Chapter 244: Shadow Puppets and Lamplight (10)
Song Ci hadn’t expected that in the brief moment he lowered his head and closed his eyes, the surrounding scene would change so drastically.
He felt as though he had broken away from reality. Even his previously weak body seemed to have distanced itself from him, becoming light and nimble. The soreness and exhaustion vanished, replaced by health and strength.
The young master hadn’t yet figured out what was going on when he was startled by a sudden scream from Lu Xingxing beside him.
“Lu Xingxing, are you crazy? Jumping and screaming like that…”
The young master turned toward Lu Xingxing impatiently.
However, the moment he saw the humanoid figure behind Lu Xingxing, he was so shocked that his words caught in his throat midway.
—Right where Lu Xingxing was looking, there stood a paper figure that didn’t seem alive.
From the young master’s angle, he could clearly see that although the figure’s features were vivid and lifelike, and its limbs appeared complete and agile, with no visible flaws, from the side, it was just a sheet of paper—thin, without any thickness at all.
It was truly, unmistakably, a paper figure.
And it was smiling.
Its eyes, drawn with black ink, rolled in their sockets, dark and lifeless. Its mouth curved upward in a grin, and the two bright red spots on its cheeks seemed even more vividly red, like they had been dyed with blood.
The paper figure stared intently at Lu Xingxing. Just as Lu Xingxing stood frozen in terror, unable to move, it slowly raised its hand and reached out a finger, seemingly aiming for his eyes.
The young master was so horrified by the sight that cold sweat drenched his entire body. But from Lu Xingxing’s point of view, it wasn’t a paper figure at all.
It looked like a living, breathing person.
This person wore a strange smile and was complimenting his eyes, saying they were beautiful.
“Such a pity. All I have are these eyes—you see? They’re gone.”
The person smiled stiffly and pleaded with Lu Xingxing, “No one will fix my eyes for me. I’m so sad. Could you… give me yours?”
Lu Xingxing felt chills all over his body.
He wanted to curse at the man—tell him if he was sick, he should see a doctor, and if there was something wrong with his eyes, he should get surgery. Asking a Taoist what to do about broken eyes—was he out of his mind?
But just as he tried to speak, Lu Xingxing was horrified to discover that while his mouth had been perfectly normal a moment ago, he now couldn’t speak at all.
It wasn’t that his lips were glued shut, nor that his throat had tightened or his vocal cords stopped working. It was that—right from the start—he had no mouth!
From the other man’s eyes, Lu Xingxing saw a clear reflection of what he looked like now.
His expression was filled with terror, yet where his mouth should have been was just a smooth, empty patch of skin—no slit, no lips.
His once-handsome, uninhibited face now appeared disturbingly unnatural.
It looked like a poorly skilled artist had simply forgotten that humans were supposed to have mouths—and never drew one on him at all.
How could this be happening?
W-What was going on?
The unexpected turn of events sent Lu Xingxing into a panic, sweat instantly soaking his back.
He wanted to run—before the person’s hand really touched his eyes.
But some strange force held him in place, refusing to let him leave.
Lu Xingxing rolled his eyes downward, and with his neck frozen and unable to move, he strained with all his might to look down, trying to see what was stopping his legs from moving.
Then he saw…
The floor beneath him—where the concrete of the room should have been—had somehow turned into a watery surface.
Ripples spread outward from where he stood. Beneath the surface, blurred faces began to gather, slowly rising from the depths of the lake and pressing up against the water’s surface, tilting their heads upward to look at him.
On those indistinct faces, where the eyes should have been, there were only hollow, translucent voids—while their mouths were stretched wide in twisted grins.
It looked just like the ornamental ponds at tourist spots, where fish swarm to the surface expecting food to be thrown in.
Only now, the roles were reversed—Lu Xingxing was the bait attracting the swarm.
But he couldn’t see who had thrown this handful of bait into the water…
“Are you stupid? Why aren’t you running?!”
Just as Lu Xingxing’s eyes filled with panic and he desperately tried to struggle free, he realized to his horror that all his effort was useless. It was like a nightmare, where no matter how much you ran, your body in bed remained still.
However, just as despair began to take over and he could only watch helplessly as the man’s hand reached toward him, a sudden force yanked his arm, pulling him away with great strength.
The moment he was touched, Lu Xingxing suddenly felt his body—previously locked in place—come back to life.
It was as if a binding spell had been broken.
He stumbled backward a few steps and nearly fell.
Looking up toward the source of the voice, the first thing he saw was Song Ci’s face—vivid and striking, flushed with anger.
Lu Xingxing didn’t have time to explain what had just happened to him, nor did he glance back at the person beside him.
Instead, he immediately grabbed the young master’s arm in return, took the lead, and dragged him in huge strides, running forward with all his might.
Song Ci hadn’t yet figured out what was going on. He had just looked at Lu Xingxing’s blank and disbelieving expression and was about to yell when a sudden sensation of weightlessness hit him.
