Chapter 247: Shadow Puppets and Lamplight (13)
Taoist Ma had imagined many possible scenarios, but not once did he think that when he arrived at the scene—where something serious should have occurred—he would find it completely empty.
Like all places that had fallen into disrepair due to a loss of personnel, this area was clearly desolate at first glance, with no one around to maintain it.
Even the once-famous building that had been featured in numerous interviews now looked like it was on the verge of collapse, battered by wind and rain, and could very well crumble in the next downpour.
Taoist Ma stood frozen in place, still holding onto the car door, half in the stance of someone who had just jumped out of a vehicle. But his entire body had gone still.
His face was a mixture of urgency and confusion, eyebrows half-knit and half-slack, creating a comically twisted expression.
What… what was going on here?
On the way over, he had clearly confirmed the location with the official in charge, and he had even watched the program’s livestream. This was undoubtedly the correct place.
But now, there wasn’t even a single person in sight.
Not even the production crew’s convoy could be found.
It was as if the show had never been here at all—as if he had once again confused the location.
At that moment, Taoist Ma’s mind was a complete mess.
Meanwhile, Taoist Wang, who had been blocked behind him, was baffled. He couldn’t understand what was going on. Just minutes ago, this man had been acting like something urgent was happening—why had he suddenly stopped moving?
Taoist Wang tentatively reached out and gave Taoist Ma a push. “Taoist Ma, are you alright?”
But as soon as he spoke, he suddenly became alert. “Don’t tell me that you’ve been possessed? Is the evil spirit here that powerful?”
A well-known Taoist, stepping out of a car and getting hit just like that, without even a chance to defend himself?
That would have to be one terrifying entity.
Taoist Wang couldn’t help but recall stories he’d heard from others—tales about the southwestern region of the country.
According to one person, the southwest had the power to swap the heavens and the earth.
The living could become the dead. The dead would linger among the living. Truth and illusion, yin and yang—all reversed.
That man claimed he had once personally seen an entire village vanish without a trace overnight. It was as if it had never existed. Even the household items and livestock disappeared, leaving behind a cleanliness no ordinary move could achieve.
He also said he had seen a dead person appear before him again. Though separated by only a window, he was certain he had attended that person’s funeral—had even helped carry the coffin, wailing alongside the bereaved, scattering rice to guide the soul. And yet, the rice he had thrown left no footprints where it landed.
But what returned was not the soul of the deceased—it was their corpse, which should have long since decayed.
The man had spun many mysterious tales, attracting quite a crowd at the hospital at the time. But for someone truly in the exorcist circle, it all sounded absurd, utterly impossible.
Taoist Wang had been hospitalized then due to injuries, and had overheard part of the story. But all he did was smile and shake his head in disbelief.
He even joked with the Taoist next to him, saying these half-true, half-fake rumors really needed to be better managed. They ought to launch a myth-busting and educational campaign. Otherwise, once such stories started spreading among the public, who knew what form they might take?
Still, despite what he had said at the time, Taoist Wang had quietly remembered it.
Because the southwestern region had, after all, been a hotbed of witchcraft and sorcery a thousand years ago.
Like the “voodoo dolls” frequently referenced in modern TV dramas—the most feared practice in ancient imperial palaces—those were actually techniques of suppression magic.
And suppression magic had originated in the southwest.
If that rumor had come from any other place, Taoist Wang would have just assumed the man had listened to too many late-night radio shows and had let his imagination run wild.
But if it was the southwest…
Taoist Wang had replayed the scenario in his mind several times, eventually reaching a conclusion.
—Unless the Great Dao itself had collapsed so completely that life and death could no longer be governed, with yin and yang thrown into utter chaos.
Otherwise, it would be impossible for the dead to come back to life.
Even if the man’s account were true, the figure he saw through the window could’ve been a puppet passed down through generations in the southwest, or a living person disguising themselves as the deceased for some ulterior motive.
As for a village vanishing overnight—that was even easier to explain.
Perhaps the village’s only means of livelihood had been destroyed, forcing the entire community to relocate. Maybe they had just been meticulous in cleaning up their traces.
After all, who was to say the man was even close to anyone in that village? Why would they go out of their way to inform him?
