Chapter 256: Shadow Puppets and Lamplight (22)
They had already endured a long journey on the highway to the southwest, and before they could even catch their breath, they were thrown into the incident at the shadow puppet museum. Everyone was worn out, chased to exhaustion by the crises they each encountered.
Even though Yan Shixun had briefed them on the situation during the ride to the village—warning them not to sleep too deeply that night and to stay alert to danger—seeing the peaceful and leisurely countryside courtyard still made everyone instinctively let out a breath of relief. Their taut nerves finally relaxed a little.
Once Lu Xingxing took the lead and headed to the prepared rooms on the second floor, the others all turned to look eagerly at Yan Shixun.
When Yan Shixun gave a slight nod, smiles appeared on everyone’s faces. They let out a small cheer and rushed up to the second floor together to check out the rooms they’d be staying in that night.
“There’s still some time before dinner. I’m gonna get some sleep first.”
Without even looking, Lu Xingxing, exhausted, pushed open the first room on the second floor and went in.
As he collapsed into the bed, he specifically reminded An Nanyuan, who was peeking in through the door, “Don’t wake me until dinner. I can’t even keep my eyes open right now.”
An Nanyuan nodded and looked at him with sympathy, agreeing without hesitation.
This unlucky kid just had to get hurt at a time when there were no treatment options available.
An Nanyuan was already planning to go downstairs and talk to Zhang Wubing after picking out a room—maybe see if they could buy a chicken from Third Uncle Bai and make a stew to help Lu Xingxing replenish some blood.
Originally, due to a shortage of rooms, the production team had arranged for three people per room.
After all, Baizhi Lake’s shadow puppetry had been in decline for years. The village had been struggling, and no tourists came anymore. Any guesthouses that once existed had long shut down, so they could only book local homes.
Third Uncle Bai’s house had more vacant rooms than most in the village.
But even so, with the usual number of crew members, it still wouldn’t have been enough. They would have had to squeeze in.
Now, however, there were plenty of rooms to go around—each person could have their own, with rooms to spare.
Zhao Zhen leaned against the doorframe and looked at the interior setup. The sounds of village life outside were blocked by the glass, and the unlit room felt especially lonely.
He stood there dazed for a while, reminiscing about how, during past shoots, everyone would crowd together to pick rooms, laughing and chatting.
He had no idea where the others had gone. Had they successfully met up with the Taoists? Were they in danger…?
“What are you doing just standing there? If you’re not moving, step aside.”
The young master, irritated, lifted his leg and kicked Zhao Zhen lightly on the calf. Arms crossed, he tilted his delicate chin and asked, “Don’t you realize you’re huge? The hallway’s this narrow, and you’re taking up all the space. How am I supposed to walk?”
Zhao Zhen snapped out of it and stepped to the side.
The young master huffed and continued walking forward.
Although Third Uncle Bai’s house was spacious, it wasn’t like the villa-style homes of more affluent rural areas. It simply had many rooms—built to block wind and sand, and to stay warm at night.
Aside from practicality, it didn’t offer much in terms of comfort.
The layout of the second floor was simple: a row of rooms along a half-meter-wide hallway, with a line of windows on the other side, now so caked with dust and sand that it was hard to see outside.
The first room at the top of the stairs was the bathroom. Lu Xingxing was too tired to care about any odors and immediately crashed in the room next to it.
The young master, however, was much more particular.
As he climbed the narrow iron staircase, the stench from the bathroom made him roll his eyes. He nearly turned around and left.
An Nanyuan had to coax him, reassuring him that this was still better than a dry toilet—
—just two stone slabs, where squatting always came with the fear of falling into a pit of filth.
Song Ci nearly threw up from An Nanyuan’s vivid description. Furious, he shoved him aside and walked in—only to bump into Zhao Zhen blocking the way.
Surprisingly, An Nanyuan’s “comforting words” had some effect. Compared to the horrific idea of a dry toilet, Song Ci accepted this one while pinching his nose.
Still, he was determined to pick a room that wouldn’t carry even a trace of the bathroom’s smell.
As he brushed past Zhao Zhen, Song Ci hesitated for a moment, then turned back to ask, “Are you worried about the others?”
Zhao Zhen nodded. “Even though Brother Yan said they’d meet up with the Taoists and be fine, without Brother Yan with them… I just can’t feel at ease.”