His head jerked backward, and he staggered a few steps, only managing to keep his balance by instinctively running along, forced to follow Lu Xingxing so he wouldn’t fall.
“Lu—Lu Xingxing!”
Song Ci gritted his teeth and shouted in frustration, “What the hell are you doing?!”
Lu Xingxing, still running at full speed, glanced back over his shoulder, looking past Song Ci toward what lay behind.
That person was still standing in the same place.
He seemed somewhat surprised that Lu Xingxing had managed to escape. The hand he had extended slowly lowered back down, and he returned to a standing posture.
He turned slightly toward Lu Xingxing’s direction, his blood-red lips spreading into a grin as they opened and closed, as if saying—
Where do you think you’re going?
Even the ground Lu Xingxing and Song Ci ran across looked as if it had been split open like the bed of a dried-up river.
The cement beneath their feet cracked inch by inch, enormous fissures stretching in pursuit of their steps like a spiderweb chasing its prey.
The water that had been under Lu Xingxing’s feet poured in, surging violently and filling every crevice.
Faces, blurred and indistinct, emerged from the bottom of the lake and floated along with the water, following right behind Lu Xingxing.
That person stood at the source of it all, his pitch-black, lightless eyes staring rigidly at Lu Xingxing—like an angler encircling his prey.
At that moment, Lu Xingxing had a gut-wrenching realization.
It felt like the entire space around them belonged to some unknown presence. No matter how hard he tried to run, he was still inside the palm of its hand.
There was no escaping this Wuzhi Mountain.
Worse yet, he wasn’t Sun Wukong. He didn’t have the power of the Great Sage Equal to Heaven to stir the world into chaos.
The heart that had been pounding violently in his chest from fear suddenly dropped into the freezing depths of a lake.
A trace of despair surfaced in his heart, and Yan Shixun’s name hovered on the edge of his lips.
Can I really protect Song Ci in this situation?
Why am I not someone like Brother Yan… why did I have to be the one to go through all this?!
Lu Xingxing’s sprinting steps gradually slowed, as if he were ready to give up the struggle.
But in Song Ci’s eyes, it looked like Lu Xingxing had been scared out of his mind by a colored paper figure, panicking and running aimlessly deeper into the house.
With each frantic step, the white paper covering the floor tore under their feet, revealing what was hidden beneath it.
Song Ci, nearly breathless from being dragged along, could only glance downward in brief moments to catch a glimpse beneath his feet.
He saw that beneath the torn white paper were exquisitely painted landscapes.
It was like a backdrop for a shadow puppet play—each act had a different background, beautifully painted mountains and villages that shadow puppet masters could cleverly switch with a flick of their hands, transforming the setting and time of day in an instant.
But compared to a stage backdrop, the scenes under the paper were much larger and far more intricate and beautiful. They looked so real that it didn’t seem like they were painted at all.
It was as if pieces of heaven and earth had been cut out and laid onto a canvas, the entire world frozen in that one moment.
The green mountains and trees, the distant golden-red setting sun, the rippling lake, the villages nearby, the curling smoke from chimneys…
All of it made one feel as if they were truly there.
And as they ran, these scenes seemed to stretch endlessly beneath their feet, spreading forward as if they would never reach the end.
But despite how stunning the imagery was, Song Ci wasn’t entirely focused on it.
Instead, he was too distracted by being dragged along by Lu Xingxing, and didn’t have the mental space to be amazed or curious about the scenery.
Song Ci was gasping for breath, dragged to the point he thought he might die, and felt an overwhelming urge to curse Lu Xingxing to death.
But alas, he had never been good at physical activity. From childhood, he had been pampered and delicate. Even school fitness tests were always a barely passing struggle—he’d run until his face turned pale and would be carried to the ambulance after crossing the finish line.
Not to mention the way they were running now, like it was a marathon.
Song Ci felt like a miserable dog-walking owner, unable to control the leash, being dragged full speed by a hyper husky with no way to stop. Even wanting to pause for a second felt like a luxury.
I swear, I’ll never own a dog. Especially not a husky. Never!
From today on, I’m mortal enemies with dogs!
Song Ci raged internally.
But just when he was wondering if Lu Xingxing was going to drag him like this for the rest of his life, he noticed Lu Xingxing’s pace slowing down, eventually coming to a stop.
Song Ci perked up, hurriedly caught his breath, and rushed up, delivering a hard slap to Lu Xingxing’s head.
With a loud “smack!”
It sounded like hitting a watermelon.
“Are you a dog?”
The young master shouted angrily, “You just start running like a maniac without saying a word—do you not have a mouth or just don’t know how to use it? What the hell were you running from?!”
Lu Xingxing turned his head to look at Song Ci, eyes filled with sorrow. His reddened eyes shimmered with a layer of moisture, like he was about to burst into tears at any second.
The young master: “…………”
The young master: “!!!”
What the hell? Lu Xingxing actually has a moment where he wants to cry?!
