Chapter 255: Shadow Puppets and Lamplight (21)
The official in charge wasn’t very familiar with the case of Baizhi Lake.
For one, the incident had happened many years ago, back when he was just an ordinary staff member, not yet in a leadership position, so the information he had access to was limited.
Another reason was that although the mass deaths in Baizhi Lake village were shocking in outcome, the process had unfolded gradually. Due to the village’s remote location, the outside world knew little about the situation there, so in the beginning, it didn’t attract much attention.
The strange happenings in Baizhi Lake had begun more than twenty years ago.
The first death seemed like nothing more than an accident—one villager, drunk and staggering home, had lost his footing and fallen into the lake.
If anything seemed odd, it was that even though the drowned man wasn’t weighed down by anything, his body sank to the bottom and never floated back up.
His family realized he hadn’t returned home and searched for him for several days. They finally found one of his shoes in the grass by the lake, and that led to the retrieval of his bloated, misshapen body from the water.
All of his relatives stood by the lakeside, watching helplessly as his corpse was hauled ashore. One elderly family member was so terrified and grief-stricken that he died on the spot.
The man’s young child wailed endlessly and came down with a high fever that very night.
By the day of the funeral, the child’s fever still hadn’t subsided—and he died that day as well.
With death striking the elderly, the middle-aged, and the young all at once, the household ended up holding multiple funerals at the same time—a deeply inauspicious occurrence no matter how one looked at it.
Still, it all seemed like nothing more than a tragic accident—an unfortunate chain reaction triggered by drunkenness. Not only had the family lost its pillar, a master of shadow puppetry, but they’d also lost a child. Anyone would’ve pitied them, and aside from that, there didn’t seem to be anything particularly strange about the situation.
So the other villagers simply held their tongues and endured it.
However, the death of that first shadow puppet master seemed to open a floodgate of death in the village. One misfortune followed another.
This was a single-surname village—everyone bore the surname Bai. The ancestral graves were located on a nearby mountain, visible right after exiting the highway, where a grand cemetery had been constructed.
At the peak of shadow puppetry’s popularity in the southwest, many scholars and tourists came to study and observe the craft. Guided by the villagers, they had no choice but to pay steep entrance fees to visit the Bai family cemetery. Scholars treated the site as a resource for studying southwestern funeral customs, and tourists simply told themselves they were there to witness the history of shadow puppetry.
But what the villagers didn’t realize at the time was that every ticket they sold was ultimately funding the construction of their own graves.
Southwestern shadow puppetry truly became history within the grounds of that cemetery.
—Because the entire village died off, one after another.
When the funeral procession for the first drowned villager passed by the lake, a gust of wind blew embers from a fire basin onto the mourning cloth. The pallbearers caught fire, and in a panic, they leapt into the lake.
None of them were strong swimmers. By the time villagers managed to pull them out, one was already dead by drowning, and the rest fell gravely ill and died soon after returning home.
The originally grand funeral turned into a disaster. The body in the coffin had fallen into the lake again, leaving it in disarray, and with another person dying during the ceremony, the whole event was hastily wrapped up.
The Bai villagers began to shun and isolate the bereaved family, whispering that they must have offended something—these deaths were a form of vengeance, and anyone who got close to them would also perish.
The remaining family members of the shadow puppet master were devastated but powerless. They endured scornful looks every time they left the house, and whether farming in the fields or going about daily life, they faced constant exclusion and bullying.
Worse still, the relatives of the pallbearers who had died also came knocking—crying, wailing, and causing a scene day and night.
One morning, neighbors noticed no smoke rising from that household’s chimney.
They opened the door and found that the remaining daughter-in-law, crushed under the long-standing pressure, had bought pesticide, poisoned the entire family, and taken her own life.
The whole family was wiped out.
The villagers’ first reaction was—good.
The household that brought misfortune was finally gone. Now the rest of them would be safe.
They breathed a sigh of relief, thinking the nightmare had ended.
But they didn’t expect that misfortunes would keep coming.
Another shadow puppet master died when a wooden rod accidentally pierced his eye and went through his skull while tanning hides. Others died in similarly gruesome ways—falling into furnaces and burning alive, tumbling off cliffs while climbing mountains, or screaming in the middle of a nightmare about someone seeking revenge before running out of their homes and drowning by accident…
The variety and horror of the deaths were enough to leave even the official in charge speechless—he had never imagined people could die in such ways.