Song Ci stared at him for a few seconds, then let out a sarcastic laugh. With a wave of his hand, he turned and continued walking forward. “Then you’re worried for nothing. If I know Zhang Dabing at all, we’re the ones in danger here.”
“Ghosts or no ghosts, that’s up to Brother Yan. But whether they appear or not, depends on Zhang Dabing’s mood.”
Zhao Zhen looked up in surprise. Staring at the young master’s slim back, he slowly began to smile, and the earlier tension in his chest began to ease.
“Young Master,” he suddenly called out to Song Ci.
Song Ci turned his head with a puzzled look, only to hear Zhao Zhen say with a chuckle, “Rooms too far inside aren’t great either. If you need the bathroom in the middle of the night, you’ll have quite a run.”
As he spoke, Zhao Zhen stepped aside, holding open the door to the room he had just claimed.
He stretched out his hand and gestured down the hallway, comparing the distances from both sides.
“How about you take this room? It’s right in the middle.”
Song Ci: “…………”
The young master replied with a blank expression and a single syllable: “Scram!”
Had that idiot Lu Xingxing infected him or something?
Zhao Zhen let out a low chuckle, which quickly grew into hearty laughter. The heavy worry that had hung over him just moments before had completely vanished.
The others curiously glanced at the two of them, then shook their heads and went off to choose their rooms.
“It’s better to stay a bit further inside.”
Nan Tian said, “Aside from Xingxing, I don’t think anyone can actually fall asleep next to the toilet. Let’s move in a little more.”
“Then wouldn’t that mean Xingxing won’t have anyone on either side of him?”
An Nanyuan said worriedly, “If something really happens in the middle of the night, and considering he’s still injured, it’d be hard for him to take care of himself.”
“It should be fine, right?”
Nan Tian hesitated, but the stench from the toilet won out. “He’s only not being picky now because he’s too exhausted. Knowing his personality, once he wakes up and realizes he’s next to a toilet, he’ll be the first one to jump up and demand to change rooms. Don’t worry—nobody actually wants to sleep next to a latrine.”
An Nanyuan frowned. “…Try to be a little more refined. We still have to eat dinner later.”
Even though Yan Shixun had already told everyone that this wasn’t reality, but something happening inside a shadow puppet play, the setting was so perfectly aligned with reality that no one could mentally detach from the illusion. Their minds instinctively treated it as real.
They hadn’t yet realized that things like smells or food shouldn’t even exist in a shadow puppet performance.
This place had become a reality of its own.
Yan Shixun was aware of that, but rather than feeling alarmed, he was more puzzled—how exactly had the person pulling the strings behind all this managed to create such a scene?
This wasn’t something any ordinary ghost or malevolent spirit could do.
Just as many folk tales and supernatural legends described—like a world inside a bottle, a realm within a painting, or the stories in Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio—Taoist tradition also spoke of “blessed lands and hidden heavens.”
In modern times, people viewed these “blessed lands” as figments of ancient imagination. But back then, it was believed that truly accomplished Taoist cultivators, gods, and ghosts could create their own pocket worlds.
The most famous examples were the legends of Mount Kunlun and Changbai Mountain—places thought to be the abodes of immortals.
Most people treated these as mere stories. But for those truly in this line of work, they knew—they weren’t just stories. They were real.
—Many truths that the average person didn’t want to believe were hidden within old novels, legends, and even nursery rhymes. These children’s songs held secrets of entire worlds.
But once something went beyond the common person’s logic, even the truth sounded like wild fantasy.
Yan Shixun understood that well. Over the years, he had encountered similar situations more than once.
But this shadow puppet play went beyond anything he had experienced before.
Spaces created by powerful beings were never truly indistinguishable from reality. No matter how advanced, there were always subtle inconsistencies that, once noticed, helped break the illusion.
Just like the time when Binhai University had been rebuilt using ghost energy—it was ultimately an illusion. The heavens had not acknowledged it. Under the great Dao, heaven and earth remained as they were.
But this time, no matter how carefully Yan Shixun examined his surroundings, he couldn’t find a single flaw.
A peaceful village, the scent of smoke rising from cooking fires, the rustic aroma of farm-grown vegetables seasoned simply.
These smells tangled together and drifted in the piercing cold of winter, evoking an unconscious sense of warmth and a desire to let down one’s guard.
Children’s cheerful laughter rang from outside the courtyard, occasionally mixed with barking dogs. The setting sun dipped below the horizon, and the mountain silhouettes slowly vanished into the mist.