Song Ci was taken aback, immediately sensing that something was off.
All this time, he’d only ever seen Lu Xingxing when he was acting wild. He’d never seen him cry—let alone look so choked up and miserable, like a shaved husky in utter despair.
Lu Xingxing had a notorious reputation for being a troublemaker. In the entertainment industry, if he didn’t like someone or found out about their dirty secrets, he’d call them out without hesitation, no matter who they were or what the consequences might be.
Because of this, many in the industry both hated and feared him, terrified that he might expose something shameful about them.
The only times Song Ci had seen this bold and brash Lu Xingxing act scared were when Yan Shixun or someone close to him was present.
But now…
Song Ci couldn’t even bring himself to yell at him anymore. He quickly grabbed Lu Xingxing, stopping him from running further, and anxiously reached out to check if he was injured.
“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
Song Ci began to wonder if that paper figure had done something to Lu Xingxing while he wasn’t looking.
But Lu Xingxing suddenly grabbed the hand Song Ci had extended to tear his clothes, eyes brimming with tears, and used his other hand to point at his own mouth.
Lu Xingxing: My mouth… sob sob… I have no mouth anymore. I can’t protect you, and now I can’t even talk.
What’s the most terrifying punishment for a chatterbox?
—To never be able to speak again, to even have their mouth forcibly taken away.
Lu Xingxing was devastated. He had already spiraled into despair, even beginning to consider just dying here. As long as he could get Song Ci out of this crisis safely, he didn’t care about living anymore. Wuwuwu… a life without a mouth was pitch dark and hopeless!
Song Ci: …?
What kind of nonsense was this?
The young master turned his head and realized the paper figure had disappeared at some point.
In the places they had just run through, there was now nothing but one empty room after another, stretching endlessly.
All four walls were white, and even the floor was covered in white paper.
Only the golden-red sunset outside shone through the windows, casting everything in a warm glow.
But under this soft, warm light, the eerie silence and emptiness only felt more unsettling.
The only thing that still confirmed they existed was the presence of each other.
Song Ci paused for a moment, then forcibly pulled himself out of that uncomfortable mental state. At the same time, he let out a breath of relief over the paper figure’s disappearance.
At least Lu Xingxing was safe.
Taking advantage of Lu Xingxing still holding onto his hand, he abruptly shoved him toward the nearby window, pressing him against the glass. Using the sunlight, he carefully examined him from head to toe.
No missing limbs, no sign of blood—everything looked normal.
Only then did Song Ci finally let out a small sigh of relief and asked in confusion, “Why were you pointing at your mouth like that? Someone cut your vocal cords?”
Lu Xingxing grew even more heartbroken and frantically gestured: Can’t you see my mouth is gone?
Song Ci: …Okay, this mutt has truly gone mad.
“Open your mouth. Talk!”
Song Ci finally ran out of patience and, irritated, raised his fist and punched Lu Xingxing in the chest.
“Ugh—cough cough…”
Lu Xingxing gasped sharply and, caught off guard, coughed from the pain.
“How did you suddenly get so strong? That really hurt! Did your brother feed you some spirit ginseng every day while you were recovering or what?”
Clutching his chest, Lu Xingxing grimaced in pain, complaining as he opened his mouth.
“You think I wanted to? You think it’s easy hitting you? You wouldn’t say a word and were acting insane!”
The young master huffed coldly and rolled his eyes. He had no intention of indulging Lu Xingxing’s weird antics.
Besides, he was fully aware of his own physical limits. He could believe he might annoy someone to death, but beat someone to death or even hurt them? As if! What a joke. Did he look like someone with that kind of strength?
The young master, still irritated, gave another slap—this time on Lu Xingxing’s arm.
Lu Xingxing yelped in pain, “Ow!”
But before they could continue bickering, both of them suddenly seemed to realize something was off. The words they were about to say froze in their throats, and their gazes locked, dazed.
They stared at each other.
“My… my mouth is still here?”
“I actually hit that hard?”
They asked each other simultaneously.
And then both of them frowned at the other’s question.
“What do you mean ‘your mouth is still here’? Who loses their mouth?”
The young master frowned deeply, then raised his hand and started roughly tugging and pinching at Lu Xingxing’s lips.
“Does it hurt? Is it there?”
“Yes, yes, yes! It hurts, it hurts!”
Tears welled up in Lu Xingxing’s eyes immediately. “Let go! That really freaking hurts! You’re going to tear my mouth off!”
Song Ci let out a snort and finally released him.
Lu Xingxing also quickly let go of Song Ci’s hand. One hand still pressed to his chest, the other cradled his mouth. His eyes were watery from the pain, shimmering beautifully under the sunset light.
At that moment, with the golden glow cast over him, Lu Xingxing looked like a tragic beauty straight out of a painting—like Xi Shi clutching her chest, fragile and ethereal.
Even Song Ci, who had seen countless beauties in the entertainment industry, was momentarily dazed, his gaze involuntarily drawn to the handsome youth’s vulnerable expression.