In less than a year, the village became desolate. Almost everyone with shadow puppetry skills had died.
The few who survived fled in a panic during the night.
But even those who escaped later died, one by one, in accidents in towns and cities far from the village.
In the end, the Bai family village was almost entirely wiped out.
According to records, the only one who escaped was an inheritor of shadow puppetry who had already announced retirement. Due to poor health, he had long since refused visitors and remained isolated from worldly affairs.
The official had heard the name “Baizhi Lake” before, but this was the first time he had seen such a detailed and vivid account of all the deaths associated with it.
Even someone like him, who worked in a special department, couldn’t help but feel deeply shaken.
Because when these incidents happened back then, they lacked coherence. They seemed unrelated, with no chronological continuity. On top of that, the Bai village was quite insular and conservative, refusing to let outside forensic experts or investigative teams intervene. They insisted that the dead should be respected, and they couldn’t accept autopsies, believing such acts were an insult to the deceased.
The villagers unanimously believed that even if someone died in an accident, it was either bad luck or because they had provoked something from the mountains. In such cases, they should seek out a shaman, not some investigator.
Faced with the solidarity of the same-surname villagers—along with the fact that the causes of death did indeed appear accidental, and the likelihood of homicide was low—outside forces were left helpless.
Only one handler from that time felt something was off. So he kept his guard up, pretending to be a tourist visiting the village. He paid a hefty sum to some locals and managed to gather quite a bit of information.
However, even though there were things that seemed suspicious, none of it could be used as legal evidence. In the end, the handler could only give up reluctantly. He archived all the files in his possession and sorted out the deaths according to timeline and social connections, weaving them into a vast, crisscrossed web that he presented to the official in charge.
Even so, that handler still cautioned the official not to get his hopes up.
“You know how it is—villages in the southwest typically consist of one surname per village. They have their own customs, they’re xenophobic, and don’t rely on the outside world. A lot of village information doesn’t get updated in time. Even if you go there in person to investigate, you might not uncover the truth.”
Over the phone, the handler let out a bitter laugh. “According to the official system’s records, only one elderly person remains in that village. But new people who move in wouldn’t bother to register. You want to understand the situation remotely? Impossible.”
“When I visited the village years ago, I even met a young man with the surname Zheng—it was obvious he was from another village. But he wasn’t in any records. So even if you look at the data, it could be inaccurate or incomplete. Those deaths may seem suspicious to us, but if you want to trace them back…”
He sighed. “It’s just too difficult.”
The official listened silently, then thanked him in a low voice.
He hadn’t expected that the nickname “Baizhi Lake,” named for the many deaths associated with it, would conceal such a complicated and tangled history. For a moment, he was lost in thought.
The deaths around Baizhi Lake itself, combined with the unique characteristics of the southwestern region…
Suddenly, a theory surfaced in the official’s mind.
He speculated that, since the underworld had experienced some kind of disruption—leading to corrupted Yin officials and the incident at Binhai University—perhaps the souls of those who died back then in the Bai village had never been properly guided away by the Yin officials of the underworld. They may have lingered, wandering the area as lost spirits, eventually forming malevolent entities.
And because Director Zhang Wubing naturally attracted ghosts, perhaps this was why nothing had happened for more than twenty years after the village’s mass death. But this time, Zhang Wubing’s spiritual constitution acted as a catalyst, triggering a full-blown outbreak.
The official in charge remembered the two Taoists who had vanished on their way to the shadow puppet museum. Pondering this, he called Taoist Song Yi: “I recall that many humanoid objects can attract wandering spirits and serve as vessels for them to inhabit. Is that true, Taoist Song?”
Taoist Song Yi, who had just left the freezing Jin Port region, ignored the terrified stares of the passengers nearby and asked in return, “Like what?”
“Items that the deceased used frequently in life, or burial objects, funeral goods—those can temporarily house a spirit.”
Taoist Song Yi: “While it’s true that many humanoid statues or similar items can serve as vessels for spirits, in recent years, such items have become increasingly rare. Most are mass-produced by machines now.”
