like a husky pig sleeping so sweetly.]
[Wow, I didn’t expect Lu Xingxing to look so handsome while sleeping. I suddenly get the appeal.]
[Such a good-looking guy—if only he didn’t open his mouth. When he’s asleep, he really looks like an angel. I’m in love.]
[Let’s crowdfund to sew Xingxing’s mouth shut!]
[Ugh, these two little ones leaning on each other and sleeping looks so wholesome. Now I’m getting sleepy.]
The official watched their screen for a long while before switching to the others.
Everyone else looked full of energy and enthusiasm. The guest named Nan Tian even played the role of tour guide for a bit, explaining shadow puppetry to the audience.
When the view shifted to the main screen, the official saw Yan Shixun’s lover standing in the courtyard.
The man, dressed in all black, stood tall and imposing among the fallen leaves. Even though his face wasn’t visible, the camera still captured his powerful presence.
Even the official himself felt a chilling fear—as if everything about him could be seen through—just from watching the screen.
But he also remembered that moment on the highway, when the underworld soldiers was passing through and the danger was intense. That man had appeared just in time, wiping out all the corrupted Yin officials and clearing the Yin path from the human world completely.
The feeling of security from that time—of being protected—still lingered in the mind of the official in charge. So even though he instinctively felt a deep fear from the depths of his soul, he also breathed a sigh of relief the moment he saw the man. It brought him a sense of peace.
That’s right, no matter what actually happened in the Baizhi Lake area, Mr. Yan and his lover were already there.
Thinking this, the official finally relaxed a little. He then called the public opinion team to ask if there had been any problems during the recent livestream.
“Not really.”
The team leader, who had been closely monitoring the livestream, scratched his head and said, “Although the doorman at the Shadow Puppet Museum scared Director Zhang a bit, it turned out to be a false alarm. Apart from the museum being different from what we expected, nothing else happened. It’s actually pretty safe.”
The official listened carefully to the report and nodded. Then he called Zhang Wubing directly to ask if anything unusual had occurred at the scene.
The call was picked up after just a few rings, and the signal was perfectly fine.
The official felt his heart settle a bit more in his chest.
He continued his process of elimination, checking each point one by one. Not a single issue came up. Could it be that he was simply too anxious?
After all, Zhang Wubing had encountered strange occurrences in past episodes, which had left a deep impression—even the official himself had become uneasy. Plus, with Taoist Ma’s speculations, he couldn’t help but worry that something might go wrong again this time.
Then Zhang Wubing’s cheerful voice came through the phone. “What’s up, Official in charge?”
“Don’t worry, I’m with Brother Yan. Everything’s normal over here—nothing to report.”
Zhang Wubing’s tone was relaxed. “If I had to say anything at all, it’s just that this Shadow Puppet Museum is nothing like what we imagined. Wow—it’s totally different from what we saw online. I don’t know when that photo was taken, but it made the place look so majestic. That photographer must be incredibly talented. I’d love to find out who it was and get them to work on my show…”
Once he brought up the Shadow Puppet Museum, Zhang Wubing became like a kid who had been tricked by his parents—promised a theme park but given old toys instead. He began grumbling nonstop about the huge letdown.
But hearing that energetic voice, the official felt even more at ease.
If he could complain and talk that much, then it meant Director Zhang was in good health, and his surroundings posed no danger.
The official sighed in relief, then chuckled. “Compared to other areas, the southwest region is vast and sparsely populated. People here don’t rely on the internet as much, so it’s normal that online information isn’t updated in a timely manner.”
As they chatted, Yan Shixun’s voice came through the phone. “Xiao Bing, come give me a hand.”
“Oh! Coming, Brother Yan!”
Zhang Wubing quickly said goodbye to the official and even reassured him again that everything was fine on his end before hanging up.
When Zhang Wubing turned around, he saw Yan Shixun crouched down, studying a massive poster in front of him.
In the innermost courtyard, they had displayed various archival materials, including newspapers and magazines that had covered the Baizhi Lake shadow puppets in their heyday.