—But the moment Lu Xingxing opened his mouth, that fleeting beauty was shattered to pieces.
“My mouth is still here! I didn’t lose it! Hahaha!”
Lu Xingxing was overjoyed.
The illusion shattered completely.
The young master’s face instantly returned to its usual cold, detached expression.
As expected, for someone like Lu Xingxing, all that handsomeness and image—completely fake.
Still, Lu Xingxing’s unfiltered joy didn’t seem fake at all, and it made Song Ci slowly realize something was off.
“So… just now, you didn’t speak because you thought your mouth was gone?”
Song Ci asked suspiciously, “What happened that made you think that?”
What kind of normal person suddenly believes they’ve lost their mouth?
Lu Xingxing didn’t hide anything and explained everything he’d just experienced and seen to Song Ci in detail.
“I really thought we were going to die back there. No matter how we ran, we couldn’t shake off those water ghosts. It was terrifying.”
As he spoke, Lu Xingxing pointed to the ground, wanting to show Song Ci the ghastly faces that had been chasing them.
But when he looked, he froze.
—There were no water ghosts. No river.
Only crumpled and torn white paper where they had stepped.
And beneath the paper, a landscape painting revealed itself.
Had he… imagined the whole thing?
Lu Xingxing hesitated, suddenly unsure.
But the problem was, those things felt far too real—he didn’t feel for a moment that they were fake.
No matter what, he could still tell the difference between three-dimensional objects and flat images, right? This kind of thing shouldn’t be something anyone could mistake.
And the sensation of his mouth disappearing, of his tongue being unable to reach it or find an exit—it was far too vivid to be false.
Lu Xingxing kept sticking out his tongue, trying to lick around the outside of his mouth, just to confirm it was still there. Only then did he feel a little more at ease.
Song Ci’s gaze dropped to the floor. It was only because of what Lu Xingxing had said that he finally understood why he had suddenly gone crazy earlier.
This fool—was he actually trying to escape with him?
Song Ci felt both angry and amused. But because of Lu Xingxing’s actions, he couldn’t truly stay mad, so he simply rolled his eyes and cursed, “You were clearly looking at a water monster, weren’t you? What water ghost are you talking about—yours?”
Lu Xingxing rubbed his chin thoughtfully and muttered, “Although I’ve never really seen a water ghost before, if you want to, we could go find Zhang Dabing.”
“Lately I feel like, as long as we stick with him, we’ll see every kind of ghost there is.”
Lu Xingxing earnestly said to Song Ci, “If this had been in the past, Zhang Dabing probably could’ve written a new Classic of Mountains and Seas, or maybe something like a Compendium of a Hundred Ghosts.”
“That guy becoming a director—he’s in the wrong line of work.”
Pointing at the scene around them, Lu Xingxing complained, “I’m sure of it—we’ve definitely run into some unclean thing again.”
“I remember it clearly—when they first came in, this was just a normal room, meant for storing shadow puppet props. But after chatting for a bit, it turned into this—definitely Zhang Dabing’s doing!”
If Lu Xingxing had said anything else, the young master might have snapped at him in annoyance.
But the moment he brought up Zhang Wubing, Song Ci surprisingly agreed, nodding in shared understanding.
That much was true.
When it came to encountering ghosts, Zhang Wubing’s luck was absolutely unmatched in all the years Song Ci had known.
Otherwise, he wouldn’t have joined this show to begin with.
“If what you said about your mouth disappearing just now was true…”
The young master hesitated, lowering his head to look at his own arm. His slender fingers opened and closed, and though blue veins bulged slightly along his pale, thin arms, there was nothing ugly or monstrous about it.
At a glance, his arms were weak and frail—untouched by years of labor or sunlight, they were porcelain white and soft to the touch, but completely devoid of strength.
Against someone like Lu Xingxing—who, while nowhere near Yan Shixun’s level, still trained regularly—he shouldn’t have been able to inflict any pain at all.
And yet… he seemed to possess strength he had never had before.
A wave of shock surged through the young master’s heart, and even his breathing unconsciously quieted.
“Then maybe… I really do have strength now.”
Song Ci murmured in a daze, then slowly lifted his head to look toward the glass behind Lu Xingxing.
The sunlight stung his eyes, and he instinctively squinted.
Then, just as Lu Xingxing remained unaware, Song Ci suddenly clenched his fist, a fierce look flashing in his eyes, and threw a punch straight toward him.
Lu Xingxing’s eyes widened in shock. His body moved on instinct before his mind caught up—he crossed his arms in front of him and ducked his head, bracing to block the unexpected attack.
“Bang!”
But Song Ci’s punch didn’t land on Lu Xingxing.
Instead, it slammed into the glass behind him.
And yet, the sound of shattering glass never came.
It was like punching reinforced concrete—the punch let out a deep, muffled thud.
Next came the clattering sound of plaster and brick crumbling.
Song Ci stared in disbelief as a large hole appeared in the window.