“To house a spirit, the item must retain part of a person’s essence. In other words, for your scenario to be possible, two conditions must be met. First, the object must be humanoid—the closer the resemblance, the better. Second, it must be handcrafted. The more skilled the artisan and the more time they spent making it, the better it can retain a soul.”
As he spoke, Taoist Song Yi suddenly had a moment of realization and understood what the official was hinting at.
“Wait a minute… you’re talking about… shadow puppets?!”
The official remained silent for a long time—his silence served as confirmation.
Taoist Song Yi’s expression darkened. “If it’s shadow puppets, then it’s very likely. Shadow puppetry is all about shadows—it’s the perfect medium for housing souls.”
At that moment, the official and the rescue team arrived near the shadow puppet museum. The official let out a long sigh, sent all the information he had to Taoist Song Yi, and got out of the car to examine the situation in person.
Taoist Song Yi looked at the now-dark phone screen, which reflected his grave and solemn face.
And… the terrified expression of the passenger next to him.
The passenger swallowed hard and asked, voice trembling, “M-Master, are you saying that those plastic mannequins might get possessed by wandering spirits?”
He looked like he was about to faint—his double chin was shaking.
Taoist Song Yi: “?”
Taoist Song Yi thought he had disturbed the man with his phone conversation and apologized politely.
To his surprise, the man suddenly grabbed his hand and cried out, “Master, please save me! I don’t want to die!”
The neighboring passenger then poured out his entire story like beans spilling from a bamboo tube.
When he was young, he used to run a clothing business. The quality was great, but the styles were ugly, so it quickly went under. The unsold merchandise was all dumped into a warehouse, where it collected dust and was eventually forgotten.
Until six months ago, he suddenly remembered the land the warehouse was on and decided to clear it out to sell the property.
But unexpectedly, while workers were moving the old plastic mannequins that had been abandoned for years, they found that the mannequins were much heavier than expected and accidentally dropped one.
Chunks of rotting flesh tumbled out, mixed with a good number of bones.
The passenger in the neighboring seat trembled as he spoke. “Later on, I asked the local authorities and found out that over twenty years ago, a group of kidnappers died inside that warehouse. But I wasn’t living in the area back then, so they never contacted me. I didn’t know anything about it… Even though the forensics later concluded that the meat stuffed inside the mannequins came from stray dogs, not humans, it still doesn’t sit right with me.”
“There weren’t even any openings in those plastic mannequins—how could anyone have stuffed meat inside? And seriously, who would do something so disgusting and pointless? I just can’t wrap my head around it.”
The passenger continued, “I keep feeling like those plastic mannequins came to life and ate the stray dogs themselves. But when I told other people that, they told me to see a therapist. Said I was just traumatized.”
“But I swear I’m not crazy!”
Afraid that Taoist Song Yi wouldn’t believe him, the passenger hurriedly recounted everything that had happened to him in the past six months.
When he returned home, he noticed the human-shaped sculptures displayed in his house. He felt like they had turned their heads and were watching him with their eyes.
Late at night, he would hear heavy dragging noises coming from the living room. Thinking there was a burglar, he went out to check—only to find the sculptures had moved from their original spots.
That wasn’t all. He started to feel like his son’s collectible figurines were also staring at him.
Once, his son shouted that a figurine had gone missing from its box. But when they checked the security camera, the footage showed the figurine crawling on its own to under his bed. When the family lifted the mattress, they found the figurine exactly where he normally laid his head. Even more terrifying, the toy sword in its hand had somehow become real, its sharpened blade pointing directly at his head.
He broke into a cold sweat.
All the bizarre events in his life were driving him to the brink. He went to see a doctor, but the doctor didn’t believe a word he said—insisting it was all hallucinations caused by stress.
He had no choice. He decided to leave his hometown and go to Haiyun Temple in Binhai City. He’d heard it was effective and hoped to get a protective talisman there.
“This all started half a year ago? The kidnapping case from over twenty years ago?”
Taoist Song Yi was stunned and quickly checked the messages on his phone.
Sure enough, Taoist Ma had informed him that the ebony statue that had gone missing from the temple had been taken from Baizhi Lake by a student exactly six months ago.
