Chapter 248: Shadow Puppets and Lamplight (14)
Taoist Ma and Taoist Wang became extremely alert the moment they stepped through the archway, determined to see clearly what kind of malevolent presence was affecting this place—something strong enough to cause the entire show’s production team to vanish.
Even their breathing instinctively quieted. As their feet touched the ground, the only sound was the faint crunch of gravel beneath their shoes.
However, no matter how carefully they scanned their surroundings without even blinking, they still couldn’t find anything unusual.
Not only had the area around them remained unchanged, but they themselves also didn’t feel any different.
The anticipated attack never came, and the danger they had braced themselves for seemed like nothing more than a false alarm.
Taoist Ma gradually stopped walking, glancing to the side in confusion.
Just like what he had seen from outside the archway, nothing changed after passing through. There was no sign of the crew.
Taoist Wang stroked his chin thoughtfully and asked, “Could it be that we overthought things?”
Had they just been overly paranoid and imagined the archway to be more dangerous than it really was?
Perhaps, in reality, the so-called danger had only existed in their heads?
But Taoist Ma furrowed his brows and shook his head: “Then how do you explain the tire tracks that vanished here?”
As he spoke, he turned around and strode quickly toward the outside of the archway, intending to ask the Taoist who had stayed behind whether he had noticed anything strange after they passed through.
But after taking just two more steps beyond the archway, Taoist Ma suddenly froze in place.
…The car that should’ve been parked by the roadside, along with the Taoist who had stayed behind inside it, had disappeared.
There were no signs of an attack—no traces to suggest they had left voluntarily either. The ground and surrounding area were completely undisturbed, as if no vehicle had ever been there.
Just like the production team earlier, they had vanished into thin air.
Taoist Ma’s eyes widened as he suddenly thought of something and quickly looked down at the ground.
But the dirt road was completely clean. Even the tire tracks that had initially made him suspicious of the archway were gone without a trace.
Just by turning around, it was as if everything had been wiped away like sand drawings on white paper—erased with ease. Even living people had vanished into the yellow dust and sand.
How… could this be?
Taoist Ma stared in disbelief into the distance. For a moment, he didn’t even dare to take another step forward.
Taoist Wang hurried over to ask what was wrong and was also stunned when he discovered the car had disappeared.
The two of them searched back and forth, both inside and outside the archway, several times—yet they found nothing.
It was as if the entire space they were in had been severed from heaven and earth, as though they’d fallen into an unknown rabbit hole with no idea how long they would keep tumbling before it ended.
“Was this the same situation the production team encountered?”
Taoist Ma raised his phone and said, “I just checked—there’s no signal.”
“No, their situation must’ve been different from ours,” Taoist Wang said with a deep frown. “Based on the livestream we saw earlier and the confirmation from the official in charge, the crew themselves didn’t seem aware of their circumstances. Up until we came in, the broadcast had no issues, and everyone appeared to be safe.”
“Moreover, even though we suspected earlier that something might lie beyond the archway, we didn’t actually see them after entering.”
“It’s like two balls falling into different pockets on a pool table,” he added.
“If we want to find out who’s behind all of this, we’ll probably need to head toward the museum.”
Taoist Wang turned slightly, gazing in the direction of the museum.
Just like before they crossed the archway, the shadow puppet museum still appeared dilapidated and partially collapsed. Half the wall’s paint had peeled off and fluttered in the sandy wind. The large red characters on the top had faded into a patchy pale pink, and in some places, the paint had flaked off completely, exposing the wood underneath.
Taoist Wang tried to calculate with his fingers but found nothing—completely blank.
Just as he had suspected, something was blocking his divination.
“This only proves we’ve come to the right place.”
He said with a smile, lifting his head. “Looks like you were right, Taoist Ma. There’s something wrong with the archway. From the moment we stepped through, we entered the territory of the shadow puppet museum.”
He lowered his hand and turned to Taoist Ma with a grin. “Even if we’ve landed in separate pockets, if we work backwards, we’ll all end up in the same place. As long as we follow the path the production team took, we should be able to pinpoint where things first went wrong—and eventually, where they are now.”