But behind that hole wasn’t open air or a courtyard—it was solid red brick, with streaks of blood-red matter wedged in between the bricks.
Through the glass lit by sunlight, and the bricks stacked tightly behind it…
The entire scene was jarring and surreal.
As if a senseless painter had stitched together two completely different textures into one incoherent image.
To Song Ci, it felt like the glass had just played a cruel joke on him. He had wanted to break out of this endless room, hoping to leap through the only possible connection to the outside world—the window.
But the window told him, loud and clear—
Behind the glass, there was no freedom. No safety.
Only a solid trap.
Song Ci shook his head in disbelief and took a half-step back, stunned.
Lu Xingxing, who had shut his eyes tightly in preparation for the pain of being hit, now mustered the courage to open them. Peeking through the gap between his crossed arms, he looked toward Song Ci.
And with that glance, all the complaints he was about to hurl disappeared, leaving only stunned silence.
From Song Ci’s expression, Lu Xingxing realized something was wrong. He quickly turned his head to look behind him.
And in the very instant he saw the window clearly, his eyes flew wide open.
“This is…”
Lu Xingxing involuntarily slowed his breath.
Under the gazes of both of them, the window in the room began to undergo a subtle change—it shifted from a three-dimensional structure back into a flat, paper-thin image.
It became a painting, damaged and hanging on the wall.
As if Song Ci’s punch had shattered the illusion, and the image no longer fooled their eyes, revealing the truth beneath.
—From the very beginning, the window in the room had been painted.
There was never a way to reach the outside world.
It simply didn’t exist.
After a brief moment of shock, Lu Xingxing quickly turned his head to look to both sides.
Behind each door on either side was another room, and behind that room was yet another…
An endless extension.
They were like pitiful animals placed along the edge of a flowerpot, forced to endlessly walk along a narrow, empty rim.
Never able to find an exit, unable to escape from this
place.
Lu Xingxing fell into silence.
Song Ci lowered his head. A few strands of hair slipped from behind his ear, veiling his delicate and handsome features.
“Where exactly… are we?”
“Brother Yan, Brother Yan!”
…
After failing to find the DVD, Yan Shixun straightened his tall figure and let his gaze sweep over the small room.
Leaving aside the fact that each region’s shadow puppetry had its own unique characteristics, most of the classic pieces were based on local stories. If you weren’t a native or deeply familiar with that style of puppetry, you wouldn’t be able to recognize the original titles or plots of the performances.
What’s more, Yan Shixun wasn’t someone who listened to shadow puppetry to begin with, so he knew even less about it.
He wasn’t the kind of person who engaged in entertainment. In his life, aside from exorcising ghosts and helping others, he simply rested at home.
Even during his downtime, he would only use it for sleep or spiritual cultivation through reading.
He didn’t know much about the rich variety of modern entertainment. He didn’t have any games or video apps on his phone, hadn’t even registered a single social media account. His phone only had the most basic functions.
Let alone something as outdated as traditional entertainment.
Like shadow puppetry.
When he was younger, Yan Shixun had occasionally seen shadow puppet shows during festivals or at street markets.
But those were not the Baizhi Lake style.
In recent years, with the rise of new forms of entertainment, shadow puppetry—once an exciting event for children—had gradually disappeared from the markets.
It became an ancient tradition, increasingly lifeless, only displayed in museums.
Yan Shixun rubbed his temples, his head aching slightly as he tried to recall the scenes he’d seen when entering the room earlier, trying to match them with the performances he’d known—but it was all in vain.
When he asked Zhang Wubing about it, Zhang Wubing only shook his head in confusion. “Before we came here, I flipped through the materials prepared by the production team. I saw a few well-known plays from Baizhi Lake puppetry, but none of them had the scenes we just saw.”
Zhang Wubing wasn’t particularly knowledgeable about this kind of traditional culture either. But just by comparing the characters, he already felt something was off.
After all, the scene they saw had a very distinctive element—a woman who seemed to be crying in utter despair. That feature alone was quite notable. Comparing one by one, it was clear that this plot wasn’t part of any classic show.
“But Brother Yan, why are you looking for it?”
Zhang Wubing asked curiously, “Is there something wrong with that scene?”
“No.”
Yan Shixun frowned. “If I could identify which performance it came from, I’d be able to understand its background and storyline. If I knew what kind of story it was, then it wouldn’t be a problem.”
“But if I can’t…”
Then Yan Shixun would start to question whether that performance ever truly existed—or whether it had somehow played itself, out of nowhere.
To Yan Shixun, there was no such thing as coincidence.
He knew Zhang Wubing well.
Even though that silly kid was always careless and scatterbrained—naive about social dealings due to being overly sheltered by his family—and even now, still stumbling along as a rookie director…
If someone close to him had malicious intent and tried to sabotage him, Zhang Wubing might be tricked without even realizing it.
But even with all these flaws, one thing Zhang Wubing never did was lie or deceive him.