And over twenty years ago… that was the same time Xie Lin’s younger sister had been kidnapped.
The passenger looked at Taoist Song Yi with nervous eyes, like a terminally ill patient awaiting a doctor’s prognosis—uncertain if he could still be saved.
But suddenly, a realization dawned on Taoist Song Yi.
Perhaps he hadn’t come to the wrong filming location after all.
His real purpose for this trip had always been to meet this passenger—to learn the information he hadn’t been able to uncover before.
Truly… misfortune and blessing were often two sides of the same coin.
Taoist Song Yi gently shook his head, the corners of his mouth lifting into a smile.
He narrowed his eyes, feeling in his heart that no matter how humans calculated and plotted, they could never surpass the all-seeing Dao. Perhaps the Dao itself, unwilling to let things end in a deadlock, had guided him here—to find the right answer.
“Don’t be afraid. I’m a Taoist from Haiyun Temple. Want to see my credential? Tell me everything in detail…”
Taoist Song Yi patiently comforted the frightened passenger.
Elsewhere, after finishing a call with the official in charge, the handler sat in his chair for a long time before stretching, easing the stiffness in his shoulders and neck.
The room lights were on. It got dark early this time of year. Outside was pitch-black, and the curtains were already drawn.
As he thought about the matter at Baizhi Lake, he had the nagging feeling that he’d forgotten to mention something to the official. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t remember. He just paced the room with his coffee, lost in thought.
Suddenly, his steps halted near the window, his shadow casting itself on the curtain.
He remembered—back when he was in that village, he had once overheard a deranged woman, whose entire family had died, muttering madly: “She’s come back for revenge. She’s come back to kill us all. Whoever took her family’s gold and silver must return it. Whoever owes her family their lives will pay with their whole family.”
But the villagers had quickly dragged the crazy woman away, saying she was mentally unwell from the trauma and spouting nonsense.
As they said that, they yanked the gold necklace from the woman’s neck and stuffed it into their own pockets.
The crazy woman didn’t seem to notice. She just kept mumbling incoherently, drooling and speaking in a heavy dialect, “Shouldn’t have hired the carpenter. It’s all Master Bai’s fault. Shouldn’t have let the carpenter come. That Zheng family… they’re all evil ghosts…”
But he hadn’t caught most of what she said at the time—between the drool and dialect, he thought he must’ve misheard.
Should he report this to the official?
The handler hesitated, glanced down at the phone on the table, then reached out to send a message.
Even if he wasn’t entirely sure, saying something would bring peace of mind.
That was what he thought.
But standing with his back to the window, he didn’t see the change in the shadows cast on the curtain—what had been one figure was now two.
There was only one person in the room.
But on the curtain, besides the shadow of someone bending down to pick something up, there was another—stiff-limbed, pale-faced, with two unnatural red spots on its cheeks, like a puppet in a shadow play, manipulated by strings.
It raised the wooden stick in its hand high—then brought it down.
**“Bang!”**
Blood splattered across the white curtain.
….
“Taoist Ma and the others vanished beneath that archway in the end.”
The Taoist left outside the shadow puppet museum recounted everything that had happened to the official in charge.
The reason Taoist Ma and the others had left him behind was so that if anything went wrong, at least someone would be able to pass the information on to the outside world and prevent others from repeating their mistake.
The official’s expression grew more and more serious as he listened.
It wasn’t until he saw the place for himself that he realized the situation was far more severe and dangerous than what he had heard over the phone.
“Are those graves?”
The official pointed to the two rows of stone tablets behind the archway.
The Taoist shook his head. “I checked—they’re merit tablets honoring the people who donated money for the construction of the museum.”
That made sense.
When people raised funds to build temples, bridges, or roads, it was common practice to engrave the names of major donors as a way to encourage more donations. Many Taoist temples and Buddhist monasteries did the same.
However, the official narrowed his eyes. Under the deepening dusk, he could vaguely make out something on the ground in front of the tablets.
He was about to step closer for a clearer look when the Taoist grabbed his arm anxiously. “We’ve assumed that the archway marks the boundary, but that hasn’t been confirmed yet. And now it’s already past nightfall. Yin energy is rising, and there’s a real chance that the area of corruption is expanding.”