This place was no different from any peaceful village.
Standing at the doorway, the more Yan Shixun tried to be alert and spot something off, the more everything seemed perfectly normal—as if all his suspicions were just nerves making mountains out of molehills.
But Yan Shixun had never forgotten—this was a shadow puppet play without curtains or a stage. It was far more dangerous than the theater on the lake or the lakeside village he’d encountered before.
They were inside the shadow puppet world, yet they couldn’t even perceive where the edges of the stage were. They didn’t even know who or what they were up against.
If there were even the slightest flaw in the illusion, Yan Shixun might actually feel more at ease. But now…
He turned his head to look at Ye Li beside him. “If it were you, could you expand a shadow puppet play into a world this real?”
Ye Li raised an eyebrow. “Seems like, Shixun, you still don’t understand Fengdu deeply enough.”
“My Fengdu isn’t like the traditional underworld—it didn’t exist until after I came to be.”
Ye Li’s tone was calm, but the words were astonishing: “The moment I became a ghost deity, a new Fengdu rose from the earth. It housed one hundred thousand soldiers, stood above countless malevolent spirits, and judged the sins of mankind.”
“You asked me if I could expand a shadow puppet play…”
Ye Li chuckled lightly. “I’ve reconstructed an entire ghost city. I’ve held up the very laws of the Dao when they were about to collapse. Creating a little ‘heaven in a bottle’ or ‘world in a painting’ is child’s play.”
“But, Shixun—you’re asking the wrong question.”
Hearing this, Yan Shixun looked at Ye Li in surprise, his eyes silently asking why.
“You should be asking—”
Ye Li lowered his lashes and gazed at the village before them. “Why did heaven and earth recognize its existence?”
“You could create ten thousand artificial worlds, but there’s still only one reality. The Dao exists solely within that reality. But here—this place became another reality acknowledged by heaven and earth.”
His voice turned colder. “A thousand years ago, I couldn’t achieve something like this. Even now, if I wanted to, there would only be one way—To overthrow the existing heaven and earth and establish a new Dao.”
“You mean…”
From Ye Li’s words, Yan Shixun realized just how dire their situation truly was. His brows furrowed deeply. “The entity we’re searching for might be able to become the Dao itself?”
Ye Li didn’t answer. Instead, he let out a soft laugh.
“Shixun, what do you think the Dao is? Do you believe it’s something with form?”
“No. The Great Dao is formless. It is born of the countless cycles of life and death, when one gains sudden insight into truth. Only then does it come into being, between heaven and earth. As long as the cycle of yin and yang flows smoothly, the Dao operates in harmony, maintaining the balance of day and night.”
“But once the cycle between life and death is disrupted—if the Taiji stops moving, if life and death fall out of balance, and yin and yang are overturned—then the Dao will enter into crisis.”
Ye Li fixed his gaze on Yan Shixun’s eyes and softly asked, “Back on Mount Nanming, Nan Heye was able to grasp a fragment of the Dao and came within a step of becoming a rightful ghost deity—wasn’t that also the reason why?”
“—He comprehended the ultimate truth of death through countless sacrificial deaths. That’s why the Dao leaned toward him.”
“But while the Dao may be unfeeling, it still has its own will. It refused to recognize Nan Heye, and that’s why it turned to you and me for help. Long before the living realized it, they were already being guided by heaven and earth, led into a predetermined game board, fulfilling a mission that had been set in motion for them. That’s precisely why Zhang Wubing arrived at Mount Nanming on the most dangerous and pivotal day of the Winter Solstice Festival.”
“This… is the Dao trying to save itself.”
Yan Shixun’s eyes widened slightly. He stared at Ye Li, stunned by the sheer weight of the information.
Ye Li didn’t rush him. He simply waited patiently for Yan Shixun to process and understand everything he had said.
He believed Yan Shixun could do it.
If any other Taoist had been standing here, Ye Li’s words would have propelled them miles ahead on their path of cultivation, granting them sudden insight into the Dao.
But the one hearing these words was Yan Shixun.
He was the only one in all of history to survive and coexist with an Evil Spirit Bone Transformation—this alone made him the Dao’s final lifeline, and naturally, the Dao had cast its gaze upon him.
Understanding the heavens and earth came effortlessly to Yan Shixun.