Especially in those days, when transportation and communication were both inconvenient. Making a phone call was expensive—too expensive to waste on someone you barely knew.
Taoist Wang had started as a junior Taoist disciple. Over the years, he had seen many cases of living people faking hauntings, trying to shift the blame for their personal goals onto spirits.
For example, to drive down housing prices, someone would fake a haunting late at night in a residential complex, scaring many residents into moving out.
Or someone would frighten an elderly person to death by pretending to be a ghost, then calmly face the investigating team and blame it all on malevolent spirits…
So to Taoist Wang, many so-called “ghosts” were just malicious people hiding behind supernatural masks.
But what he never expected was that the very rumor he had heard nearly thirty years ago would now play out right before his eyes.
When he looked past Taoist Ma’s shoulder toward the car door, he too froze just like Taoist Ma had a moment before.
The words he had been about to say stuck in his throat, his mind filled with question marks. The only thing left to ask was—
“Where is everyone???”
Taoist Wang was stunned. “Didn’t we see on the live broadcast that the crew’s car stopped right outside the Shadow Puppet Museum?”
The museum was here now, the dirt road was here too, and all the landmarks and coordinates matched up.
Yet the most important thing—the people—were missing.
Taoist Wang, who had gotten out of the car just a second behind Taoist Ma, found himself going through the same mental storm. Waves of shock surged inside him, leaving him unsure how to even express his feelings.
While the others were still stunned, Taoist Ma surprisingly regained his composure.
The confusion in his eyes faded, his drooping lips pressed together firmly. He truly entered work mode.
His gaze swept carefully from left to right, not missing even the tiniest detail.
He placed himself in Yan Shixun’s shoes, imagining: If Junior Brother Yan were standing here right now… what would he do?
Would he, as always when they worked together, be the first to scan every inch of the scene, uncovering hidden truths buried in the details?
Taoist Ma asked himself this silently. Then, with the help of the fading sunset light, he actually found something unusual.
—Tire tracks!
Because the Shadow Puppet Museum was just off the highway exit at a fork in the road, the pavement gradually changed from asphalt to dusty dirt road from that point onward.
Though the road had been compacted for convenience, it wasn’t as hard to travel as typical village paths.
Likely due to the infrequent traffic and the area being uninhabited for years, it hadn’t been maintained well. As a result, loose dust had collected on the surface.
Any car passing over would leave clear tire tracks.
Especially the program crew’s heavy-duty vehicles.
To ensure the guests’ safety, Zhang Wubing had equipped the crew with luxury touring buses worth millions. These were armored for crash resistance and bulletproofing and made even heavier by additional steel plating.
The logistics vehicles were no lighter. Due to dangerous incidents in earlier episodes, the crew now brought ample supplies of food and medicine each time they filmed, with each vehicle weighing several tons.
A convoy like that would press deep grooves into the dirt road.
Now, in the slanting light, Taoist Ma could see a grid of light and shadow beneath the dust.
The depth of the impressions and the tire tread pattern—there was no mistake. These belonged to the crew’s vehicles.
Taoist Ma left the car and followed the tire tracks, confirming that they had indeed turned off the highway and headed toward the Shadow Puppet Museum. He then jogged after them along the path.
The tracks ended just outside the museum’s paifang gate.
Just as they had known beforehand, the cars had parked outside while the guests went into the museum.
Though the place was now empty and silent, Taoist Ma crouched halfway, examining the remaining tire marks and chaotic footprints. Stroking his chin in thought, he mentally reconstructed the scene that had played out here.
The cars had stopped here. Equipment had been unloaded, leaving long, winding trails along the dirt road. There were also small wheels from heavy gear carts, and overlapping footsteps…
All the signs stopped at the decorated archway.
There were no indications of the vehicles reversing or turning around. The last tire marks were whole and clear. Yet the vehicles had vanished into thin air.
As if the moment everyone stepped under the decorated archway, they disappeared.
On the other side of the gate, not a single trace remained.
Only two rows of stone steles stood in silence, like gravestones, exuding a gloomy, chilling air untouched by sunlight.