“Let’s go, then.”
Taoist Ma cast one last glance behind them, pushing down the worry he felt for the missing Taoist. He took large strides toward the shadow puppet museum.
Though he didn’t know what situation that Taoist was in now, with two sides to choose from, he had to prioritize the missing production team who were likely trapped inside the museum.
He sighed and silently promised himself: he had to bring the team back as quickly as possible. Only then could he go search for the missing Taoist.
The two men walked between two rows of stone tablets, as if passing through a graveyard.
Taoist Ma glanced at the tablets one by one and suddenly noticed that at some point, photographs had been pasted onto them!
Because of age, the photos had severely faded. At first glance, they looked like black-and-white pictures. The people in them were dressed formally, smiling kindly at the camera—but that only made them resemble memorial portraits, making the tablets feel even more like tombstones.
It confirmed the vague suspicion that had been lingering in Taoist Ma’s heart.
But when they looked from outside the archway earlier, there were clearly no photos—just text descriptions.
Unease stirred in Taoist Ma’s heart. He changed direction and walked toward the stone tablets.
He didn’t believe he had seen wrong earlier. That left only one possibility.
The world beyond the archway had already been altered by an unseen malevolent force.
If his intuition told him these were tombstones, then maybe—just maybe—something really was buried beneath them.
Taoist Ma crouched in front of one of the tablets.
In the faded black-and-white photo on the stone, a middle-aged man was tilting his head back and smiling smugly, as if he owned the entire world. The expression was unsettling to look at.
Perhaps it was due to erosion from wind and rain, but where the man’s eyes should have been, there were now two dark, hollow pits. This eerie detail added an unsettling horror to his face.
Taoist Ma frowned deeply, reminded of an old saying from years past.
If someone had taken a group photo that included a deceased person, it was said that after the person’s death, even if the photograph wasn’t completely burned, the face of the deceased had to be destroyed in the photo.
Otherwise, the soul of the departed might use the photo to find its way back.
Because a human form is another vessel for the soul, and after the body has perished, if the soul still lingers in the human world, it will instinctively search for a place to dwell.
And a photograph bearing the face of the deceased becomes the ideal substitute.
This belief had circulated some decades ago. Back then, some Taoists had indeed captured malicious ghosts who used photographs to harm the living.
That was an era when taking a photograph was a significant event—people dressed carefully and planned it out. Afterward, they had to wait for the film to be developed to receive the actual photo.
The anticipation, affection, and care invested in those photos, along with the effort of both the photographer and the photographed, imbued them with a sort of life force.
But later, as photography became common, and selfies became part of daily life, people no longer held such expectation or emotional investment in photographs. They didn’t even bother to print them out anymore.
As a result, photos were no longer suitable vessels for souls.
In recent years, stories like that had gradually faded from public memory and were no longer widely known.
However, now, as Taoist Ma stared at the photo on the stone tablet, those memories from the past suddenly resurfaced.
Although it seemed the photo’s eyes had been accidentally eroded away, something about it instinctively made Taoist Ma uncomfortable.
It was as if, had the eyes remained intact, the soul of the deceased might have been able to reappear through the photo.
Taoist Ma furrowed his brows and read the inscription beneath the photo.
What he saw made his heart jolt.
Previously, the inscriptions carved into the stone tablet were written in a jumbled mix of classical and vernacular Chinese, which left a strong impression on him. He could even remember parts of the introduction—birthdate, accomplishments, and the like.
But now, what he read was completely different.
Gone were the praises and eulogies. In their place were harsh criticisms, brimming with fury toward the one buried here.
According to the inscription, the man in the grave was guilty of countless crimes. He had conspired with villagers to murder the household’s head, then went on to oppress the widow and orphan left behind. He had also tried to deceive the public into believing he was a master inheritor of shadow puppetry.
But in truth, the very shadow puppetry skills that made him famous were stolen—brazenly taken from others and claimed as his own.
The more Taoist Ma read, the more he felt the burning anger and sorrow behind the carvings. Every line was filled with blood and tears—an unrelenting accusation.