What Yan Shixun was examining was a poster created during the peak of Baizhi Lake shadow puppetry’s popularity, made to promote one of its performances.
In addition to listing the performers’ names, the poster featured images of classic plays from the Baizhi Lake repertoire.
Looking closely, Yan Shixun saw the puppet figures behind the curtain, dressed in red and green. Their ghostly pale faces were marked with vivid red features, once bright as blood, now faded by time into a worn, mottled pinkish-white.
It made it easier to recognize them not as real people but as puppets—images painted with colored dyes.
On the other side of the poster was a section introducing the renowned puppet artisans.
The men wore honest, brilliant smiles in their photos. Below were their names and accomplishments.
But the last man in the row had no smile at all. His face was wooden, and his eyes looked lifeless, devoid of any hope for the future.
Yet what drew Yan Shixun’s attention wasn’t the man’s gloomy expression—but the text below his photo.
Zheng Shumu, Master Carpenter.
Unlike the others who were identified as “Master of Shadow Puppetry,” this man was only described for his woodworking skills, with no mention of his contributions to shadow puppetry at all.
Before Yan Shixun could make sense of this man’s background, Zhang Wubing stepped beside him and caught sight of the poster too.
“Oh!”
Zhang Wubing let out a sudden gasp.
Yan Shixun turned slightly to glance at him, raising an eyebrow to silently ask what was wrong.
“This guy…”
Zhang Wubing pointed to one of the artisans in the poster, looking surprised. “This is the guy the production team wanted to visit earlier. He’s listed as the last surviving officially recognized inheritor of Baizhi Lake shadow puppetry.”
“But the crew tried visiting several times and still couldn’t meet him.”
Zhang Wubing racked his brain to recall what the assistant director had told him. “The neighbors in the village said he’s old now and not in good health. Just when the crew went to see him, he happened to be in town getting medical treatment.”
Zhang Wubing looked genuinely disappointed.
After all, the once-glorious art of shadow puppetry at Baizhi Lake had dwindled down to a single remaining inheritor. But that heir had grown old and frail, no longer able to perform, nor possessing the energy to train a disciple. It seemed inevitable now—Baizhi Lake shadow puppetry was on the verge of being lost forever.
Watching something so beautiful fade away right before his eyes made Zhang Wubing feel deeply uneasy.
Yan Shixun turned his head and looked at the person Zhang Wubing was pointing to.
On the poster, the shadow puppeteer surnamed Bai had his background and accomplishments detailed below his photo.
In his generation, he had become the 28th inheritor of Baizhi Lake shadow puppetry. He had even declared that he would continue passing on the tradition and would promote the art of shadow puppetry until the day he died.
Suddenly, Yan Shixun asked, “Xiao Bing, you said earlier that this inheritor no longer performs?”
Zhang Wubing wasn’t sure why Yan Shixun asked that, but he simply nodded and said, “Yeah. His health isn’t good. He stopped performing years ago.”
“It seemed to happen right around the time Baizhi Lake shadow puppetry began declining. I heard he fell seriously ill. After he got out of the hospital, some people tried to invite him to perform again, but he turned them all down, saying his health wasn’t up to it.”
Zhang Wubing looked a little lost and regretful. “Honestly, if he had taken on a disciple back then, someone could have continued the tradition. But for some reason, after his last disciple died in an accident, he shut himself off completely and refused to take anyone else.”
“When I chose Baizhi Lake shadow puppetry, I actually hesitated,” he admitted. “Because this inheritor…”
Zhang Wubing searched his mind for the right words to describe his feelings to Yan Shixun. In the end, he could only come up with one phrase that truly fit: “He looked like… he didn’t want Baizhi Lake shadow puppetry to be passed down anymore.”
“He didn’t take on students, didn’t teach, stopped performing entirely. Even when organizations in the southwest tried to support Baizhi Lake and promote the art, he turned them down. No matter what others asked of him, he always used the excuse of old age and poor health to refuse.”
Zhang Wubing sighed, clearly unable to understand the man’s mindset.