Taoist Ma narrowed his eyes. From the heavily wind-worn steles, he could vaguely make out the original engravings.
It seemed each stele recorded a name, and every person shared the surname Bai.
Though the latter parts of the inscriptions were worn down and hard to read, Taoist Ma connected the context and, half-guessing, deciphered the rest.
These Bai family members had all been shadow puppet artisans from the Southwest.
Because of their deep mastery in the craft and their significant contributions—both in artworks and generous donations—during the building of the Shadow Puppet Museum, these steles had been erected in their honor as a gesture of gratitude.
Following the names were lavish words of praise—elegant and flowery, though mixed with vernacular phrases. Even for someone like Taoist Ma, well-versed in classical Taoist texts and thus ancient Chinese, the errors in these inscriptions made him frown. He had to pause and mentally rearrange the meanings to figure out what the writer had originally intended.
It appeared that whoever made these steles hadn’t hired a professional but had instead confidently done it themselves.
Although the result was amateurish in quality, at a casual glance the embellished words still gave off a festive, flourishing appearance.
Frowning deeply, Taoist Ma looked up at the decorated archway again. He didn’t understand why all the traces disappeared at that specific spot. But it served as a warning, making him cautious not to step through it carelessly or get too close to the steles.
He called the official in charge to ask about the current situation in the livestream. Up in the mountains, he had no signal and couldn’t see whether everyone was actually safe.
“Even though it looks like everyone’s fine, I don’t know what the reality is.”
The official rubbed his temples, feeling a headache coming on as he looked at the tablet screen in front of him. His thoughts were tangled into a complete mess.
At first, only Lu Xingxing and Song Ci were sitting in a room filled with shadow puppet props.
They sat on the seats beneath the shadow puppet stage, leaning their heads together with their eyes closed in rest. Everything seemed normal—just two people tired from walking and taking a break. The scene even appeared a bit heartwarming.
But soon, Xie Lin, Nan Tian… and even Yan Shixun were shown sitting in a room in the third courtyard.
In a dust-covered redwood armchair, Yan Shixun sat quietly with his eyes closed, one hand propping up his head, the other resting on the soft furry head beside his knee.
Zhang Wubing sat on the floor leaning against Yan Shixun’s leg, his eyes closed and breathing steady.
The hem of Yan Shixun’s coat draped down from the armchair, tightly clutched in Zhang Wubing’s hand—as if even in his sleep, he had to hold onto his Brother Yan in order to sleep peacefully.
They leaned on each other, and in the dusty room, their posture added a rare warmth and peace.
Right beside Yan Shixun, the television screen tirelessly played a shadow puppet show. Despite the screen’s static noise, the exquisite craftsmanship that once dominated its era still shone through. The singing was sorrowful and mournful, like weeping and pleading.
It felt as if time in this room had been frozen at a certain moment.
From that point on, there would be no more life or death farewells—only the gentle, tranquil peace under the setting sun.
Viewers on the split-screen couldn’t help but be drawn to such a scene. Many said they felt healed by it.
At this moment, no one had yet noticed that something was wrong.
But the official in charge had already sensed that beneath the calm surface, another storm had begun.
Whether it was the unanswered phone calls, the serene image on the screen, or the on-site report from Taoist Ma over the phone—
Everything pointed to one answer.
Everyone on the production team had fallen into a crisis.
And even Yan Shixun hadn’t been spared.
The official knew Yan Shixun’s personality well. With his cautious nature, he wouldn’t have simply fallen asleep in an unfamiliar place.
What’s more, the official had never seen all the museum visitors sit down simultaneously and fall into a deep slumber.
Inside the museum, not a sound could be heard. It was deathly silent.
Only the shadow puppet music and the soft strains of the erhu continued to play on. The faded paintings on the walls, worn and peeling, added to the eerie stillness.
The shadow puppets’ eyes gazed down from above, watching all of this unfold.
After exchanging information, Taoist Ma and the official both realized just how serious the situation had become.
The only bit of luck was that, to the audience, the scene still appeared calm and idyllic. There was no sign of anything amiss, so for now, there was no public outcry online to worry about.
“But we don’t know when the situation will explode. Public opinion is one thing; the safety of the crew is another. Both are equally important.”
