Chapter 249: Shadow Puppets and Lamplight (15)
Ye Li was cold and indifferent to everyone except Yan Shixun.
Even when facing the Taoists from Haiyun Temple, he spoke only briefly, giving a concise explanation of the shadow puppet museum.
But to those taoists who understood the outside world, his words painted a completely different picture—one that no one had ever seen before.
In fact, if the show’s guests had been present to hear what Ye Li said, they would’ve been shocked to realize that it was entirely different from what they had experienced and witnessed themselves.
It was as if only Ye Li stood in a position higher than the one pulling the strings behind the puppets, seeing the truth in its entirety.
There were the spectators sitting below the stage, the shadow puppets manipulated behind the curtain, the artisan who controlled those puppets—and then, above all of them, stood Ye Li, overlooking it all.
In Ye Li’s eyes, the entire shadow puppet museum was a puppet stage. Yan Shixun’s departure had triggered some condition that caused the curtain to lift, revealing everything that had been hidden behind it.
The guests and Yan Shixun had seemingly swapped places with the puppets. They became the performers in a shadow puppet show, while the puppets once controlled by artisans now sat back as the audience, watching the guests’ panic with glee and laughing heartily.
The courtyard was completely empty, with all signs of human presence gone.
Yet, within every shadow beneath the eaves and corridors, faint movements flickered, accompanied by bursts of laughter, one after another.
At that very moment, Ye Li also became aware of the impact this place had on him.
Whether human or malevolent ghost, none were allowed to see the true form of a ghost deity. Otherwise, the pressure would be unbearable, leading to complete obliteration.
Because of this, Ye Li always erased his image from the minds of both the living and the dead whenever he walked through the human world.
No one could remember his existence for long.
Other than Yan Shixun, even those who interacted with him frequently—like the production crew or Zhang Wubing—would repeatedly forget him and then remember him anew whenever they saw him again.
Furthermore, Ye Li’s true form was hidden beneath his ordinary clothes.
When he stood beside Yan Shixun, crew members who had only heard the rumors often marveled at how perfectly they matched, like a couple wearing coordinated outfits.
Even when he stood alone, he looked no different from a typical urban youth.
Not like a divine figure meant to be worshipped atop a grand pedestal.
But now, Ye Li seemed to have just descended from Fengdu.
His shadow alone revealed everything.
Ye Li lowered his gaze slightly, his cold eyes sweeping across the shadow on the ground. Instantly, the darkness recoiled and retreated, slipping back beneath the corridors as though everything that had just happened was nothing but an illusion.
There were no depths of evil spirits, no howling ghosts begging to flee.
In the quiet courtyard, the only sound came from somewhere unknown—soft, scattered laughter, so faint it felt like a hallucination.
“You’re saying that Junior Brother Yan and the others… might have been pulled into another space?”
Taoist Wang rubbed his chin thoughtfully, instinctively following Ye Li’s steps toward the third courtyard as he fell into deep thought.
“Where could that be? A painting? Or something else?”
“You’re not in your original world either.”
Ye Li’s deep voice remained calm. “From the moment you stepped into the building, you had already crossed the boundaries of this world. And Shixun and the others… are in an even deeper space.”
Taoist Wang froze. “Huh?”
He glanced at Taoist Ma beside him and suddenly realized something.
—If what Ye Li said was true, then it wasn’t the Taoist who stayed outside that had encountered trouble.
It was them.
That Taoist was probably seeing them vanish into thin air—just like how they had watched the production crew disappear.
The two of them finally understood the situation. But it was a one-way street. Once they crossed that boundary, they were completely cut off from the outside world. They had no way to share the truth.
Taoist Ma sighed helplessly, clearly feeling that this was becoming a real headache.
Very few exorcists were willing to come to the southwest region.
Even when someone did hire an exorcist to deal with spirits here—no matter how similar the situation looked compared to other places—the price demanded was always significantly higher.
Masters would turn pale at the mention of the southwest.
Among exorcists, there were a few widely recognized danger zones:
The snowy mountains to the north, the deserts of the northwest, the central Kunlun range, the dense forests of the southeast—and the entire southwest region.
These places were either where deities had been sealed or sanctified, already linked with heaven and earth, with divine power still lingering to this day—recognized as sacred sites of the four cardinal gods.
Or, like the southeast, crawling with venomous insects and curses, impossible to defend against.