“This time, I just wanted to try, I couldn’t stand by and watch such a wonderful cultural heritage vanish. But… I don’t have much confidence either. Especially since even the inheritor himself seems so resistant.”
“When the production team visited him before, his neighbor told them to give up. Said he hadn’t seen outsiders in a long time.”
As Zhang Wubing spoke, Yan Shixun silently stared at the photo on the poster in front of him.
At that time, the inheritor had still been in his prime—fifty years old, the golden age for a craftsman.
His skills were at their peak. His physical and mental strength were still intact. He wasn’t just resting on his laurels—he had many new ideas and innovations he wanted to try. His drive and ambition had not faded.
On the poster, he looked spirited and radiant, his smile brimming with confidence in his craft and in Baizhi Lake shadow puppetry. It was as if he planned to take the tradition to even greater heights.
But what could have made such a person suddenly change so drastically and lose his passion for shadow puppetry?
Yan Shixun had met many artisans before. In alleys and backstreets, hidden from the world, there were many eccentric but talented individuals, each a master of their own craft. And if there was one trait they all shared, it was—
A love for their art.
Some of them may not have liked what they were taught in the beginning.
But as time passed, what they learned became a part of them. It couldn’t be summed up with a simple word like “love.”
It was like breathing—an instinct embedded in their very being.
Even their muscles had memory.
Whether they wanted to or not, a carpenter picking up a chisel would instinctively know how to carve a lifelike figure. The sugar artisan’s amber candy gleamed in the pot. And a man who had sold sugar-coated hawthorn all his life would still make each skewer shiny red and perfectly crisp.
Shadow puppeteers were no different.
So what could possibly make someone who had inherited a craft through dozens of generations give it up?
The timing Zhang Wubing mentioned about when the inheritor changed his attitude caught Yan Shixun’s attention.
“The decline ofBaizhi Lake shadow puppetry…”
He softly repeated the words, staring intently at the poster as he sank into thought.
After a long pause, Yan Shixun stood up, rolled up his sleeves, and called Zhang Wubing over to help him move the poster that covered an entire wall.
Though puzzled, Zhang Wubing still came over to lend a hand.
“Brother Yan, why are we moving this? Weren’t we just here to turn off the DVD player? Once it’s off, we can just leave.”
He asked curiously, “It’s just leaning against the wall—it’s not in the way. Or did you drop something behind it?”
“No.”
Yan Shixun chuckled and pointed at the wall. “Didn’t you notice? There’s some color behind the poster on the wall.”
The poster depicted the shadows cast on a screen.
Bright reds and greens, all bathed in the warm glow of the light, giving the silhouettes a uniquely hazy and ancient beauty.
But Yan Shixun had sharp eyes—he noticed faint hints of red and green behind the poster, like part of a painted figure peeking through.
It was as if the poster was the curtain of a shadow puppet stage, and all the visitors were just the audience.
And the true shadow puppet figures, along with the person pulling the strings, were hidden behind the curtain, quietly watching it all unfold.
Sure enough, once they moved the wooden board and removed the poster, they found a mural on the wall.
Yan Shixun saw that, on the old wall stained with burn marks and cracks, the original paint had not yet completely faded. Several men were vividly depicted.
They each held wooden rods in their hands, with fingers either spread or curled, their faces relaxed and smiling, as if they were expertly manipulating the shadow puppets, making them cast all sorts of lifelike figures on the screen.
Onstage, heart-wrenching scenes of life and death played out. But behind the scenes, the craftsmen were smiling.
When their eyes met, satisfied smiles appeared on all their faces.
Yan Shixun instantly recognized them—they were the same puppet masters introduced on the poster.
The 28th-generation inheritor was among them.
But surprisingly, he wasn’t standing in the center.
Instead, he stood at the far edge, his smile strained and uneasy, showing hints of deep worry.
It was as though he was anxiously questioning whether what he was doing was right—wanting to stop it, but hesitating, retreating, and ultimately saying nothing.
Yan Shixun tilted his head to gaze up at the mural. While feeling a wave of emotion, he also calmly studied it for clues.
Whoever painted this must have witnessed the scene in person, and possessed exceptional skill, to portray each person’s expression so vividly.