Zhang Wubing had said that he had turned off the DVD player.
Yan Shixun believed that.
Even though they had seen with their own eyes the DVD player running when they entered, Yan Shixun still wanted to find evidence to prove that Zhang Wubing had simply forgotten to shut it off. Only then would he be willing to believe that Zhang Wubing had just misremembered.
However, he couldn’t find any evidence.
The DVD that was playing when they entered wasn’t among the stack of discs.
No—in fact, Yan Shixun even started to doubt whether it had been a disc at all—or if some ghostly force had possessed the puppets and performed a brand-new story on its own.
Yan Shixun’s gaze swept across the room and landed on a magazine rack.
One magazine cover caught his attention.
He took long strides over and pulled out the dust-covered issue from the rack. His slender fingers flipped it open.
Dust floated in the light.
Yan Shixun lowered his long lashes slightly, his lips gradually pressing into a firm line.
It was a magazine from years ago that had interviewed several masters of the Baizhi Lake shadow puppetry. But throughout the interview, the term “Baizhi Lake puppetry” was never mentioned. Instead, it was referred to as “Southwest shadow puppetry.”
Yan Shixun noticed that the featured masters were the same people pictured on the poster. Each of them had the surname Bai.
It was a village where everyone shared the same surname, all of them related by blood or marriage. And the most famous among them was the very inheritor whom Zhang Wubing had been searching for, to no avail.
Master Bai’s ancestors had moved from another region twenty-eight generations ago and settled near a river and mountain. They resumed their old craft of shadow puppetry to make a living.
Later, other relatives came to join them. Feeling sympathy for their situation, the first Master Bai passed the skill on to these relatives as well.
By the time it reached the current generation, many villagers had learned the craft and made their living from it. They developed their own unique style, distinct from other regions, and it came to be known as “Southwest shadow puppetry.”
In the magazine, aside from Master Bai—who was described as humble and modest—the other interviewed masters were all extremely self-assured, brimming with pride about their puppetry skills.
They even claimed that Southwest shadow puppetry would become the mainstream of the entire art form. From then on, when people mentioned shadow puppets, they’d only think of the Southwest style. Everything else, they said, was subpar and not worth mentioning.
Even the magazine’s journalist seemed surprised by this answer—thought it absurd, even. When they asked a follow-up question, they couldn’t help but show a hint of sarcasm in their tone, asking the group: what made them so confident?
Those few people seemed to feel belittled by the reporter, and they were clearly irritated. They claimed that the essence of Southwest shadow puppetry lay in the structure beneath the leather. In order to promote Southwest shadow puppetry, they had especially invited a top-tier carpenter to develop a new framework for supporting the puppets.
They said that once this master had developed a new technique, it would mark the moment Southwest shadow puppetry stepped onto the global stage and gained worldwide acclaim.
They even smugly told the reporter to treasure the opportunity to interview them now, because in the future, when they became world-renowned masters, small magazines like this one wouldn’t even get a chance to see them. Even if they waited in line, it would depend on whether the masters were willing to meet them. If the payment wasn’t enough, they shouldn’t even think about getting an interview.
Although Yan Shixun hadn’t personally witnessed the interview back then, just from the tone and writing of the interview record, it was enough for him to reconstruct the personalities and voices of each person in his mind.
It was as if he had traveled through time and arrived at that very interview scene.
Back when Baizhi Lake Shadow Puppetry was still called “Southwestern Shadow Puppetry”, it had enjoyed a period of great popularity, and many newspapers and magazines came to interview and promote it.
In the heyday of print media, that was something many craftsmen considered a major honor, a sign that their skills and achievements were being recognized.
But clearly, among the few shadow puppet masters interviewed, aside from the inheritor, the others all held themselves in excessively high regard, which quickly soured the impression of the interviewer and made the atmosphere tense.
In the end, it was Master Bai, the inheritor, who spoke up modestly, saying that Southwest shadow puppetry still had many shortcomings and needed continued effort and improvement. His words helped ease the situation and bring the interview to a close.
Yan Shixun flipped through several magazines from that time and discovered that in the interview photos, these masters looked far younger than they did on the posters—easily decades younger.
He checked the publication dates of these magazines.
Sure enough, all those interviews had taken place around forty years ago. Back then, even Xie Lin had still been a child.
However, as Yan Shixun flipped through the magazines one by one, he noticed that the tone in each of these people’s interviews became increasingly arrogant—as if they were on the verge of becoming global celebrities. They brimmed with overwhelming confidence about the future of shadow puppetry.
Ironically, it was Master Bai, the rightful inheritor, who became more and more reserved. Even when interviews turned awkward, he no longer tried to smooth things over.
One particular report in a newspaper from thirty years ago caught Yan Shixun’s attention.
This report was completely different from all the previous interviews.
It featured someone who had never appeared before.
A master carpenter—Master Zheng.
In a group where everyone else had the surname Bai and were shadow puppet craftsmen, a carpenter with the surname Zheng stood out…
It seemed this was the man the other shadow puppet masters had previously mentioned in interviews—the one who would help bring Southwest shadow puppetry to the world.