But the southwest was difficult in an entirely different way.
—According to legend, the southwest was the ghost capital.
Because of years of drought, little rainfall, and rugged terrain with harsh conditions, very few people had historically lived here. The land was vast and sparsely populated. One could travel for days without seeing another soul.
There were even legends passed down claiming that if you camped out at night, you could often hear ghosts weeping and wailing in the cold wind.
Later, this rumor was brought to the screen, and a science documentary called Approaching Science successfully debunked it.
The so-called ghost cries were actually caused by drought turning the rocks and sand into porous formations. When the wind blew through them at night, the resulting sounds were eerie enough to resemble ghostly wails.
To the general public, it was just an old superstition born from ignorance. Once the scientific explanation was understood, they laughed it off and treated it as a fun anecdote to share with friends.
But to exorcists, the southwest was never a place to be taken lightly.
Those truly trained in the arts—whether they had enough power to survive off “ghost meals” or were born with yin-yang eyes that allowed them to see spirits without the aid of talismans—could clearly sense the chilling aura of the dead rising from beneath the earth the moment they entered the southwest.
The wandering souls who had lost their way and were not guided by Yin officials instinctively drifted toward the southwest. Though in a daze, they seemed to follow an ancient legend that said this was where all souls ultimately belonged.
But this place had long ceased to be their destination.
And so, over the centuries, more and more spirits remained trapped here.
They gradually forgot everything about their past lives, even their names and what they had done. Still, they stubbornly lingered, weeping over having nowhere left to go.
The spiritual energy in the southwest was far denser than in any other region—as if even heaven and earth had tacitly agreed to ignore it.
Because of this, exorcists found their spells and all ghost-expelling techniques significantly weakened when working in the southwest.
—To ghosts, the southwest was their home turf.
Exorcists from other regions naturally found themselves at a disadvantage.
They often had to work twice as hard for half the results, spending much more effort than in other places just to expel one spirit.
Over time, fewer and fewer people were willing to take assignments in the southwest.
All sects would warn their untrained disciples that unless they had the skill, they shouldn’t even think about trying to “earn a living” in the southwest.
Otherwise, they might end up losing their lives before they ever got the chance to eat.
Because of this, most unresolved matters in the southwest were left to Haiyun Temple.
Other masters disliked taking on such thankless and exhausting work. But since people still lived here—people who needed help—Haiyun Temple couldn’t just stand by and watch them die. So, under the soft but relentless pressure of others in the circle, and in order to save lives, they reluctantly took on the responsibility.
Take Taoist Wang, for example. When he had just completed his training, he was frequently brought to the southwest by older senior Taoists.
Partly because they lacked manpower, and partly because they wanted to toughen him up and help him grow quickly.
—To put it nicely, it was “growth,” the kind young people were supposed to go through.
But to speak plainly, the hardships here far exceeded those elsewhere.
When Taoist Ma heard today from the young ones at the temple that the ebony statue came from the southwest, he already felt a headache coming on.
That young man—whatever else could be said—had truly lofty standards.
He only wanted to see the strongest Taoists, and if he was going to stir up any ghosts, it had to be the most terrifying kind. The smaller ones didn’t even catch his attention.
And even though Taoist Ma had mentally prepared himself, he still hadn’t expected the difficulties of this southwest trip to begin the moment he stepped off the highway.
“He even dared to touch a corpse in the old ghost domain and pick up a statue…”
Taoist Ma shook his head, muttering under his breath as his thoughts trailed off. Then he looked at Taoist Wang and said, “Well, I suppose that’s good news in a way—the trouble found us, not the one who stayed behind. At least we don’t have to worry about him anymore.”
Taoist Ma: Better me than my fellow cultivator.
Taoist Wang smiled and was just about to reply when he noticed that Ye Li was looking in their direction.
“Old ghost domain.”
Ye Li asked Taoist Ma in a deep voice, “Why is it called that? What’s the story with the statue?”
Taoist Ma blinked in confusion. “You don’t know? Normally, when a disciple completes their training, the sect always gives strict warnings, and they tell stories about the events that happened in the southwest to keep the disciples from getting careless and running into danger.”
He found it strange.
All this time, he and other Taoists had assumed that Yan Shixun’s partner was a disciple from some reclusive sect. Some had even speculated he might be a sect founder himself, though that idea was doubted because Ye Li looked far too young for such a theory.