The sight gave him chills.
But it also raised a question in Taoist Ma’s mind: if someone truly hated this man, and perhaps even defaced his photo out of spite, why bother giving him a proper burial and erecting a gravestone?
From his experience, those who harbored such deep hatred usually wanted nothing more than to grind their enemy’s bones to dust, leave their body exposed to the wilds, ensuring the soul could never rest or reincarnate—forever cursed to roam the world.
Could it be that the person, despite their hatred, still had compassion and chose to bury him respectfully?
Yet neither the choice of words in the inscription nor the crimes committed by the man during his lifetime suggested any intention to forgive.
As Taoist Ma struggled with the contradiction, he suddenly noticed another altered part of the stone tablet.
The man’s birth year.
It was listed as being thirty years ago?
Taoist Ma found this absurd.
He wasn’t sure if the birthdate had been randomly carved, but judging by the state of the photo and the dilapidation of the shadow puppet museum, the stone tablet seemed to date back to the same time the museum was built—which was many years ago.
Back then, the man in the photo should have already been around forty years old.
How could he have been born just thirty years ago?
“What’s wrong? Something off about the gravestone?”
Taoist Wang asked, noticing Taoist Ma had been squatting in front of the tablet for a long time and fearing he might be under some spell.
But when Taoist Wang took a glance, he was startled to find that on every stone tablet he could see, photographs were slowly emerging—like black-and-white funeral portraits.
On each photo, the eyes of the men were pitch black.
Some of the photo edges were charred and blackened—clearly the aftermath of fire.
Seeing what Taoist Ma had just witnessed, Taoist Wang’s face grew serious. Without another word, he crouched beside a nearby stone tablet, grabbed a dry branch from the ground as a makeshift spade, and began digging into the earth beneath the stone.
Taoist Ma was stunned. “What are you doing?”
“Looks like a tombstone, doesn’t it?”
Taoist Wang replied without looking up. “But in a place under the influence of an evil spirit, for graves to appear—there are only two explanations. Either it’s the evil spirit’s own grave, or it belongs to someone the evil spirit hated deeply. Otherwise, why would an evil spirit ever willingly reference death?”
As he spoke, the soil in front of him gradually gave way, revealing something buried beneath.
First, a yellowed joint bone surfaced faintly from the earth.
Taoist Wang paused, now knowing exactly where to dig. He worked with more precision around the area, brushing away the dirt to reveal the fully intact remains buried below.
But the moment the skull beneath the corpse was revealed, Taoist Wang’s pupils sharply contracted.
This wasn’t a human skeleton…
“This is—!”
Beside him, Taoist Ma cried out in surprise and quickly moved closer to get a better look.
At first glance, it looked no different from a normal skeleton, but upon closer inspection, one could see that the bones were marked with circular patterns.
Those were wood grains—unique to wood.
This wasn’t a decayed human skeleton at all, but rather a wooden carving made to resemble one.
Because of the long passage of time and the black color staining the wood, partially buried under dust and dirt, the two had mistaken it.
It wasn’t until the large, exposed grain on the carved skull came into view that they finally realized the true nature of the remains.
“Beneath the tombstone wasn’t a body, but a wooden skeleton made to resemble a human form?”
Taoist Ma stared at the tombstone in astonishment, only to realize that it wasn’t just this one—every single tombstone bore similarly worded inscriptions.
And the same date of birth.
Exactly thirty years ago, today.
All the tombstones in front of the Shadow Puppet Museum marked the graves of sinners.
Yet beneath them lay no coffins, no corpses—only one wooden skeleton after another, each staring coldly up at those who had dug them out, with hollow, pitch-black eye sockets.
After confirming that all the graves beneath the tombstones held wooden skeletons, Taoist Ma actually let out a breath of relief.
Although the scene—tombstones and “bones” spread before the museum—remained eerie, at least the emotion implied by the inscriptions matched the atmosphere. It proved that the many shadow puppet masters buried here were truly despised in life, and perhaps even long dead.