“So, you suspect that the person behind all of this used your power to comprehend death, and through that, gained the recognition of heaven and earth?”
Yan Shixun gradually came to his senses.
A faint smile appeared in Ye Li’s eyes.
His beloved exorcist hadn’t disappointed him—he had quickly realized where the true danger lay.
Ye Li first nodded, but then gently shook his head. “But, Shixun, you’re mistaken on one point.”
“What I suspect is not that it understood death—but… life.”
Because of the unique nature of shadow puppetry, when Ye Li saw the image of himself from a thousand years ago, his first suspicion wasn’t that today’s Lord of Fengdu had inherited the power of death.
Instead, it was that the power of a war general from a thousand years ago—who had fiercely protected life and defended his city to the very last moment—had been preserved.
Just as Ye Li’s power, when lent to anyone other than Yan Shixun, would overwhelm their soul with ghostly energy and cause problems, the power of death could never sustain life. Likewise, life could never govern death.
Although Ye Li was the last remaining deity beneath the Dao, he was very different from the more widely revered gods of fortune, prosperity, and longevity.
Under heaven and earth, he governed only death. Within the Taiji of yin and yang, he held one half.
But he had no control over the other half—life.
Even though, after the Dao’s collapse, the heavens tried multiple times to make the Lord of Fengdu carry the Dao and hold up the crumbling underworld, to become the new place of reincarnation for life and death…
Ye Li had always looked on with cold indifference.
Had he not seen Jing Xiaobao about to harm Yan Shixun back at the Jing Estate, he wouldn’t have tried to break free from the ghostly realm Jing Xiaobao had built just to protect him, and would never have agreed to shoulder the Dao.
But even so, Ye Li still refused to become the new Dao or surpass it.
—Fengdu belonged only to the darkness after the sun had set.
However, shadow puppetry was a different matter.
It was a craft that demanded immense skill and patience from the artisan, requiring weeks just to make a single seemingly insignificant puppet figure.
Throughout the process of tanning and shaping the leather, the artisan poured their heart and soul into the work—infusing the puppet with a spirit, granting it the ability to move and act like a real person within the shadow realm.
Opposite the death sacrifices on Mount Nanming, every time a puppet was crafted, every time a show was performed, it was a reenactment of the process of “life.”
After thousands upon thousands of repetitions, new vitality could indeed emerge from the puppets.
And combined with the power of a war general from a thousand years ago…
Ye Li’s narrow eyes dimmed slightly.
“The me from a thousand years ago was a completely different existence from who I am now—both in terms of power and the path I followed.”
He said, “I don’t know why that image was passed down, or why, due to the true form of ghost deities, even the power of that era became sealed within the statue. But since the one behind all this used the statue to conceal their presence…”
“It’ll be very hard to find them.”
Yan Shixun raised his hand to cover his lips as he fell into thought.
He had known the situation was serious, but he hadn’t expected it to be this difficult.
Still, it did explain why they had appeared in the shadow puppetry world.
Because to the heavens and earth within the shadow play, they were still human beings—identical in identity to who they were in the real world. So even if the two were switched, neither realm would detect any abnormality.
Not to mention, a new Dao was about to be born in the world of the shadow play.
Yan Shixun realized this and rubbed his temples, feeling a headache come on—but at the same time, he felt fortunate that Zhang Wubing had changed the filming location to Baizhi Lake and discovered this situation.
Right now, the Dao of the shadow world hadn’t yet truly come into being. There was still a chance to set things right.
Once the new heavens and earth were established, the one manipulating all the puppets from behind the scenes would gain the Dao of this world and become the new “God of Heaven.”
And by that point, not even Ye Li might be able to resolve the situation peacefully—without bringing harm to countless lives.
“Then does that mean Zhang Dabing actually made a contribution this time?”
Yan Shixun looked into the courtyard, both amused and exasperated. He wanted to grab Zhang Wubing and ask him what made him take notice of this place in the first place. After all, it was remote, isolated, and forgotten for years—easily overlooked.
But Zhang Wubing wasn’t in the courtyard.
Yan Shixun glanced around and finally noticed the silly guy had run off to the kitchen, staring eagerly at Third Uncle Bai as he cooked.
Third Uncle Bai, a warm but simple villager, felt extremely uneasy under Zhang Wubing’s gaze. Even the action of stirring the noodles in his hands came to a halt. He looked up and asked Zhang Wubing what he wanted, clearly itching to have him leave his side.