Still, no matter how reclusive a sect might be, or how advanced a cultivator’s abilities were to preserve youth—no one could live for over a thousand years, right?
That was way beyond the limit of what a normal cultivator could achieve. It was practically godlike.
The old legends that had circulated for millennia—stories that became clearer and more detailed the further back one looked—should have reached Ye Li’s ears at some point, shouldn’t they?
So why did Ye Li now seem completely in the dark?
Taoist Ma was puzzled for a moment but still explained the situation honestly. And because of Ye Li’s connection to Yan Shixun, he added a concerned warning: “Since something like this has already happened here, you’ll need to be especially careful. This region isn’t like the others. It’s…”
“A place even Fengdu dares not enter.”
Ye Li lifted his gaze toward the sky, his eyes dark and dull. His sharp look seemed to pierce the clouds and the sunset, staring straight toward the Great Dao.
If it hadn’t been for Zhang Wubing setting the filming location in the southwest, Ye Li would never have set foot here.
After that battle thousands of years ago, covered in blood, he had walked away without looking back—and had never returned since.
The ghosts here had always been managed by the underworld. Fengdu never got involved.
“Feng… Fengdu?”
Taoist Wang was stunned. He looked Ye Li up and down with surprise, then happily exclaimed, “Looks like your sect’s legacy is quite complete! Most young Taoists nowadays don’t even know Fengdu exists.”
“To be honest, I haven’t seen any Yin officials from Fengdu in ages, haha.”
Taoist Wang scratched his head, a little nostalgic. “When I was a kid, I saw someone from Fengdu once—just that once—and never again. My master used to say Fengdu was even more ruthless and strict than the underworld. Cases the underworld couldn’t handle would be taken care of by Fengdu.”
“When my master was young, he used to scare ghosts with Fengdu. Just saying he’d send them to Fengdu’s prison would have them terrified—no matter how ferocious or evil, they’d end up crying and begging.”
Taoist Wang burst out laughing. “But seriously, how could my master ever summon someone from Fengdu? Even to get Yin officials or Shing Wong to show up, you’d have to spend a fortune in incense offerings. And even then, only powerful masters who were lucky enough to find lenient spirits could make it work. Fengdu is far more mysterious than either of those…”
But as he spoke, Taoist Wang suddenly seemed to remember something. His words caught in his throat, and he looked at Ye Li in shock.
“You… Sister-in-law, you…”
Taoist Wang hesitated as he looked at Ye Li, his expression showing he had sensed something, but wasn’t quite sure enough to confirm it.
The three of them had already arrived at the third courtyard, where Yan Shixun had last been seen.
Sensing Taoist Wang’s gaze, Ye Li looked back indifferently. His cold, sharp features showed no emotion, allowing the other to scrutinize him freely.
After all, Taoist Wang had always been a strong and vocal supporter of his union with Shixun. Ye Li was still willing to tolerate such minor things—he didn’t see being stared at as any sort of offense.
Taoist Ma watched the quiet confrontation between the two with growing anxiety. His heart had risen to his throat as he nervously turned his eyes to Taoist Wang, inexplicably afraid that Taoist Wang might say something wrong.
He wasn’t sure exactly what might happen, but a survival instinct rooted deep in his soul warned him: if he said the wrong thing or did something inappropriate in front of Yan Shixun’s lover… the consequences would be far more terrifying than death.
After a moment of contemplation, Taoist Wang finally spoke, albeit with hesitation. “No wonder I kept feeling a strange sense of familiarity earlier. Now that you mention the statue, I suddenly realize—you kind of look like the statue, sister-in-law.”
The ebony statue?
Taoist Ma’s spirits lifted, and he quickly turned to look at Ye Li.
But the moment he met Ye Li’s gaze, he felt a stabbing pain in his head, as if even his soul were being scorched by fire.
Ye Li’s long lashes lifted slightly. The shadow beneath his feet spread silently, enveloping Taoist Ma without a word.
Only then did Taoist Ma feel like he could breathe again—the pain had eased considerably.
What he didn’t realize was that Ye Li had silently borne the spiritual backlash for him. Otherwise, Taoist Ma might have died right there on the spot.
He didn’t have time to dwell on it, though. He quickly began comparing Ye Li’s face to that of the ebony statue.
Maybe it was because of Taoist Wang’s words planting the idea in his head, but the more he looked, the more he felt the resemblance was indeed there.