The one who did all of this hadn’t suddenly grown compassionate and given them proper burials after their deaths.
Instead, they had used “replacement bones.”
Legend said that when Guan Yu died, his body lacked a head and couldn’t be buried properly. So the finest carpenter was commissioned to carve a wooden head for him, allowing for a complete burial and letting his soul pass on to the underworld.
Since then, there had been a tradition of carving missing body parts from wood to complete the deceased’s form for burial.
Though the King of Hell was aware, he sympathized with the struggles of the living and allowed it.
Thus, to the eyes of Yin officials, a wooden carving in human form was no different from the real body of the deceased. It could guide the soul in its entirety to the Palace of the King of Hell, where a judgment of their life’s sins and virtues would be passed.
But Taoist Ma didn’t believe the evil force behind all this was acting out of kindness.
After all, even if a body were damaged, it would be impossible for the entire skeleton to vanish without a trace—let alone so many of them.
He suspected a much darker purpose behind these wooden bones—
Perhaps that person had replaced every real body with lifeless wood. So when the Yin officials arrived and found the wooden remains devoid of vitality, they would assume the person had long died and their soul had already departed the body, and so they’d strike their name from the ledger and cease to seek them.
And the dead?
They would forever miss their chance at reincarnation. Their souls would drift endlessly across desolate lands, without home, without offerings—wandering spirits with no one to remember them.
Their suffering and torment would never end.
Even Hell, by comparison, would have been mercy.
When Taoist Ma realized all of this, he was completely stunned.
He lowered his head in a daze and looked at the wooden skeleton newly exposed to the light of day, his heart a maelstrom of conflicting emotions.
If this had happened before the show began—before he met Yan Shixun—Taoist Ma would have followed the rules of Heaven and Earth. He would have restored order and made sure things returned to their rightful state.
The dead should go to the underworld, and the evil spirit that disrupted the Yin officials should receive the punishment it deserved.
But he suddenly remembered something Yan Shixun had once said to him.
‘Taoist Ma, others have their own karma. Even if, from an outsider’s point of view, many things seem wrong, the truth is often the opposite of what we see. The ones who harm others may be the truly pitiful ones.’
At the time, the lanterns outside Haiyun Temple flickered in and out, veiled in mist.
Yan Shixun had tilted his head and sighed softly: ‘What we see is often revenge arriving too late—souls that have lost everything, desperately seeking justice with everything they have left. If we don’t examine things closely, we’ll end up hurting them even more—and may do things we’ll regret forever.’
‘If the living realm offers no justice, and the underworld judges remain silent…’
Yan Shixun lowered his gaze, his voice icy: ‘Then the victim has the right to take revenge themselves.’
Taoist Ma had been stunned by Yan Shixun’s words—they sounded like outright heresy.
Neither his predecessors nor his masters had ever taught him such a thing. None of the scriptures ever suggested this kind of violation of the natural balance between yin and yang.
This was not what a Taoist guarding the boundary between life and death should say.
Yet when Yan Shixun said it, it sounded utterly reasonable—so natural that even the Dao itself seemed to agree.
Taoist Ma had remembered those words for a long time. Whenever he had free time, he pondered them, trying to understand the state of mind and intention behind Yan Shixun’s remarks.
But he never truly grasped it.
Until now.
When he saw the anger and hatred the evil spirit bore toward these shadow puppet masters, he suddenly remembered Yan Shixun’s words—and in an instant, everything became clear.
The underworld judges ask nothing…
Taoist Ma looked up and let out a long, heavy sigh.
The golden-red sunset stung his eyes, making him squint, forcing back the wetness gathering in his eyes.
From what the spirit had done, it had clearly taken deliberate action to block the vision of the Yin officials from the underworld—freeing these souls from the control of Hell and using them as an outlet for its hatred.
Yet judging by the inscriptions on the tombstones, perhaps this spirit was connected to that family who had once been harmed—killed—by the shadow puppet masters.
Perhaps the evil spirit’s true identity was one of the people in that family.
Having lost family and everything else, after crying out in grief and anguish, a desire for revenge surged forth from deep within the chest. Even if it meant being left behind as a malevolent ghost due to resentment and obsession, it was a price worth paying.