If not for the long passage of time causing weathering and fading—along with the erosion from rainwater leaking through the eaves—this mural would have appeared even more lifelike than it did now.
And quite coincidentally, aside from the inheritor, the other shadow puppet masters all had parts of the wall peeled away right around their eyes, revealing the red bricks beneath the surface.
A crack had spread from the beam above all the way down, splitting straight through, both horizontally and vertically, each of these individuals’ bodies.
It looked as if they had been torn apart limb from limb, with bright red blood flowing freely beneath their skin and smearing across the wall.
Their eyeballs were a deep red, as if monsters were hiding behind the mural, staring dead-on at anyone who stepped into the room.
The viewer felt as though they were truly present at the scene, watching what had happened behind the curtain unfold.
But… one person was missing.
Yan Shixun keenly noticed that not everyone introduced on the poster had been painted onto the wall.
The carpenter named Zheng Shumu was not among them.
Yan Shixun paused thoughtfully, then took a long stride forward and carefully examined the wall. Thanks to his sharp eyesight, he noticed that on every rod held in the hands of those shadow puppet masters, a single character had been carved into the wood—“Zheng.”
Of course—he was a carpenter, after all.
If the painter had been depicting the world behind the shadow puppets, then it made sense that the carpenter wouldn’t appear in the scene.
However, even though Yan Shixun understood that the logic behind the composition seemed sound, he still couldn’t shake a lingering doubt.
What was the purpose of painting this image here?
It was hidden behind the full-sized poster that covered the entire wall. No matter how beautifully painted it was, no one would ever notice it.
So then—what was the point of meticulously painting something that would never be seen?
And not only that, each person’s facial expression had been rendered in vivid detail…
While pondering this, Yan Shixun’s gaze dropped—and he suddenly caught sight of the wooden panel in his hands.
Upon seeing what was drawn on the back of the wood, his eyes widened slightly.
—The painter’s original intent had been to hide the people behind the scenes behind the poster.
Whoever had painted this mural had invested far more time and effort into it than Yan Shixun had initially imagined.
The back of the wooden panel had also been painted.
However, it showed something entirely different from either the front of the poster or the mural on the wall.
The back of the wood depicted the shadow puppet characters controlled by the puppet masters.
Each one had exquisitely detailed features, and their clothing had been carefully drawn, showing distinct patterns that seemed to signify their individual identities.
In front of them was a dim, yellowish cloth screen.
Behind the cloth were indistinct silhouettes—blurred human figures and unclear faces.
Those outside the curtain had facial features that looked like they had melted together into a blur. Only faint outlines of eyes and noses could be seen.
Yet, this very blurriness made them appear even more terrifying at first glance—like ghosts, with their hollow eyes and gaping mouths—laughing wildly at the performance onstage, mocking the shadow puppets’ stories and fates.
The image on the back of the board had been drawn from the perspective behind the curtain—showing the puppets acting out the story, and the audience’s grotesque reactions.
Judging by the painting style and use of color, all three works—the poster, the back of the board, and the wall mural—had been created by the same artist.
This painter had been remarkably deliberate.
Yan Shixun furrowed his brow slightly.
Whoever this person was, they hadn’t painted in such painstaking detail for money.
Then why?
Was it to help promote Baizhi Lake’s shadow puppetry?
Or was there some other reason?
But if the goal had been to impress visitors with this clever design, then there should have been some hint on the outside of the poster—so that people could actually discover the hidden painting behind it.
Yet now, it seemed that if he hadn’t made a habit of thoroughly examining every corner of a space, he wouldn’t have uncovered the picture hidden behind the poster.
Yan Shixun was not one to be overly modest—“moderation” was not a virtue he claimed.
He was confident in his abilities; he knew himself well and could also see others with clarity.
He understood that, in terms of observation skills, he was among the best.
After all, it was a skill honed through countless life-or-
death situations. Even the slightest oversight could have led to the entire group falling into danger—or even cost him his own life.
This skill had allowed him to notice abnormal details just in time, many times before—pulling everyone back from the brink and saving lives.