Especially that chilling and sharp aura.
But there were also stark differences between Ye Li and the statue.
The statue was shrouded in dense ghostly energy. Who knew how many years it had endured? Yet the aura had only grown stronger over time, its edges never worn down by the elements. If anything, every carved line had only grown sharper.
As if sculpted by blades and chisels—cold, fierce, unyielding.
The statue was clad in armor, with a blade at its waist, like a battle-hardened general freshly returned from war. The long sword in its hand seemed to have taken countless lives, its presence steeped in death.
But the Ye Li standing before the two Taoists had long, inky hair draped over his shoulders, and he wore a long, old-fashioned robe that brushed the ground.
Though not modern in appearance, he looked like an emperor from ages past—commanding yet relaxed, an air of effortless control about him, as if no formidable enemy remained in the world worthy of his full strength.
His aura, while cold and ghostly, carried a kind of solemn, legitimate weight—utterly distinct from the twisted presence of evil spirits.
After a thorough examination, Taoist Ma finally shook his head with both disappointment and relief. “Taoist Wang, you must’ve been mistaken.”
“The ebony statue could suppress all the evil entities that plagued Baizhi Lake—that alone shows it must be a god of ghosts, or something far more dangerous than those spirits.”
“Those spirits weren’t the kind that could be pacified or reasoned with. Just because those three kids disturbed the sacrificial items, they exacted revenge in gruesome ways—each child was killed by something that resembled a ritual object. And their families were forced to watch, helpless. Ordinary ghosts wouldn’t have that kind of ability.”
“Honestly, it’s possible that all the strange things that happened in the villages near Baizhi Lake years ago were caused by those very spirits. But even so, the statue managed to keep everything under control for all these years. If those young people hadn’t accidentally removed it, nothing would’ve happened.”
Taoist Ma let out a faint laugh. “That just shows how powerful and sinister the statue really is. How could it possibly be the same as Junior Brother Yan’s lover?”
Taoist Wang had to admit that Taoist Ma’s words made sense.
After all, people rarely hold on to their own reasoning for long—it’s easy to be swayed by others.
That’s human nature. Many blindly echo the conclusions of others, mistaking them for their own. The more they think about it, the more convinced they become that others’ ideas are correct.
And Taoist Wang was no exception.
Especially since the words came from someone he trusted and was on good terms with—Taoist Ma.
Still, he was unwilling to give up just yet. He tried again.
“Sister-in-law, is your outfit from some kind of ritual you performed earlier to save Junior Brother Yan?”
Taoist Wang looked at Ye Li’s unusual appearance and asked, “Does your sect worship some kind of deity similar to ghost gods or the underworld guardian, Kṣitigarbha? Maybe you’ve seen statues with similar features or have some clues?”
Ye Li gave him a brief glance, then withdrew his gaze without answering. Instead, he silently pushed open the door right in front of him.
Since Shixun had vanished while helping Zhang Wubing shut off the DVD player, the incident that triggered the sudden disturbance at the shadow puppet museum was very likely connected to it.
Moreover, according to what Zhang Wubing had said at the time, the DVD contained a recording of a traditional shadow puppet performance.
It seemed the malevolent spirit had hidden itself behind the puppets.
And the key to finding Shixun… was within the puppets, too.
Taoist Wang had been eagerly waiting for Ye Li’s response—only to see him brush past without so much as acknowledging him.
Taoist Wang: QAQ… Did I say something wrong?
“Sister-in-law…”
He jogged a few steps to catch up, trying to stop Ye Li.
But Taoist Ma quickly grabbed his arm and yanked him back.
“No matter how close you are, even family has limits. There are some things you just don’t say.”
Taoist Ma said helplessly, “You really went too far comparing a living person to a statue like that. It’s already admirable he didn’t get angry. And you kept pushing… That statue’s probably related to ghost deities or some god worshipped in the southwest. How would he have seen it? He’s not even from that region.”
Taoist Wang scratched his head in embarrassment. “It was a slip of the tongue… I admit I went too far.”
But walking ahead of them, Ye Li had heard every word of their conversation.
His hand, which had been reaching for the TV, paused slightly. His sharp brows lowered, his expression darkening like nightfall.
Deep within the shadowy abyss beneath his feet, evil spirits trembled with fear. None dared to climb toward the surface; instead, they scrambled deeper into the darkness, terrified the Lord of Fengdu might kill one of them just to vent his foul mood.