Taoist Ma shook his head and stood up, brushing the dust from his clothes.
He had not experienced what happened back then, so how could he have the right to judge that person’s choices? If he were the one who lost everything, if all the Taoists at Haiyun Temple and everyone he knew had been killed… perhaps he would have gone even more insane.
In that moment, Taoist Ma suddenly wavered. He no longer wanted to hold that evil spirit accountable.
He could feel it—he was being influenced by Yan Shixun. Even the path he once firmly upheld was now subtly changing.
But Taoist Ma was willing to let that change happen.
“Heaven and earth are impermanent; all things are impermanent. So too is my path impermanent.”
He muttered a few words under his breath, then turned to the Taoist next to him. “Let’s go.”
Taoist Wang looked shocked. Pointing to the wooden skeleton that had been dug up, he asked, “Were you possessed by that child Xingxing? Can’t you see this is a ‘substitute skeleton’? These people were all likely killed by the same hand—unnatural deaths. Are you just going to turn a blind eye?”
To Taoist Wang’s surprise, Taoist Ma only gave a low hum of acknowledgment.
“As long as that evil spirit doesn’t harm the lives of the production crew, to me, it’s as if I saw nothing today.”
Taoist Ma said, “Come on, they’re waiting for us inside.”
With that, he took the lead and began walking toward the museum.
Leaving Taoist Wang standing there alone, utterly confused.
“???”
He looked at the tombstone and skeleton before him, then at Taoist Ma’s dashing back, as if the man had just solved some great riddle. Taoist Wang felt his own brain was about to short-circuit.
No matter how hard he tried, he could never have guessed that it was something Yan Shixun said to Taoist Ma while they were alone that had changed Taoist Ma’s mind.
Still, he knew now wasn’t the time to have internal conflict. Whatever was going on with Taoist Ma, the immediate issue had to be resolved first. Questions could wait.
Taoist Wang quickly chased after him.
The golden-red rays of the setting sun streamed through the carved latticework of the decorated archway, casting light onto the wooden skeleton. For a moment, it looked as if fire had ignited the wood, flames suddenly flaring to life.
The burning firewood crackled loudly, while more firewood was piled up to the side.
The room was filled with the sizzling, scraping sound of blades cutting wood—until it suddenly stopped.
A man sitting on a small wooden stool seemed to sense something. He paused his movements, slowly straightened his back, and looked out the nearby window, hesitating with a thoughtful frown.
“Do we have guests?”
A girl yawned delicately as she walked over, rubbing her eyes and hugging a stuffed toy. She leaned against the doorframe and asked curiously, “Who is it this time?”
The man’s originally serious and contemplative expression softened when the girl approached. Even the deep frown lines between his brows smoothed out, replaced by a gentle smile.
“A rather interesting Taoist… maybe even a rare good man.”
As he spoke, he seemed to consider something, then stood up from the small stool, set his half-finished work aside, took off his gloves, and looked ready to head out.
“They might be in danger.”
Smiling, the man said, “Since they’re interested in shadow puppets, I’ll go bring them in. Better than letting them wander around lost.”
The girl nodded. Her freshly-awakened face was still tinged with a soft pink warmth. Pretty tears clung to her eyes from yawning, making her look even lovelier and more delicate.
She waved at the man sweetly and said obediently, “Go and come back soon.”
The man nodded, his eyes filled with the warmth of happiness.
As the girl turned back, her gaze fell on the fire. She frowned unhappily and poured water over it to extinguish the flames. Only then did her eyes land on the half-finished piece the man had left behind.
It was a wooden skull, only half-carved. The other half remained buried in untouched wood. Though the finished portion of the bone was still rough and unpolished, the craftsmanship was already evident—so lifelike it seemed nearly indistinguishable from real bone.
The girl looked at the skeleton for a moment, then tilted her head and skipped over, the hem of her pink dress playfully flipping with her movements.
She smiled like honey and gently patted the top of the skull. Her voice was soft and sweet.
“Hello there.”