The official pressed his hand to his eye, which was throbbing painfully with a twitch.
He let out a low, hoarse groan of pain, then immediately pulled himself together, assuming a businesslike seriousness. He spoke to Taoist Ma on the other end of the phone: “We’re already on the way. We’ll be there shortly. If you want to go ahead and investigate…”
The official hesitated for a moment, then said solemnly, “Please, be careful.”
Taoist Ma nodded. Still worried about the archway, he reminded the official, “The livestream can’t show us their current situation, so it’s effectively useless. I can’t wait any longer. Even if there’s a dragon’s den or a tiger’s lair inside, I have to go.”
“But I suspect that everyone from the production team disappeared because of something behind the archway. If Taoist Wang and I go behind it too, we might end up just like them.”
“If we really go missing, then everything outside will be in your hands.”
Taoist Ma said seriously, “The work I was supposed to handle… I’ll have to trouble you with it for now, sir.”
The official showed no dissatisfaction—on the contrary, he shook his head and smiled. Compared to the headache from earlier, he now felt strengthened by the responsibility entrusted to him.
Since Taoist Ma had already made a decision based on his judgment, and they were colleagues from the same department fighting on the same front, the only thing the official could do was support him.
After hanging up the phone, Taoist Ma slowly stood up and looked toward the puppet museum, dim and sandblown in the distance.
Taoist Wang could tell what Taoist Ma was thinking, so he said a few words to another Taoist who had come with them, and briefly explained the plan he and Taoist Ma were about to carry out.
He said bluntly that if the two of them disappeared like the crew, at least one person needed to remain to tell future investigators what had happened.
“Watch as Taoist Ma and I go over there. Keep your eyes sharp—don’t miss a single odd detail.”
Taoist Wang said to the other Taoist, “But no matter what happens to us, don’t follow us. Even if Taoist Ma and I die there, your only duty is to clearly and calmly report the state of our deaths and the cause, so that those who come after us can avoid the danger.”
“Do you understand?”
The Taoist looked at him with complex emotions. He blinked, his eyes rimmed with red, bloodshot veins crawling across his pupils. But he still forced a smile and scolded, “Go on already—who’s going to save you?”
“Why make it sound like some tragic farewell? What’s wrong with you? Isn’t hounding your disciple to get married enough?”
He gave Taoist Wang a shove, but his other hand gripped the steering wheel tightly, veins bulging beneath his robe’s sleeve from the force.
He laughed and said, “Hurry back—I’m still waiting for you to tell me about Fellow Taoist Yan’s love story. It’s even better than a storyteller’s tale.”
Taoist Wang also laughed, gave the car door a light kick, and then turned to run toward Taoist Ma.
The two of them exchanged a look, their expressions shifting from reflective and smiling to solemn. With firm determination, they started walking toward the archway.
Not a single step of hesitation.
The Taoist remaining in the car kept his full attention on their departing backs, gripping the steering wheel so tightly it was a wonder he didn’t crush it, trying to suppress his urge to chase after them.
Then, he saw it. Just as the two of them crossed beneath the archway, the air suddenly rippled.
Like the curtain fluttering when an actor steps on or off a stage.
Before the Taoist could squint and look more closely. He suddenly realized—
The two Taoists had vanished!
In just the blink of an eye, where they had stood was now an empty patch of ground.
And beneath the archway, there was a moment of
distorted scenery.
Like an old, faulty television flickering with static and suddenly switching channels.
Scenes that should not have overlapped merged briefly—illusion and reality blended into one.
The Taoist saw that beneath the archway hung a massive curtain.
The golden-red glow of the setting sun fell upon it, and everything hidden behind the curtain became blurry and indistinct, just like in a shadow puppet show. Only silhouettes could be seen—no details of the reality behind, nor the puppet master who controlled it.
The Taoist froze in shock for a moment, then instinctively opened the car door and rushed forward.
But the curtain he saw existed only for an instant, vanishing the next moment like a mirage.
In front of the Shadow Puppet Museum, everything had returned to normal.
There was no sign that two Taoist priests had just gone missing here.