“Taoist Ma and the others still have the means to protect themselves. But you, sir…”
The Taoist paused. “You really need to be cautious. If something happens to you, a lot of our operations will be halted—just like what happened at Nanning Mountain.”
The official gave a helpless shrug and made a surrendering gesture, promising not to cross the line—he just wanted to take a look.
“But Taoist, don’t you think the soil in front of those tablets looks like it’s been disturbed?”
He pointed to the tablets and said, “From here, it almost looks like… bones.”
The Taoist frowned and stepped forward a few paces, still staying well outside the archway, to get a better look from a distance.
After a moment, his face changed. “It really does….. look like it!”
The soil in front of the stone tablets hadn’t been packed down. On closer inspection, he could even see some pale white objects partly buried in the dirt, just barely peeking out.
These tablets had supposedly stood here for decades, and the museum hadn’t seen visitors in years. Logically, the ground should have been compact and undisturbed. But now, it looked freshly overturned.
Or perhaps—something buried below had tried to force its way out, breaking through the packed earth from beneath.
More importantly…
“I checked this area right after Taoist Ma and the others disappeared. Everything looked normal then. How did this happen the moment the sun went down?”
The Taoist stared blankly at the stone tablets. “How could this be…”
“There are photos on the tablets?”
The official raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You said they were merit tablets, but they look exactly like gravestones.”
A chill ran down the Taoist’s spine, his hands and feet turning cold.
He realized that the tablets had indeed changed between before and after sunset.
Now, under the dim light of dusk, the place looked just like a dilapidated graveyard. Each gravestone bore a portrait of the deceased, but unlike typical cemetery epitaphs, there were no tributes from family or summaries of life achievements.
Instead, they were detailed lists of evil deeds committed during the person’s life.
At the top of each list was the same crime—they had taken part in the persecution of an entire family, leading to their tragic death.
Every single tablet bore the exact same record.
To the Taoist, this place didn’t feel like a cemetery. It felt like a court of judgment run by a judge of the underworld.
Except, since the underworld had collapsed and the Yin officials no longer intervened, something—filled with hatred—had taken it upon itself to pass judgment and carry out the punishment.
—
“We’re here—just walk a little further and you’ll reach Third Uncle Bai’s house. My place is right next door.”
Zheng Shumu led the way enthusiastically. After they entered the village, he even helped guide those unfamiliar with the area.
Just as Zheng Shumu had said, taking the small path really saved them time. They quickly crossed through the fields, taking a straight route and avoiding any detours, and soon reached the village.
By then, the sun had just set. Smoke was rising from chimneys, and the smell of dinner wafted through the air from every home.
In the distance, voices overlapped—children laughing and playing, the clucks and squawks of chickens, ducks, geese, and dogs blending together. The lively sounds filled the mountain village with a sense of warmth and life.
Seeing this scene, the guests and Zhang Wubing, who had been tense the entire way, finally let out a collective sigh of relief.
On the way there, they had worried—what if this carpenter Zheng Shumu turned out to be suspicious? What if he led them into some deserted wilderness?
Even when they first saw the village outline and rising smoke from afar, they had wondered if it was all just an illusion.
But once they stepped into the village and felt the strong presence of everyday life all around them, they finally relaxed.
And with that relief came a deep sense of guilt—for having suspected someone who had only tried to help.
Master Zheng had kindly offered to guide them, and they had doubted his intentions…
With that guilt in their hearts, everyone smiled even more warmly at Zheng Shumu. Whatever he said, they answered enthusiastically, not letting a single word drop to the ground.
“Alright then, it’s getting late. You’d better go now—Third Uncle Bai should be home around this time.”
Zheng Shumu waved with a smile. “If anything comes up, I live next door. Just call out from the yard and I’ll hear you.”
Zhang Wubing quickly agreed.
Since there were quite a few of them, and their clothing and manner clearly showed they weren’t locals, while they were talking to Zheng Shumu, a number of children who had been playing wildly in the fields and muddy patches curiously gathered around, chirping and asking all kinds of questions.
Some of the shyer kids hid in the back, too timid to come forward.
Zhang Wubing squatted down with a smile, softened his voice, and started chatting with the children.