When she smiled, there wasn’t a hint of darkness—just pure innocence. “My new playmate.”
At the very moment she finished speaking, the skull that had been quietly resting on the table suddenly moved—its eyeballs shifted, and its half-carved jawbone opened and closed with a clattering sound, as if responding to her.
Hello, my… little girl.
At the same time, faint cracking sounds rose through the entire room—wood creaking and groaning—as countless jawbones began opening and closing, limbs twitching.
The girl’s smile deepened.
She tilted her head again, her silky hair falling from her shoulder, a pink bow tied at the crown.
She was the only splash of color in the room darkened by soot and fire.
…
As soon as the two Taoists stepped into the shadow puppet museum, they felt like they had entered a cold storage chamber.
A chilling, eerie air crept up from the soles of their feet, like standing barefoot on ice. They couldn’t help but shiver, wanting to flee to someplace warm.
On the wall nearby, the large red characters reading “Ticket Office” were faded and peeling. Promotional posters stuck to the glass were half-falling off. The ink had faded under the sunlight, making the shadow puppet figures on them barely recognizable.
No one tended the museum. No one manned the ticket booth.
The two of them seemed to have entered a completely abandoned place. There wasn’t a trace of human presence left. Even signs that people had once been there were fading fast—just piles of discarded junk littering the courtyard.
Taoist Ma walked softly through the porch, his hand already moving toward his chest. A yellow talisman was pinched between his fingers, ready at any moment to deal with danger.
Suddenly, a tall figure came into view.
The man stood beneath a withered tree in the courtyard, his back to them. His tall, upright figure stood like a pine tree, the tree’s shadow behind him twisting and clawing like a ghost.
Before the two Taoists could react or get a good look at his face, the talisman in Taoist Ma’s hand suddenly ignited with a whoosh! Bright flames flared up and vanished in an instant, the ashes fluttering down from his hand.
Not only that—even the talismans the two Taoists had originally prepared to carry with them suddenly burst into fierce flames. They didn’t last even a second before they were all reduced to ashes.
What was that?!
Both of them were utterly shocked.
The power of talismans came from the gods. When Taoists drew talismans, they borrowed divine power from the deities in all directions—that was what made the talismans effective.
However, talismans were not omnipotent.
If the enemy far exceeded the range of power a talisman could invoke—or if the being was so powerful that even the four-direction gods dared not provoke it—then talismans were less useful than scrap paper.
Many of the dangers the show crew had encountered over the past few episodes had already been beyond what talismans could handle.
Though the two of them were aware of this—and had barely used their talismans despite bringing them—what happened this time, where every talisman burned to ash instantly just from a brief encounter, still exceeded the limits of their understanding.
What exactly was that thing under the withered tree in the courtyard?
Why did every talisman drawn by invoking any god’s power—all types meant to expel demons or kill ghosts—become completely ineffective in that man’s presence?
—And that man hadn’t even moved a finger.
All it took was for them to approach the spot where he stood, and this had already happened.
Then, if the safety of the show crew was threatened by that man’s very existence, how could they possibly get past him to find the rest of the crew?
Taoist Ma felt like his heart had been frozen. The winter wind howled through his chest, his hands and feet were ice cold, and it was as if blood had stopped circulating in his body. All he could do was stare wide-eyed at the man’s back.
Taoist Wang, however—while equally stunned—suddenly found the tall, slender figure somewhat familiar.
It was as though… he had seen him somewhere before?
No matter how he racked his brain, Taoist Wang couldn’t figure it out.
Just then, the man tilted his head slightly and looked in the direction where the two of them stood.
The man’s long, ink-black hair slid off his shoulder. Several mysterious black patterns by his temples shimmered faintly, as if alive.
He wore a black robe embroidered with refined and unrestrained dark patterns of heaven and earth, mountains and rivers. The shadow cast by his figure was pitch-black, as if beneath his feet lay an endless abyss. Countless ghosts and spirits surfaced and vanished within the darkness, snarling and ferocious, trying to claw their way out—only to be driven back into the abyss by the sheer might of the man’s presence.