The remaining Taoist called out for Taoist Ma and Taoist Wang in a trembling voice, but there was no response—not even a whisper.
Only the cold wind swept up the dust, rustling through the dead trees and wild grass with a “whoosh.”
Taoist Wang’s words echoed once again in his ears. The Taoist tried hard to suppress his emotions and finally stopped in front of the archway.
Only his fists, hanging at his sides, were clenched tightly.
Meanwhile, the official in charge, after ending the call, immediately phoned the Haiyun Temple abbot to inquire about the missing ebony deity statue.
On another front, the case regarding the three students who had unexpectedly died during the summer break was being reopened and reinvestigated at full speed.
The official didn’t dare to slack off for even a second. He was so busy he didn’t even have time to drink water—calls came in one after another, before one ended, the next was already ringing.
On his private account, notification tones chimed non-stop. Hundreds, even thousands of messages filled up his entire contact list in bright red alerts.
Not only were there issues related to public opinion defense that had to be handled in advance, but also communication with the Southwest region, investigations into past incidents in the Baizhi Lake area, and the tragedies caused by sacred objects taken from that same region—all of which required the official’s coordination.
At the same time, the tasks left behind by Taoist Ma were temporarily handed over to him for handling.
But even while working, he constantly glanced at incoming calls, anxiously waiting for one in particular.
Then the phone rang.
He glanced at the caller ID, instantly dropped the phone in his hand, grabbed the other device, and eagerly tapped to answer: “Taoist Ma? Is everything okay on your end?”
However, the voice that came through the phone made the official’s heart plummet.
“Taoist Ma and Taoist Wang… have both vanished.”
The Taoist left on the scene gave a bitter smile and said, “Just as Taoist Ma had suspected earlier, the archway in front of the Shadow Puppet Museum really is a boundary line. Once they crossed that line, the two of them disappeared.”
“Just like the program crew.”
The official swallowed hard, feeling his throat tighten. For a moment, he couldn’t say a single word.
The Taoist tried to comfort him: “Let’s look on the bright side. Since both parties disappeared in the same way, there’s a good chance they ended up in the same place. If that’s the case, then they might run into Fellow Taoist Yan.”
“No matter what happens, having two more helpers is still better, isn’t it?”
The official gave a low reply and quickly pulled himself together, continuing to follow up on the matter of the missing ebony deity.
The Taoist was right—he couldn’t let Taoist Ma’s disappearance delay the work. The ultimate goal was to uncover the truth behind what had happened in the Baizhi Lake area, so that the program crew’s misfortune, and the deaths of those three students, wouldn’t be repeated.
After a moment of thought, the official decided to call Taoist Song Yi. “Taoist Song, the abbot said you’re not at Haiyun Temple?”
Taoist Song Yi was being battered by the howling sea wind, barely able to open his eyes. The robe, thin and suited for Binhai City’s milder weather, was now thoroughly soaked and chilled by the coastal air. His hands and feet were stiff from the cold.
He stood on the dock, the strong smell of fish in his nose, surrounded by an empty beach.
But there was no sign of the program crew.
Taoist Song Yi: Huh? Where are they? Don’t tell me they went diving at this time of year?
Just as he was beginning to doubt things, the official’s call came in.
The moment he opened his mouth, a gust of sea wind forced its way in, making him squint and look forward with difficulty.
“Official!”
Against the howling wind, Taoist Song Yi shouted at the top of his lungs, “What did you say? I can’t hear you! The wind’s too strong!”
Official: “…………”
He wasn’t sure if it was because he’d recently been driven mad by Taoist Wang constantly pushing him to get married, but in that instant, he oddly thought Taoist Song Yi looked like a character from a romantic drama.
After a brief moment of distraction, the official quickly raised his voice and explained what had happened to the program crew and the two Taoists.
This time, it was Taoist Song Yi who fell silent.
Shivering under the sea wind, he suddenly felt like the whole world had abandoned him—left all alone, cold and miserable.
And pitiful.
Taoist Song Yi: “…Got it. I’ll head to the Southwest region immediately.”
Couldn’t they have told him earlier?! He nearly froze himself senseless on this northern coastline.