Ye Li paid no mind to the spirits’ reactions. His mind was submerged in memory.
Had he seen a similar figure before?
Yes. He had.
Where is this? Who are they?
A thousand years ago, the battlefield was strewn with corpses—fallen soldiers piled high like mountains. Blood flowed freely, saturating the earth three feet deep.
Only the final general remained, bracing himself with his long blade, standing amidst the sea of the dead.
His eyes were filled with murderous intent, his chest burning with furious questions. He wanted to challenge the heavens and earth, test the sharpness of his sword, and seek justice—truth and morality—for the fallen comrades.
He demanded a reckoning from the heavens for those who had died.
Ye Li’s long, thick lashes, as black as crow feathers, trembled slightly. The voices behind him, concerned and speaking softly, mingled with the rising opera drumbeats from the television that had just been turned on in front of him. These sounds blended together, pulling him back from his bloodstained
memories of death and silence into the living world.
But why had the image of the general from a thousand years ago been carved into a deity’s statue and made to guard Baizhi Lake?
Ye Li frowned, suspecting that someone might have seen him back then and left behind this depiction, which was passed down through time.
Yet aside from this ebony statue, no other writing or images had ever been preserved. Until recently, Ye Li hadn’t even known such a statue existed.
As Ye Li casually mulled over his memories, the television began to play a shadow puppet show recorded on a DVD.
But the moment he saw a certain silhouette, his eyes narrowed, and shock gave way to fury.
It was Yan Shixun!
Yan Shixun and Zhang Wubing had actually appeared in the shadow puppet show.
They no longer looked like real people; instead, they had been transformed into shadow puppets, rendered with the distinct strokes of a craftsman’s brush, their forms projected onto the screen.
Even so, after spending so much time together, Ye Li had come to know Yan Shixun inside and out. No matter what form Yan Shixun appeared in, Ye Li could recognize him at a glance.
Not to mention the fool clinging to his leg, crying and trying to hold on for dear life.
Yan Shixun was dragging Zhang Wubing, sprinting through a village.
Behind them, numerous ghostly shadow puppets were being manipulated to chase after them. In the village around them, figure after figure appeared in the windows, now lit up in the night.
The villagers had hollow eyes and grinning crescent-shaped mouths, as if thrilled by the hunt taking place.
And above the village, where the moon should have hung, there was instead the shadow of a towering statue.
The ghost deity looked down from above, watching everything. The long blade in its hand was soaked in blood, and its armor gleamed cold and sharp.
Across the screen, Ye Li locked eyes with the shadow of the deity.
In that instant, Ye Li suddenly understood why he hadn’t been able to sense Yan Shixun’s presence—
What he was facing, what he was battling, was himself from a thousand years ago!
It was the power of the ebony statue that kept all evil and filth from escaping into the human world.
Yan Shixun and the others had been pulled into the polluted aura and ghostly miasma. When they reappeared, it was only as figures in the shadow puppet show behind the screen.
Their identities had been swapped—they had become the shadow puppets.
To the ebony deity statue, the shadow puppets were evil entities that needed to be sealed in another realm.
Thus, Yan Shixun and the others were locked behind the screen, and the outside world lost all perception of them.
And Ye Li…
—When I face off against the mirror, between myself and the reflection, who wins and who loses?
Ye Li’s pale lips pressed into a thin, hard line. A piercing gleam lit up his eyes like a drawn blade. Black mist surged from beneath his feet, sweeping across the entire courtyard, blocking out the sun and sky, blotting even the golden-red glow of dusk.
From every shadow came furious howls of malevolent spirits, their wails echoing like a haunted city.
The two Taoists stared around in shock, their eyes finally landing on a towering figure looming within the swirling black mist.
Ye Li’s black hair was whipped into the air by a furious wind, the hem of his robe flaring wildly, surrounded by a host of ghosts bowing in submission, as if honoring their sovereign.
He stared fiercely at the shadow puppet show on the screen, his fury building with every second.
How dare they—how dare they use the me from a thousand years ago to harm the one I love…
An unforgivable sin—!
CRACK! With a deafening crash, the television screen shattered under the pressure. Spiderweb cracks spread across every inch of the screen.
…
Before leaping out of the theater doors, Yan Shixun had wondered what lay beyond them.