His face was cold and stern, his features as sharp as blades. Without showing anger, he emanated an aura so oppressive it swept across the entire courtyard. Even the light dimmed in an instant, as if night had fallen.
The two Taoists were frozen in place by the man’s gaze, too stunned to move.
But it was Taoist Wang who first broke out of the daze.
He blinked, and with sudden recognition, exclaimed in disbelief, “Junior Brother Yan’s… partner?!”
The moment Yan Shixun was mentioned, the oppressive aura surrounding the man abruptly softened.
Ye Li fluttered his long, crow-feather-like eyelashes. In his deep, lightless eyes, the reflections of the two Taoists appeared. He recognized them as Taoists from Haiyun Temple, close companions of Yan Shixun.
He remembered the one who spoke—his surname was Wang. A decent person.
Especially because Taoist Wang had been a strong supporter of his engagement with Shixun and had publicly acknowledged him many times as Shixun’s beloved.
Ye Li blinked again, and his gaze gained a touch of warmth.
The heavy shadow beneath his feet silently receded. The abyss and the countless vengeful spirits vanished, leaving only an ordinary shadow behind.
“Sister-in-law? Why are you here alone? Where’s Junior Brother Yan? Is he okay? I didn’t see him.”
After recognizing Ye Li, Taoist Wang immediately relaxed, his tension melting away.
Just like how he trusted Yan Shixun, naturally, he trusted the person married to him as well.
They were family, after all! How could he doubt his sister-in-law?
Besides, with Junior Brother Yan not present at the moment, wouldn’t Sister-in-law feel uneasy? All the more reason to express warmth and draw closer, to let him feel the comfort of family.
If Sister-in-law needed help, wasn’t it right for him to step in?
Thinking this, Taoist Wang first let out a relieved breath, then—upon realizing Yan Shixun wasn’t in the courtyard—asked Ye Li with genuine concern.
Taoist Ma, on the other hand, didn’t even dare to turn his head. He only shifted his eyes, casting a fearful and confused glance at Taoist Wang beside him. Did this man really not sense the suffocating ghostly energy in the courtyard? Had he already forgotten the talismans that had just self-immolated?
Although he too vaguely recognized this man as Yan Shixun’s partner, he strongly suspected that something malevolent had taken the form of Yan Shixun’s lover to deceive them.
Otherwise, how could anyone explain this intense ghostly aura?
But clearly, Taoist Wang didn’t register Taoist Ma’s silent warning. He still wore a friendly expression as he approached Ye Li.
Ye Li stared intently at Taoist Wang and confirmed that this man truly cared about Shixun—a person who was like family to him.
He tried to curve his lips slightly, perhaps to appear gentler.
But with Yan Shixun absent, his effort ultimately failed.
The thought of Shixun dimmed Ye Li’s gaze. His pale lips pressed together tightly, suppressing the fury within him so he wouldn’t scare the two Taoists.
“Shixun…”
Ye Li finally spoke, his voice hoarse and gravelly. Though he tried to contain his anger, his tone still carried a chilling fury: “He disappeared.”
“What do you mean?!”
Taoist Wang was alarmed and quickly pressed for answers.
Facing those trusted by Yan Shixun from Haiyun Temple, Ye Li didn’t hide anything. He succinctly explained the situation.
Yan Shixun and Zhang Wubing had gone into the third courtyard to shut off the DVD player. The rest of the group had split up to explore shadow puppets in various rooms. Ye Li had been asked by Yan Shixun to stay in the first courtyard to watch over everyone’s safety.
However, a few minutes after Yan Shixun left, Ye Li suddenly sensed something was wrong.
—Yan Shixun’s aura had vanished.
Not just that—even the auras of the rest of the crew had been wiped clean, as if their very existence had been erased.
Ye Li rushed to the third courtyard in search of Yan Shixun, but it was as if some unknown force had cloaked the world and severed all connections to the Dao.
He could not find Yan Shixun.
No matter where he searched—heaven or earth—there was no sign of him.
Even the Dao remained silent, as if it had never existed.