By habit, he reached into his pocket, intending to take out some candy to coax the kids. But as soon as his hand slipped into his pocket and felt nothing but emptiness, he suddenly remembered that all their supplies were still on the vehicle. They didn’t have luggage or any other materials with them right now—let alone candy.
Zhang Wubing gave the kids an apologetic smile, but they didn’t mind at all. Instead, they bounced and skipped around them excitedly, leading the group toward Third Uncle Bai’s house.
“Hey kids, let me ask you something. Have you seen the inheritor old grandpa?”
Recalling how the production team had tried several times to meet the inheritor but failed, Zhang Wubing lowered his head and asked, “Is he home right now? Didn’t he go to the county a few days ago for a doctor’s appointment?”
A child blinked and said, “Grandpa Bai? He’s been here the whole time.”
As he spoke, the child pointed toward a grand-looking house not far away. “That’s Grandpa Bai’s house.”
Zhang Wubing looked in that direction and saw that the house was indeed identical to the one in the photos taken by the crew. It had to be the right place.
At the same time, it dawned on him—since the child said Master Bai had been home all along, it meant that when the crew came before, the man had simply chosen not to meet any outsiders and had used an excuse to avoid them.
They had already heard rumors that this last remaining inheritor refused to see visitors. Other shadow puppetry craftsmen who had come to seek him out had also left in disappointment.
When Zhang Wubing was doing his preliminary research, he’d heard people complain that Master Bai acted as if he didn’t want the shadow puppetry tradition to continue at all. The way he conducted himself made it seem like he was deliberately letting the art form die out.
Back then, Zhang Wubing had even defended Master Bai, saying, if he’s really an inheritor, how could he possibly stand by and watch the tradition vanish before his eyes? There must be some kind of misunderstanding—no way someone would act like that.
But now that he was here himself, Zhang Wubing suddenly felt something similar stirring inside him.
Maybe… it really was like that.
Even though training a proper apprentice to carry on the legacy required tremendous effort—typically starting from a very young age—in a place like Baizhi Lake, where the art of shadow puppetry had withered to a single inheritor, having even a few poorly trained students was better than leaving nothing behind at all.
If it had been any other tradition left with just one person, chances were they would’ve racked their brains to find worthy students and seek publicity, trying to draw attention and extend the life of their art.
But just looking at Master Bai’s house—covered in a layer of metaphorical dust, dim and cold—felt like it reflected its owner’s heart. It told Zhang Wubing that Master Bai simply didn’t want to revive the Baizhi Lake shadow puppetry.
The heavy padlock wrapped around the door made Zhang Wubing feel as though Master Bai wished for nothing more than to die soon, so the art of Baizhi Lake shadow puppetry could finally disappear with him.
How could it be like this?
Zhang Wubing felt a mix of anger and confusion toward Master Bai’s attitude.
Yan Shixun, however, remained indifferent, his eyelids barely lifting. The only thing that made his skin crawl was Zhang Wubing’s unintentionally cutesy tone while talking to the kids, which had nearly given him goosebumps. Otherwise, he showed no particular reaction to the situation.
“That’s his choice, he’s an adult. He knows what he’s choosing and what consequences he’ll have to bear for it.”
Seeing Zhang Wubing’s expression, which made his thoughts plain as day, Yan Shixun added calmly, “Whatever choice he makes is his right. You don’t know everything he’s been through, so don’t presume to make decisions on his behalf.”
Zhang Wubing’s eyes brimmed with tears. “But Brother Yan… I just don’t understand…”
“Then there’ll be a lot of things you won’t understand.”
Yan Shixun’s expression didn’t waver in the slightest. Years of wandering across streets and cities, traveling the length and breadth of the country, had shown him countless people and stories. He had long since grown used to the many different paths people took in life.
He knew very well that no matter what others thought, they could never take the place of the person living through it.
“If you had gone through the same things he did, you might’ve made a choice even more final than his.”
Yan Shixun let out a cold laugh and took the lead, walking toward Third Uncle Bai’s courtyard nearby. “All kinds of things happen in the human world, nothing could be more normal. Zhang Wubing, not everyone is like you. Many lives are stripped of the right to live the moment they’re born—like Chi Yan’s child. Great evil and great kindness, both are possible.”