In this particular report, Master Bai also looked genuinely happy. Even in the newspaper photo, his face was lit up with a cheerful smile.
He warmly held onto Master Zheng’s arm as they looked into the camera, even awkwardly making a peace sign. He looked full of youthful energy.
Yan Shixun’s eyes fell on the other masters in the photo.
Apart from Master Bai, none of them looked pleased.
It was strange.
Even though those same masters had repeatedly claimed in earlier interviews that having a master carpenter would improve their shadow puppetry, now that Master Zheng had actually arrived, their expressions had turned rather odd.
Their gazes toward Master Zheng were filled with undisguised greed and jealousy.
Yan Shixun’s hand, holding the newspaper, paused for a moment.
He didn’t know much about shadow puppetry.
But that kind of look—he was all too familiar with.
Malevolent entities and ghosts often arose from people’s negative emotions.
When jealousy, malice, and rage festered, lives were put in danger, and the living could become vengeful spirits.
Having dealt with ghosts and dark spirits for years, Yan Shixun had seen that look countless times—among people from all walks of life, in alleyways and on street corners.
These shadow puppet masters looked as if they were trying to snatch away Master Zheng’s life.
Only Master Bai, who had gradually been pushed to the sidelines over the ten years of interviews, seemed sincerely joyful. Though he had never exaggerated the value of shadow puppetry or shown overconfidence, he was truly happy.
The two of them stood at the forefront of the photo. Despite the white hairs at their temples and the wrinkles around their eyes, they looked like spirited young men eager to accomplish something great together.
In that report, Master Bai expressed his happiness, saying that with Master Zheng’s involvement, the greatest shortcoming of Southwest shadow puppetry would finally be overcome.
Yan Shixun stared long and hard at the faces of the two men in the photo, then turned to look at the poster behind him.
And at the painting on the wall behind the poster.
The poster did indeed feature a carpenter with the surname Zheng, but his expression was gloomy, his brows furrowed, and his mouth pressed into a downward curve.
As for Master Bai—now positioned at the very edge of the poster—he looked aged and frail, no longer full of energy. His eyes drooped, and he seemed to have lost all hope in life. His expression was full of regret and pain.
Neither of them looked anything like they had in the earlier photo.
And on the wall painting, Master Zheng wasn’t depicted at all.
In contrast, the other shadow puppet masters were shown beaming with smiles, brimming with pride.
Over the years… had something terrible happened?
Yan Shixun casually brushed the dust off the newspaper, carefully folded it, and tucked it into the inner pocket of his coat, planning to investigate the matter between these people later.
“Let’s go. Since the DVD player’s been shut off and the disc can’t be found, there’s no reason to stay here.”
Yan Shixun called out to Zhang Wubing, who was still looking around: “The others are still in the front courtyard, right? Let’s go find them first.”
Not being able to find the DVD or performance featuring that woman bothered Yan Shixun. Something about it felt off.
But if there really was danger, then the most urgent task was to ensure the safety of the others and warn them about the possible threat—so they could be prepared.
With that in mind, Yan Shixun prepared to return to the first courtyard. He would confirm everyone’s safety with his own eyes, inform Ye Li about what had happened here, and then return to this courtyard on his own.
Zhang Wubing responded a few times, then jogged over with his arms swinging, trotting behind Yan Shixun as they headed outside.
The light of the setting sun slanted down.
The tree planted in the center of the courtyard had withered. The once lush and vibrant scene had vanished, leaving behind only a massive, gnarled carcass with twisted, bare branches like ghostly claws dancing in the wind.
The dry, brittle leaves had fallen all over the ground.
When the wind blew, it rustled through the leaves with a loud crackling sound, echoing hollowly in the empty courtyard, making even the heart feel hollow and unanchored.
Zhang Wubing felt as if the cold wind had penetrated his bones. He shivered and quickly clutched Yan Shixun’s arm. Only then did he feel a sense of comfort and warmth returning to him. He let out a long sigh of relief.
Warmth continued to radiate from Yan Shixun, making Zhang Wubing feel secure and even more aware of how bitter the winter chill was. Just before stepping into this courtyard, everything had been fine. But in the blink of an eye, the sun had sunk lower, and with it, the temperature had dropped sharply.
Zhang Wubing silently calculated that once they returned to the front yard, he’d need to go back to the car and grab an extra layer of clothing.
But unlike Zhang Wubing, Yan Shixun did not feel at ease.
As the guardian, he was not like a carefree child with parents to shoulder the worries. He had to take responsibility for everyone’s safety, and that made him even more sensitive to the abnormality in the courtyard.
The dead tree at the center of the yard… was a trap.
Yan Shixun furrowed his brow. His slender fingers instinctively began a calculation.
A moment later, his eyes widened slightly in astonishment.
No divination.
Heaven and earth were cut off.