This was something Ye Li had never encountered before.
As a ghost deity, it had been hundreds—thousands—of years since he had last felt such uncontrollable rage and anxiety.
He scoured the entire shadow puppet museum and still could not find Yan Shixun. But he discovered something else.
—Beyond the shadow puppet museum, there was nothing.
Opening the door, the outside world was a vast, paper-white expanse. Pure white.
But there was no life there. Nor was there death.
It was a place where even heaven and earth no longer existed—a true wasteland.
And Ye Li’s original appearance as a ghost deity had gradually re-emerged.
The clothing he had worn—matching Yan Shixun’s—had changed. The godlike form that had stood high atop an altar for countless years had returned. In the shadow beneath his feet, countless evil spirits from the depths of the underworld were reflected once more.
It was as if his shadow had been truthfully described right here.
The illusion that had been covering his body and spirit was peeled away, revealing his true soul and shadow.
Just as Ye Li stood there in stunned fury, two Taoists barged into the museum. Taoist Wang’s concerned, nagging tone was almost familial, and it managed to calm Ye Li down the moment he heard Yan Shixun’s name.
“Sister-in-law, from the way you carry yourself, you must be a direct disciple or even an heir of some sect, and even you couldn’t find Junior Brother Yan? Not to mention, the yellow talismans started burning as soon as we came in…”
Taoist Wang rubbed his chin thoughtfully and muttered under his breath, “This evil spirit… is really a headache this time, sigh.”
“Let’s go look for Junior Brother Yan and the others first.”
Taoist Wang smiled and called out to Ye Li, “I get it, you newlyweds are all like this—can’t go a minute without seeing each other, already starting to worry and overthink, scared something might’ve happened. Love, right? Hahaha… it’s all about that fear of gain and loss.”
“But don’t worry. Don’t you know what kind of strength Junior Brother Yan has? Trust him a little more.”
Taoist Wang spoke with the tone of someone who had been through it all, trying to console him. “You two aren’t an ordinary couple after all. It’s only natural you’ll run into situations like this. But rest assured—I bet the ghost that ran into Junior Brother Yan is the one who’s regretting it now, wondering why it ever picked a fight with him. He’ll be just fine.”
From Taoist Wang’s experience, any ghost that ran into Yan Shixun had seriously rotten luck. It might even be crying and cursing the heavens by now, asking why fate had sent it into his path.
While he understood Ye Li’s desperation after losing sight of his lover, he wasn’t too worried about Yan Shixun’s safety. In fact, he was starting to pity the poor ghost that had crossed paths with him.
—Of all people to provoke, you picked the one person you absolutely shouldn’t have.
Be careful or he’ll tear your whole lair apart!
Hearing Taoist Wang’s reassurance, a faint, almost imperceptible smile appeared in Ye Li’s eyes. The cold sharpness of his earlier anger slowly softened.
Taoist Wang continued chatting with Ye Li, still smiling, but he gradually realized that Ye Li’s demeanor today felt a little different from how he remembered.
If he had to pinpoint the difference… it was like before, he had been seeing Ye Li through frosted glass. His eyes saw the figure, but his brain never registered anything clearly—like a blur, nothing that could be remembered.
But now, it felt like he could clearly see Ye Li.
And as he studied Ye Li’s face, Taoist Wang felt a strange sense of familiarity. He had definitely seen this face somewhere before…
He thought and thought, racking his brain, but eventually gave up.
Taoist Ma stood behind him, eyes filled with complicated emotions as he watched Taoist Wang’s back. He suspected the man might’ve gone a bit soft in the head from constantly worrying about Junior Brother Yan’s love life.
—Because no matter how he looked at it, the burning of the yellow talismans had everything to do with Yan Shixun’s lover!
Taoist Ma didn’t voice that thought aloud. He simply turned his gaze to Ye Li, eyes now laced with caution.
Ye Li noticed, but didn’t care.
However, the evil spirit hidden in his shadow was trembling with fear.
A living human actually dared to address the Lord of Fengdu like that?!
Sister-in-law…
Just what kind of Taoist was this guy?!
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