After a long, disorienting fall into a dark abyss, he finally felt solid ground beneath his feet.
The darkness in front of him began to lift, replaced by a blood-red glow.
When Yan Shixun saw his surroundings clearly, a hint of bewilderment crossed his face.
—After jumping out of the theater and plunging into the abyss, he had somehow landed… right back at the theater.
Only this time, he stood on the stone steps in front of the entrance, with the tightly shut theater doors behind him.
Two large red lanterns hung high on either side of the theater’s entrance, casting a crimson glow over the small patch of land outside the door.
Inside the lanterns, red candles melted slowly. The wax pooled and dripped down, falling one drop at a time onto the stone steps—like human blood.
Zhang Wubing was so terrified by the eerie scene that he clung to Yan Shixun’s sleeve. Yan Shixun, however, merely glanced at the lanterns coldly before looking away, using the candlelight to take in the scene ahead.
The theater… was built in the middle of a lake.
All around them was dark water, so deep that the bottom could not be seen. No one could tell how far down it went, or what lay beneath the surface.
The water was still—without a single ripple. It was as though even the wind had vanished.
“B-Brother Yan.”
Zhang Wubing stammered, eyes wide in fear. “It’s all water… How do we get out? I don’t see a boat. Are we supposed to swim across?”
He asked the question nervously, afraid that Yan Shixun might actually say they had to swim. It was already winter, and the water would be icy cold. Unless it was a matter of life and death, he had absolutely no desire to go swimming.
And winter swimming wasn’t just unpleasant—at these temperatures, they could easily cramp up and drown.
Yan Shixun glanced at Zhang Wubing with a smile that was neither genuine nor mocking. “What are you going to do? Feed the fish?”
Before Zhang Wubing could even figure out how to respond, Yan Shixun had already raised his hand and removed a red lantern from the side.
The flickering candlelight reflected off the water’s surface, briefly illuminating something that seemed to flash beneath the surface.
Yan Shixun narrowed his eyes, half of his suspicions confirmed.
He released his grip, and the red lantern fell into the lake with a soft splash.
“Plop!” The water rippled violently.
Zhang Wubing was about to ask what was going on when he suddenly noticed that the area around the lantern quickly began to churn, as though a school of large fish had smelled something and rapidly swarmed from the lake’s bottom.
However, in the brief moments before the candlelight was extinguished by the water, the two of them saw the “fish” for what they truly were.
They weren’t fish at all. They were bodies—decomposing corpses!
These corpses had likely been in the water for an extended period, their flesh and blood rotting away, with chunks of flesh missing from their faces, as though they had been gnawed on by other bodies. Beneath the skin, bone was visible.
Their ghastly faces were filled with greed and desire, rushing toward the only light in the dark water, mouths wide open, eager to devour the flame.
But just as quickly, the candlelight was extinguished by the water, and everything fell into darkness.
The enraged howls of the malicious spirits echoed from the lake, and the water’s surface was repeatedly disturbed, sending up sprays of water. The stench of blood rose from the depths.
Zhang Wubing was terrified and instinctively grabbed onto Yan Shixun’s sleeve, trying to pull away.
Meanwhile, Yan Shixun wore a slight smile on his lips, his gaze satisfied as he looked down.
This was his intention from the beginning—to use greed to reveal what lay beneath the lake.
When he had watched the shadow play on the DVD earlier, Yan Shixun noticed that the characters were clearly divided into good and evil, with the villagers’ greed and savagery starkly contrasting with the women’s despair. The contrast was sharp.
And the woman who appeared behind the screen in the theater looked eerily similar to the one in the shadow play.
Given that, could the deep abyss outside the theater be the embodiment of the woman’s resentment?
The villagers she resented, those who had caused her harm, were driven by the greatest evil and weakness: greed.
With this test, Yan Shixun confirmed his suspicions.
Before even entering the theater behind him, he had already deduced what lay beneath the lake—and who or what it was.
It was probably those very villagers from the shadow play, the ones who had tormented the woman all those years ago.
A satisfied smirk tugged at the corners of Yan Shixun’s lips as he turned and pulled out a handkerchief, wrapping it around his hand before pushing open the large door behind him.
What appeared before him was a stark contrast to the dilapidation and desolation he had seen earlier. The theater now stood before him with its bright red lacquered doors. The brass tiger-shaped handles snarled as if they were from a wealthy household of the past, exuding an imposing air.