It was as if this courtyard existed outside of the world. Even the great Dao was veiled beyond its borders. Not even a single divination sign could be cast; everything collapsed before it could take form.
Yan Shixun stared fixedly at the dead tree in the courtyard. Illusions seemed to flicker before his eyes.
In the warm, blazing sunlight, the shadows of the withered branches crisscrossed the broken stone floor, twisting and trembling as if they were ghostly figures dancing with claws outstretched.
Spirits were trapped within the dead tree, howling and shrieking, viciously trying to lunge at those who approached. But they were confined, unable to escape the tree.
“B-B… Brother Yan?”
Zhang Wubing noticed Yan Shixun had stopped walking. He looked up and followed Yan Shixun’s gaze. “What is it? This tree’s not much to look at. It’s so dry—”
Suddenly, as if realizing something, Zhang Wubing looked at Yan Shixun in horror. “Don’t… don’t tell me there’s something wrong with this tree?”
Yan Shixun turned his head sharply, grabbed Zhang Wubing, and strode quickly toward the courtyard gate. “Shut up. Move!”
But just as Yan Shixun stepped over the half-meter-high threshold, his combat boots entering the second courtyard, he looked up—only to see the exact same withered tree.
Even the shadows cast by its branches were identical.
The door to the room beside them was half open. Through the gap, he could see the interior furnishings.
They were exactly the same as the room they had just left.
The DVD player, the television, posters, magazines…
Everything lay still, asleep beneath the dust.
Zhang Wubing looked at the familiar scene and finally began to understand.
“Brother…”
Yan Shixun’s brow furrowed tightly as he pulled Zhang Wubing forward across the courtyard, continuing on.
But the next courtyard, and the one after that…
There was no second courtyard.
No end. No exit.
Whether they moved forward or backward, it all led to the same final courtyard.
It was as if they were trapped between two mirrors facing each other—an infinitely repeating space. Everything kept looping. There was no way out.
Yan Shixun came to a stop, standing still. Slowly, he turned his head to look behind him.
Beyond the gate behind them was another courtyard and another door.
And there, another Yan Shixun and Zhang Wubing were also turning their heads, looking back.
It was like a montage shot from a film—door within a door.
People within people.
Zhang Wubing was dumbfounded.
“W-What the—?”
His tongue stumbled over itself. He had no idea what to do.
The golden-red sunset hung in the sky just beyond the eaves, flickering warmly like a candle flame.
The shadow of the dead tree gradually stretched and spread, creeping along the broken and aged stone tiles of the courtyard, slowly inching toward Yan Shixun’s feet.
Inside the half-open room, the DVD player—which had previously been turned off—suddenly turned on by itself. The old television crackled with static, the sharp sound of electric current piercing the silence.
Then, the screen lit up.
A female shadow puppet figure appeared on the TV, arms hanging at her sides.
She slowly lifted her head, her crimson-painted eyes staring straight out from the screen.
Her gaze seemed to pierce through the crack in the door, locking directly onto Yan Shixun.
They stared at each other in dead silence.
Yan Shixun’s heart sank.
His earlier sense of foreboding had come true.
The female shadow puppet character that hadn’t matched any known performance… was likely not a traditional shadow play at all. And Zhang Wubing hadn’t remembered wrong—he had turned off the DVD player.
Yet the machine, once reopened, wasn’t playing any known disc. What it was projecting now… was a show of malevolent forces.
Zhang Wubing accidentally met the puppet’s gaze, and the heavy weight of death and hatred in her stare nearly made his scalp explode from fear.
The shadow of the dead tree draped over both of them, like a silent evil spirit baring its teeth in a grotesque grin.
Behind every door in the courtyard, faint sounds began to emerge.
As if footsteps were padding across the floor, approaching the doors.
A shadow appeared on one of the paper-covered doors, backlit by the setting sun.
The figure was holding a blood-dripping knife.
He was grinning from ear to ear in glee.
Yan Shixun pressed his lips into a firm line.
The direction of the shadow—was wrong.
The thing approaching wasn’t a ghost, but it wasn’t human either. It was… something else.
Soon, shadow after shadow began to form behind each door, casting different shapes and figures.
A woman with crescent-moon shaped eyes and mouth, a villager standing triumphantly with hands on hips, a man dancing joyfully with flailing arms and legs…
It was like a silent shadow puppet show being performed before Yan Shixun’s eyes.
Everyone had become shadow puppets.
Every door and window had become the stage screen.
Shadow play. Shadow play.
Where there were shadows, a puppet show could begin.
These figures closed in on Yan Shixun from all directions, trapping him in the courtyard. All four sides had turned into stages, and he was the lone audience.
Suddenly, a sorrowful erhu note pierced the stillness of the courtyard.
Yan Shixun lifted his gaze. On the TV inside the room, the female shadow puppet character had begun to weep in grief.
At that sound, every shadow in the courtyard instantly sprang to life.
“Creeeeak—!”
One by one, the doors were pushed open from within.
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