The official coughed awkwardly, scratched his nose, and didn’t dare admit he’d been too busy and had forgotten to inform Taoist Song Yi.
Then, the phone rang again—it was a call from Haiyun Temple’s abbot.
It was about the mother and child.
After Taoist Ma had learned the origin of the ebony deity statue from them, he wasted no time in reporting it to the abbot and the other Taoists.
While he and Taoist Wang rushed to the Southwest region, the mother and her young son were temporarily kept at Haiyun Temple to be questioned by the other Taoists.
At first, the mother made a huge scene—crying loudly, clinging tightly to her young child, as if she were being persecuted. Her wailing made all the Taoists helpless.
They could deal with the most vicious ghosts and monsters and were even prepared to lay down their lives for their spiritual path, but when faced with a worshipper like this… Many Taoists, not good at dealing with people, felt like they were getting headaches.
Taoist: Not going to lie—I became a Taoist because I had such severe social anxiety. I thought it would help me avoid dealing with people.
Taoist: Same here. Where’s Taoist Ma? He’s the best at handling outsiders. Why is he not around?
Taoist: Let me go! Blessing of the Heavenly Lords! Stop crying—I’m about to start crying too…
Taoist: Aah! Someone’s looking at us—they’re looking at us! Why are they staring?! My social anxiety is acting up! I’d rather go catch ghosts!
Since the New Year was approaching, many people came to offer incense or simply visit.
The mother and child’s strange behavior, along with the group of Taoists encircling them, made the whole scene especially eye-catching.
Many tourists and worshippers turned their heads to look, pointing and whispering among themselves. Some even took photos and posted them on social media.
Several Taoists who normally didn’t deal with public matters felt as though they were about to suffocate under all the stares and faint from the pressure.
In the end, it was the abbot of Haiyun Temple, striding over with great urgency, who saved them.
He was still wearing his formal Taoist robe, having had no time to change. The robe was bright red, embroidered with intricate Taoist symbols, landscapes, and auspicious clouds, giving him an especially imposing presence.
The hem of his robe billowed around his feet like crashing waves, and a gust of wind seemed to follow wherever he went. Tourists instinctively stepped aside to make way.
The worshipper who had been crying and shouting that the Taoists of Haiyun Temple were bandits trying to harm her and her son, was momentarily stunned into silence by the commanding aura of the abbot. She instinctively shut her mouth and stopped screaming.
The abbot first glanced at the Taoists nearby, who now wore expressions of “finally, we’re saved.” Then, he lowered his gaze to the worshipper and said, “What your son took was a guardian item from the southwest region. Because of that, the evil spirit that was previously suppressed was released and caused three deaths.”
“You may continue to cry and scream if you want. We can tend to other matters and come back to question your son once you’ve calmed down.”
The abbot spoke calmly: “But think about this carefully. That evil spirit has already started spreading around Baizhi Lake. It’s only a matter of time before it find your son—what makes you think that, of four people, three ended up dead, and your son is so special that he would be spared?”
It seemed like the corners of his mouth curled up slightly, though on closer look, perhaps not: “Heaven and earth are indifferent. Do you really expect the Great Dao to love your son as you do?”
The worshipper was stunned on the spot by his words, tear stains still streaking her face. Her hair had been tousled during her earlier scuffle with the priests.
But now, she didn’t dare say a single word.
She looked hesitantly at the abbot and asked, “It can’t be that serious, right? He’s just a kid fooling around…”
“Ordinary children fooling around wouldn’t lead to three deaths—and perhaps even more.”
The abbot recalled the missing crew from the variety show and the two missing Taoists. A trace of sorrow flashed in his eyes, though his voice remained calm: “In the end, their deaths will be attributed by the Great Dao to your son. It will become the karmic debt he carries.”
“Worshipper, think it through. Every second you waste will come back to your son.”
The abbot raised his wrist and checked the time. “The investigation team is already on the way. If your son is more willing to talk to them, that’s fine too.”
In reality, it was the special department that was coming.
After all, since this matter was confirmed to involve an evil spirit, it would naturally be transferred to the appropriate specialized agency.
But the abbot didn’t go into such detail.
Instead, his vague words had just the intended effect.