“You don’t understand this now, but when you’ve truly experienced and witnessed all there is in the world, only then will you be qualified to speak.”
Seeing Zhang Wubing frozen in place, eyes red as if on the verge of tears, Yan Shixun could only let out a sigh and tilted his chin toward the entrance of Third Uncle Bai’s house. “What are you standing there for? Go knock. Wasn’t it you who booked the place? They don’t know me.”
“It’s freezing out here. Do you want everyone to keep standing in the cold?”
Only then did Zhang Wubing snap out of it. Embarrassed, he jogged over.
Just as he knocked on the large iron gate, a voice responded from inside, “Who is it?”
They could also hear the sound of someone shuffling along the floor in slippers.
The door was opened by an elderly man with graying hair, dressed like a villager. The moment he saw the group outside, he didn’t wait for Zhang Wubing to explain before realization dawned on his face.
“Oh! You must be the ones who booked the rooms earlier, right?”
Third Uncle Bai immediately pushed the big iron gate wide open and warmly welcomed everyone inside. “Come in, come in. It’s cold out here.”
“Aiya, I was just wondering why you all hadn’t shown up yet. I was starting to worry that you might’ve changed your minds, thought our place wasn’t good enough and decided not to come. I almost thought the money I had in hand was about to fly away, haha.”
Third Uncle Bai grinned as he spoke, “The bedding and everything else have been prepared for a while. The rooms have been cleaned too—we’ve just been waiting for you all to arrive.”
After everyone entered, Third Uncle Bai began counting heads, frowning slightly in confusion. “Hmm? Doesn’t seem like the number matches what you told me earlier?”
Zhang Wubing quickly replied, “Some others couldn’t make it due to other matters, and we were delayed a bit on the road—that’s why we’re late.”
Third Uncle Bai waved it off with a chuckle. “No problem, no problem. As long as you’ve paid, you call the shots, haha.”
“You must be hungry, right? After getting off the expressway, the roads around here aren’t easy to drive on, especially in this cold season. Make yourselves comfortable, I’ll go whip something up for you.”
With that, Third Uncle Bai enthusiastically headed for the kitchen, calling out loudly as he went, “Your rooms are on the second floor. We’ve cleaned the whole floor for you—go ahead and take a look, pick whichever one you like.”
Zhang Wubing responded quickly, but his brows furrowed with concern. Third Uncle Bai’s comment about the numbers not matching reminded him of the people who hadn’t yet regrouped with them.
Third Uncle Bai’s courtyard was a typical rural household, with some vegetables growing and free-range chickens and ducks wandering around.
But likely due to the winter season, the vegetable plot was empty. Only the chickens and ducks, upon seeing people, huddled nervously in the corners, wary of strangers.
Though none of them were in the mood to stroll the courtyard, teasing chickens or walking dogs, the vibrant sense of life in this place brought some comfort to them.
Once they relaxed, exhaustion and hunger surged in. What had been suppressed by sheer willpower due to tension now rushed to the surface.
An Nanyuan felt like he could lie flat on the ground and fall asleep instantly—so tired that he didn’t even want to think.
“Finally, a place to rest.”
Lu Xingxing let out a groan, swinging his arms as he trudged upstairs.
Although Ye Li had stopped his bleeding earlier, Ye Li’s power was filled with ghostly energy and couldn’t restore his physical strength. The weakness from blood loss still lingered, leaving him so drained he could barely keep his eyes open.
Yan Shixun stood at the entrance, eyes scanning the courtyard inch by inch, not letting down his guard.
From what he saw, the yard was clean and orderly, no different from any ordinary villager’s home—no signs of malevolent spirits or curses.
He turned to look at Ye Li, who also gave a subtle shake of the head.
That made Yan Shixun frown.
“They’re still inside the shadow puppet play, haven’t come out yet… but the village looks completely normal?”
Yan Shixun fell deep into thought, deciding he needed to be even more vigilant.
Meanwhile, inside a grand building not far away, behind a glass window, an elderly man with white hair and beard stood hunched, his hands behind his back. He silently stared at the courtyard now lit up with lights, his expression somewhat dazed.
He recalled what that young man had just said, and his feelings became a tangled mess.
Lost knowledge… can it truly still be understood?
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