Zhang Wubing, lured by the mouthwatering aroma rising with the steam, swallowed his drool and hurriedly waved his hands to reassure Third Uncle Bai, saying he was just looking.
Third Uncle Bai: “…………”
What I want is for you not to look at me! And with those hungry eyes that resemble a starving wolf staring at meat—how am I supposed to not care?
Just as Third Uncle Bai was frozen stiff from being stared at, he saw Yan Shixun approaching through the open kitchen window.
Delighted, Third Uncle Bai thought Yan Shixun had come to take Zhang Wubing away.
But to his dismay, Yan Shixun only glanced once at Zhang Wubing, who was practically drooling and scratching his head like a craving child, and then began chatting with Third Uncle Bai instead, asking about the situation in the village.
“You mean the ones who used to do shadow puppetry?”
Third Uncle Bai shook his head, not intending to hide anything. He straightforwardly replied, “They all died out a long time ago.”
“See that house next door? That was the first family to die decades ago. Ever since their deaths, many others followed. What’s strange is, only those who learned shadow puppetry died. Over time, the villagers naturally stopped sending their kids to learn it.”
“And besides, shadow puppetry isn’t something you learn in a day. All the masters have died, and the remaining apprentices either died too or fled. Even if someone wanted to learn, there’s no one left to teach them.”
“At this point, only Master Bai is left. But with his attitude—he looks down on outsiders and keeps everything to himself—he’s unwilling to pass on the skill to people outside the village… The villagers don’t want to learn, those who did are dead, and Master Bai won’t teach outsiders. So of course things turned out like this.”
Third Uncle Bai sighed. “So when you guys came earlier, I advised you not to get your hopes up. But if you’re truly interested in understanding southwestern shadow puppetry, I won’t stop you.”
Zhang Wubing realized Third Uncle Bai was referring to the production crew that had come earlier to find Master Bai.
They’d come several times but never saw him. When they returned, they told Zhang Wubing even the villagers were urging them to give up and not dream of seeing the master. They’d also said it might be a good thing for the Baizhi Lake shadow puppetry to fade away.
Now it was clear—it had been Third Uncle Bai who said that to the crew.
Zhang Wubing couldn’t help but ask in surprise, “If people died, could it have been some illness or a problem with the water? How could learning shadow puppetry lead to death? That doesn’t make sense, right?”
“Eh, there’s nothing impossible in this world.”
Third Uncle Bai sighed again. He continued boiling water while chatting with the two, the steam swirling around him. His ease made it obvious he was used to this task—he was probably the one who usually cooked at home.
Even though Third Uncle Bai hadn’t said much, Yan Shixun had already gleaned a lot just from watching his movements.
Without showing it, he shifted his gaze from Third Uncle Bai’s hands to observe the first floor of the small building.
It was clean and sparse, almost to the point of being bare. Other than the basic necessities, there were no extra items. The colors leaned toward dark and muted tones—fitting for someone of Third Uncle Bai’s age and preferences.
But there wasn’t a single bright color or any trace of another family member’s belongings.
Yan Shixun quickly reached a conclusion in his mind:
—This was a one-person household. Third Uncle Bai lived alone.
Having traveled through many villages and towns, Yan Shixun knew that in places like this, family was everything.
As long as the family conditions were somewhat stable, parents would try to arrange marriages for their children—regardless of whether the child was mentally sound, physically healthy, or even alive.
There were many families who would buy someone else’s bones or ashes to perform posthumous marriages for their deceased children. The deeper into the mountains or countryside you went, the more often this happened.
In contrast, a man living alone like Third Uncle Bai seemed… strange.
And judging by the size of this courtyard and building… If Third Uncle Bai didn’t have enough rooms, the production crew wouldn’t have chosen this place for lodging.
A single man living alone in a courtyard with more than ten rooms?
Yan Shixun looked at Third Uncle Bai, growing increasingly suspicious.
This wasn’t one of those wealthy villages that renovated ancestral homes to flaunt their status. Along the way, every household had regular village homes—no one had money to build extra rooms beyond what the family needed.
With the decline of Baizhi Lake’s shadow puppetry and the deaths of the artisans, the village had gradually fallen into obscurity, returning to a traditional, agrarian way of life. The glory of the shadow puppet era was long gone.
As these thoughts passed through Yan Shixun’s mind, his expression remained composed. He merely asked, “You manage this whole big courtyard by yourself?”