The worshipper hesitated for a moment but eventually loosened her grip on her son.
The young man immediately panicked. “Mom, mom, I didn’t do anything wrong! Why are you letting them take me? I’m not going! I didn’t kill anyone! What does that have to do with me? I just picked something up—not like I stole it! It was just trash lying there, so why treat me like this?!”
Hearing her son’s cries broke the worshipper’s heart, and her wavering resolve started to lean toward protecting him again. She wanted to step forward and shield him behind her.
But then she met the abbot’s gaze.
That single look sent a jolt through her. After hesitating for a second, she silently stepped back, heart aching, as she watched her son being escorted by the Taoists into another room.
The abbot watched this entire farce with cold eyes. What should’ve been a straightforward questioning had been twisted by this mother and son into something that made it look like Haiyun Temple was persecuting them.
He also walked over.
But as he passed the worshipper, he sighed softly and said, “Children grow up eventually. You have to learn to let go. You treat him like a child, but others aren’t his mother. Heaven and earth won’t spare him just because he’s a ‘child.’ His karma is his own to bear.”
The abbot gave the worshipper a slight nod, having said all he could.
The worshipper stood there dazed, face full of tears, unsure of what she was thinking.
Now stripped of his mother’s protection, the young man no longer had the same defiant and aggressive attitude he had shown toward the Taoists earlier.
He was like a clam forcibly pried open—panicked and lost—but still had no choice but to keep up a brave front and answer the taoists’ questions.
So far, he was the earliest known person to come into contact with the ebony statue and had interacted with it for quite some time. Thus, his account was especially important to the taoists.
Particularly for the taoist who had first accepted the statue and promised the worshipper he would handle it—he now sat restless, his face full of regret.
Although Taoist Ma had seen the statue before, by the time this taoist followed Taoist Ma’s memories to the location, the statue had long since vanished.
The taoists scoured Haiyun Temple from top to bottom. They even cast divination blocks and prayed before the temple’s gods, asking about the statue’s whereabouts.
But clearly, this wasn’t an ordinary lost object.
Heaven and earth remained silent on the statue’s whereabouts. No matter whichtaoist tried, the divination results always came up blank.
Eventually, through their relentless efforts, the taoists received only a sigh-like answer through the divination: “Stop asking. This isn’t something mortals are meant to know. Those who spy on ghosts and deities shall perish.”
Even the many statues of gods within Haiyun Temple remained silent. No matter how many times the taoists cast divination blocks or tried to communicate, there were no answers.
Thus, the only remaining lead was the young man who had personally taken the ebony statue from its original place.
Terrified out of his wits, the young man spared no detail as he trembled and recalled everything that had happened that day, including the changes after the statue was brought home.
In his memory, when they went hiking, they had checked the weather beforehand, and it had been forecast to be cloudy around Baizhi Lake during that time.
Although it was summer when they hiked, the area near the temple and the abandoned village had been even colder than the mountain itself.
But after they had worked together to throw out the skeletal remains from the temple and removed what was hidden underneath—especially when the young man had taken the ebony statue—the sky had suddenly cleared.
The sun broke through the thick clouds and shone down on the land.
The whole ground was bathed in a golden-red sunset, making the entire village appear as though it were ablaze.
Hearing this, one taoist couldn’t help but ask, “Didn’t you feel something was wrong? The temperature was so low—didn’t that strike you as strange?”
The young man retorted with grievance, “How was I supposed to think that much? Besides, wasn’t there a lake nearby? It’s normal for places near water to be colder, right? And it was just picking up some junk—who would’ve thought something like this would happen? Can’t you speak more nicely? Do you have to be so mean?”
“If I’m in the wrong, then every scavenger in the world must be wrong too.”
The young man stiffened his neck and looked unhappily at the taoist across from him.
The taoist sighed and covered his eyes. “…You said it yourself—there were remains.”
Although the taoist hadn’t seen the corpse mentioned in the young man’s words, he strongly suspected it might have belonged to a local shaman from Baizhi Lake.