If not for that, he wouldn’t have noticed the hidden image behind the poster.
But this discovery now made the painter’s decision to leave such a mural here over a decade ago seem all the more bizarre.
If they didn’t want anyone to see it, why paint it at all?
Unless… it was an act of powerless self-mockery, born from rage or resentment?
Perhaps the painter had wanted to scream out in condemnation, but realized there was nothing they could do.
Just like those laughing audience members in front of the curtain—in everyone’s eyes, the painter had merely been a silly puppet in a performance, something to be ridiculed, not respected or pitied in the least.
Stunned by his own speculation, Yan Shixun suddenly realized something and looked down closely at the shadow puppets drawn on the back of the board.
There were six shadow puppet characters in total—only one was a woman, and one was a child.
The woman knelt on the ground, her upper body arched backward, one finger pointing skyward, as if crying out in sorrow and fury at the heavens’ injustice.
The child had their arms spread wide, standing in front of the woman, trying to shield her from all harm.
The rest of the villagers were holding sticks and knives—some had already raised their weapons, while others stood by, watching coldly.
No one stepped in to help the woman and child.
At the edge of the curtain’s props, there were even more puppet villagers on display.
They leaned out from the houses, their mouths curling high like crescent moons, watching everything as if laughing.
There were also figures resembling women, reaching out to point at the woman kneeling on the ground in the center, as if gossiping about her.
This reminded Yan Shixun of scenes he had seen in the village before.
When something happened to a family, the rest of the villagers would come out to watch the spectacle, surrounding the affected person and pointing fingers, gossiping and laughing as they turned someone else’s tragedy into post-meal entertainment and mockery.
As Yan Shixun’s gaze fell back onto the woman in the center, he suddenly paused.
A trace of doubt appeared in his eyes and brows. He couldn’t help but bend down to take a closer look.
In theater, especially in traditional performances, character traits were often exaggerated to help the audience immediately identify them. Shadow puppetry was no exception.
Because the puppets were seen through a screen, extra care was put into character design, ensuring the audience could discern good from evil and status at first glance.
The woman in the center was clearly different from the surrounding villagers or women.
The women standing around were obviously village folk, with simply tied hair and plain clothing.
But the kneeling woman had several jeweled hairpins in her hair, wore an elegant long dress decorated with delicate patterns—she clearly did not belong in that environment. She looked like someone from outside the village.
Even the child standing protectively behind her wore clothing of a different style, matching the woman’s appearance.
The female figure was beautiful in every detail, as if meant to portray a tragic beauty. Even the hand she raised in sorrow toward the heavens was slender and graceful.
But there was one thing that stood out.
Her waist was round, slightly protruding.
At first, Yan Shixun thought it was just folds in her clothing. But when he bent down to look closely, he noticed that there was a pair of eyes drawn on her abdomen.
Those eyes, projected onto the screen, were like the only bright spots in a sea of darkness, staring straight ahead—coldly watching the villagers’ behavior.
“Brother Yan, this is way too intricate. I didn’t think craftsmen back then could come up with such novel designs.”
Zhang Wubing marveled aloud but then frowned in confusion. “But isn’t this scene a really famous one in shadow puppetry?”
He pointed at the nearby television. “That woman looks kinda like the one we saw when we first came in.”
As a finance student who had once racked his brains promoting a variety show, Zhang Wubing thought of it simply.
If the woman was featured on a poster and the disc in the player was showing that scene, then the museum must be using it for promotion—to show off how amazing Baizhi Lake’s shadow puppetry was.
Just like using your best clips when pitching a show.
In that case, they’d definitely pick the most famous scene, right? Otherwise, why waste such a valuable promotional opportunity?
Yan Shixun frowned. Zhang Wubing’s words made him realize something: the woman and child had indeed appeared on the television the moment they entered the room.
And because Zhang Wubing had forgotten to turn off the DVD player, the background audio they had heard while walking through the puppet museum had also come from this very scene.
Although the poster behind the display was exquisitely drawn, it only captured a single moment.
To understand the full story, they would have to watch the recorded footage from that time.