If one paid close attention, they could still smell the fresh paint on the doors.
However, mixed in with the scent was a strong smell of blood, and the red paint on the door was uneven, with raised bumps that looked like chunks of flesh, coated in red.
It seemed that the paint on the door wasn’t made of ordinary paint.
It was made of the flesh and blood of sinners.
Yan Shixun had an idea of what was going on, but he didn’t have the slightest interest in touching the blood and flesh of the dead. He glanced at it with disdain before his hand landed on the brass handle.
The heavy sound of the door’s hinges creaked as the door slowly opened, revealing the scene hidden behind it.
Red light poured out from the doorway, inch by inch, surrounding the two of them in its glow.
Inside the theater, beneath the viewing platform, lay the scattered bodies of the dead.
Tables and chairs were overturned. Some corpses lay across benches, their eyes wide open, staring unblinking. Wooden sticks were shoved into their backs, as if they had been killed in the middle of fleeing.
The entire place was in disarray.
Even the curtain was splattered with blood. Only the candlelight continued to burn, casting an eerie glow on the discarded shadow puppets carelessly thrown onto the stage.
The shadow puppets, once crafted with care and skill, had been discarded without a second thought. The artisans who controlled them were nowhere to be found.
No, they had died beneath the stage.
Yan Shixun’s gaze shifted downward, where, amidst the bodies, he noticed a few middle-aged men dressed in traditional clothing that was rich in folk characteristics. They appeared to have been fleeing when they collapsed, and their bodies lay in the direction of the stage.
Standing at the door, Yan Shixun took in the entire scene, his gaze lingering for a moment before he finally stepped over the threshold and into the theater.
It was as if the earlier massacre had been frozen in time.
As they stepped inside, everything seemed to have just occurred.
The blood had yet to coagulate, the bodies still radiated warmth, and bloodstains on the curtain were still slowly dripping.
Yan Shixun stepped over the corpse beneath him and walked toward the stage.
“Brother Yan, what… what… are we really going to do this?”
Zhang Wubing asked, fear evident in his every step. The moment he accidentally met the wide-open eyes of one of the dead bodies, he was so startled that he quickly turned his head away, not daring to look again.
“How about we find a boat or something?”
Zhang Wubing timidly suggested, finally showing some cleverness. “Since the theater is in the middle of the lake, they must have planned an escape route, right? There should be a boat nearby. We can try to find one and leave from here.”
“Although the lake outside looks terrifying, it still seems safer than staying here,” Zhang Wubing’s voice even carried a hint of a whimper.
Yan Shixun turned his head to glance at him, smiling lightly. “What if the boat gets punctured in the middle of the lake? Are you volunteering to become fish food?”
The teeth of those corpses had been razor-sharp.
Zhang Wubing hadn’t considered that possibility. Hearing Yan Shixun’s words, he immediately clammed up, realizing that there were too many uncertainties and dangers in trying to leave the lake.
“Don’t worry, even if you go looking for a boat, you might not find one.”
Yan Shixun leapt up onto the stage nonchalantly. “The boat will only appear when you actually want it. Did you forget how we ended up here? This isn’t the real world, so abandon your original thoughts.”
Just like in the shadow play.
The props needed by the shadow puppets would only appear if they were required. If not, they wouldn’t be seen on the screen.
Their fall and appearance here had clearly nothing to do with reality.
And the eerie, dangerous theater… wasn’t that just another false illusion meant to frighten them?
It was in places where people dared not go that the ghosts hid their darkest truths.
Yan Shixun had already realized that everything unusual about this place likely had to do with that woman.
And the massacre before him, since it was in the heart of her vengeful spirit, meant that the key to uncovering her resentment and obsession lay here.
How could they leave the ghosts’ domain?
Either by killing the ghost, or by undoing its obsession.
Yan Shixun had never been one to act recklessly before fully understanding the truth. So, as usual, he took the last option.
He stepped behind the curtain, and his shadow appeared on the fabric.
There, in the distance beyond the curtain, sat something.
A wooden figure, its eyes lowered, smiling.
It looked as though a great vengeance had been exacted.
If you love what Ciacia is doing, then consider showing your support by supporting a cup of tea for her at Kofi. If you can’t wait for the next release chapter, subscribe to advanced chapters membership on her Kofi to get access to up to 10 chapters!