Or perhaps it had been a great master who came to suppress the evil forces wreaking havoc at Baizhi Lake but was unfortunately killed by the monsters. In the end, the master must have used the last of his strength to protect the divine statue, allowing it to continue suppressing the evil forces at Baizhi Lake, preventing them from escaping.
Unfortunately, that master’s plan in life was ruined by four young people on a sightseeing trip.
The taoist wanted to say something, but in the end, all that came out was a deep sigh.
A twist of fate… Perhaps this too was within the evil spirit’s scheme, or perhaps Baizhi Lake was destined to suffer this disaster.
The young man shrank his neck slightly.
The taoist’s expression unnerved him a little, but his pride as a youth wouldn’t allow him to ask directly. So, he braced himself and continued to explain what happened after bringing the statue home.
After he got back, he never opened the travel backpack again. The statue remained stuffed in there among a pile of sweaty, smelly clothes for the entire summer holiday.
But that summer had not been a happy one.
Even though he spent his days and nights playing video games and enjoying himself, there were always subtle changes at home.
After staying up all night gaming and trying to catch up on sleep during the day, he often vaguely heard footsteps outside his bedroom door, the floorboards creaking with a soft “creak… creak…”
But he just assumed it was his mom either leaving for work or coming home for a meal, hence the noise.
When he went to the bathroom at night, the light bulb inside seemed to have a burnt filament—it flickered on and off constantly.
He replaced it with a new bulb, but it kept doing the same thing.
He just thought it was poor product quality and didn’t give it much thought. Eventually, he got lazy and left the bulb broken without bothering to fix it anymore.
His mother also complained about how dim his room was whenever she came in, telling him to open the curtains and not keep the air conditioner running all the time.
He thought she was just annoyed about too many things and casually brushed it off without taking it seriously.
Even the area where he placed his backpack—its surrounding walls and furniture—had turned pitch black.
Still, he assumed it was just the heavy rain that caused mold on the walls and furniture.
For some reason that summer, it just kept pouring rain non-stop. Especially in his neighborhood, where each storm dumped the highest rainfall in the entire region. Every time it rained, there were violent thunderstorms. Black clouds rolled over the sky, lightning split the heavens, and the earth trembled, as if the world was ending.
But in previous years, his area had never been the place with the most rainfall.
It wasn’t until now, when the taoist mentioned it, that the young man suddenly realized—
…Could all of this have been because of the statue?
“Holy shit! I didn’t know! Who could’ve thought something like that?!”
The young man belatedly realized that he had probably brushed past death countless times over the summer holiday.
The truth hit him like a ton of bricks. He began to tremble and wail in fear, “Master! Master, please save me! I was wrong, okay? I admit it! Isn’t that enough? What do I do now?!”
The Taoists exchanged heavy, grim looks.
Just from the signs described by the young man, it seemed likely that the unusually heavy rainstorms and flooding starting from summer were connected to him taking the ebony statue.
That statue… which deity did it represent? How could it hold such immense power?
And what was even more puzzling—though the statue was meant to suppress evil and had the power to influence the elements, it had repeatedly protected this young man.
The evil spirits that had been released didn’t fail to find the young man.
They had found him many times, only to disperse again and again before the ebony statue.
Otherwise, just based on the strange happenings in the house that the young man mentioned—any one of them could have easily led to his death.
The footsteps outside his room weren’t his mother returning home, but the sounds of an evil spirit walking around during the day.
It had drawn near, trying to kill him in his sleep.
The constantly malfunctioning light bulbs weren’t due to defective products, but rather the interference of ghostly energy disrupting the electrical flow.
The dimness in his room was caused by ghostly aura engulfing the space—an evil spirit had already set its sights on the living person who lived there.
While the young man lost himself in virtual battles, forgetting about reality, pairs of eyes watched him from outside the window—dead, silent, full of hunger and craving, stirred by the scent of his flesh and soul, itching to attack.
And yet, the young man had survived until now, completely unharmed.
In stark contrast to the other three.
…Perhaps this was the final kindness of the ghost deity beneath its cold, ruthless exterior.
The Taoist hesitated before speaking: “Even in photographs, the statue’s appearance is unrecognizable. And the divination signs forbade us from asking about it. Could it be…”
Could it be that the statue was of a true ghost deity?
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