With that thought, Yan Shixun set the heavy wooden poster back against the wall, then strode toward the television and turned the DVD player back on.
With a burst of static and crackling from the old-fashioned TV, the content on the disc began to play through the snowy screen.
But the sudden blast of singing that came out was rough and resolute, completely unlike the sorrowful and mournful tones they’d heard before.
Yan Shixun focused his gaze—it sounded more like Water Margin.
He turned to ask Zhang Wubing with a furrowed brow, “Did you change the disc when you turned off the machine?”
“Huh? No, I didn’t.”
Zhang Wubing was confused too. He walked over, squatted down, and fiddled with the machine. “Could it be that the previous scene just finished? Maybe they recorded several performances onto the same disc?”
But when the two of them rewound the disc to the very beginning and reviewed it carefully, they couldn’t find the segment they had seen when they first entered the room.
Yan Shixun pulled the disc rack closer and began loading and scanning each disc, fast-forwarding and rewinding.
But he couldn’t find a single clip that matched the woman and child.
He couldn’t help turning to look at the image of the woman on the wall poster.
Which scene was it…? Why had the artist chosen to preserve this moment on the wall?
Yan Shixun frowned, momentarily unable to piece it all together.
Meanwhile, after hanging up with Zhang Wubing, the official in charge fell into deep thought. He called up the records of the death cases mentioned by Taoist Ma and began asking around about any major incidents in the Baizhi Lake region.
“Baizhi Lake?”
On the other end of the line, the person tapped their desk, then gave a bitter laugh as they organized their words. “Come on, man, are you kidding me? You don’t know what happened at Baizhi Lake?”
“Just listen to the name—Baizhi Lake. Who names a place after white paper? It’s just a nickname that stuck after what happened back then. Everyone got used to calling it that.”
“There were so many deaths, they couldn’t bury them all. The paper offerings thrown in the air covered the sky. When they landed in the lake, the entire surface was blanketed.”
The person sighed. “That village was nearly wiped out.”
The official was first stunned, then frowned. “Such a large-scale death… What happened at Baizhi Lake? Pollution? Poisoning? Disease? Or something else?”
“For a mass death incident like that, it should’ve either been investigated by a specialized team or escalated to our special department.”
Looking at the blank system page on his tablet after searching “Baizhi Lake,” the official couldn’t help but wonder, “But there’s no record on our end. What’s going on?”
The person responded honestly, “There was no cause. No matter how they investigated, nothing was found. Everyone just suddenly died in the middle of the night. Autopsies showed heart failure or brain issues—just personal health problems.”
“And that’s exactly why it wasn’t reported to the special department. There were no signs of supernatural activity.”
He sighed and shook his head. “Still, personally, I think it’s too much of a coincidence. One or two cases, sure. But the whole village? I’m afraid whatever’s haunting Baizhi Lake is something far beyond our understanding. That’s why we couldn’t detect anything.”
The official looked down at the student death reports in his hand.
All of these students had died after returning from Baizhi Lake.
It felt as if anything or anyone that came into contact with Baizhi Lake was cursed, destined to end in death.
If the probability of one incident was 1%, what were the odds of a hundred similar incidents all happening?
The possibility of coincidence dropped to zero.
Inevitability began to take shape.
Just as the person said—perhaps Baizhi Lake harbored a ghostly presence they had never encountered before.
The official stared in a daze as he hung up the phone, then picked up the report in his hand.
One particular case—the last student to die—caught his attention.
Falling or being crushed could still be chalked up to bad luck, but drowning in a rice bowl? That couldn’t simply be explained by misfortune.
What’s more, the report suspected the drowning water was from the lake…
Baizhi Lake?
The official’s heart skipped a beat. He shot up from his seat.
He grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and strode out. “I need to go check out Baizhi Lake myself. I won’t feel at ease until I’ve seen with my own eyes that everything is fine there.”
The person beside him acknowledged the order and went to contact the rescue team.
The official dialed Zhang Wubing’s number.
But all he got was the endless tone of “beep, beep.”
No one answered.
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