Third Uncle Bai nodded, answering as if it were obvious, “I’m the only one here, of course I clean it myself.”
“Actually, living alone is pretty good. I can cook whatever I want and still eat my fill. It’s nice.”
He smiled and sighed, a hint of melancholy on his face. “Over the years… I’ve gotten used to it.”
Yan Shixun keenly picked up on the timeline hidden in Third Uncle Bai’s words and asked, “Then what about before that? Before that, did your parents or your wife take care of things, Third Uncle Bai?”
As expected, Third Uncle Bai followed along with the narrative Yan Shixun had subtly steered him toward, completely unaware that he had just been led into revealing more than he intended.
“It used to be my wife who did all the work. Later on, I took over.”
Third Uncle Bai said with a cheerful smile. “At first, I didn’t even know how to start a fire or boil water, but over time I slowly learned a little of everything. What can you do? You still have to eat, right?”
“Third Uncle Bai, don’t be too sad.”
Yan Shixun said, not interrupting the old man’s train of thought. He continued asking questions based on his own inferences, “Can I offer a stick of incense to Auntie?”
Third Uncle Bai waved his hand dismissively, causing some of the flour on his fingers to fall off. “No, no, there’s no need. You’re our guest—how can I let you go through all that trouble? Besides, it’s not our village’s custom to place spirit tablets in the house. If you want to offer sacrifices or burn paper money, you have to go up the mountain to the ancestral tomb.”
“But usually I don’t go through all that hassle. I just cook a few nice dishes, set them by the lake, and pretend I’m spending time with my wife.”
While Third Uncle Baii spoke, Yan Shixun carefully observed every subtle shift in his facial expression, trying to gauge the truth behind his words and his emotional stance.
Although he hadn’t asked any direct questions so as not to alert him, his indirect guidance had already revealed a lot about Third Uncle Bai’s family and the situation in the village.
He learned that more than twenty years ago, death had swept through the entire village like a plague, taking many lives—including all of Third Uncle Bai’s family. Even the youngest son in the household hadn’t survived.
Throughout the conversation, Yan Shixun adapted his facial expressions to match Third Uncle Bai’s words—smiling, grieving, or showing sorrow—all flashing across his face like a mask.
But his mind remained cold and calculating, quickly breaking down the information hidden in Third Uncle Bai’s words, piecing together fragments of truth from it all.
Meanwhile, Zhang Wubing, who had initially rushed over with a grumbling stomach and hopeful eyes, had been completely stunned by Third Uncle Bai’s story.
Although Zhang Wubing came from a wealthy family—third-generation rich, in fact—his family had always been upright and morally sound. His parents were loving and respectful toward each other and had fulfilled their responsibilities to him. Compared to others, he had perhaps the best parents one could ask for.
Because of that, Zhang Wubing had never known the kind of sorrow or trouble that came from family.
The only thing that ever frustrated him was how tightly Father Zhang managed him.
Still, Zhang Wubing understood well that it was only because his father feared losing him. That was why he always tried to stop Zhang Wubing from chasing his dreams, hoping instead he would settle into an easy, carefree life as a rich heir.
So, in Zhang Wubing’s heart, family had always meant warmth and security.
He never expected that Third Uncle Bai’s life could be so tragic. In less than a year, over a dozen members of his family had died, leaving only him behind.
Since then, Third Uncle Bai had lived alone, all the way until now.
“You’re really amazing.”
Zhang Wubing said, sniffling. It was hard to tell whether his eyes were watering from the steam or because he had been moved by the story. Either way, they shimmered with unshed tears.
Yan Shixun glanced at him speechlessly, thinking that this silly kid might be too emotionally sensitive.
No matter how tragic the story sounded, the truth was that this wasn’t real—it was a shadow play, an illusion.
Zhang Wubing had wasted his sympathy on the wrong person.
Besides, such a wide-scale death toll, combined with the ebony statue used to suppress evil spirits…
Piecing together what he had heard from Ye Li and Third Uncle Bai, Yan Shixun was beginning to reconstruct what had really happened in the village. And that made him deeply suspicious of Third Uncle Bai.
If those deaths back then weren’t caused by disease or some external factor, then the most likely explanation was ghostly vengeance.
And if that were true, it meant there was karmic retribution between the ghosts and the people who had died back then.
It wasn’t something he needed to interfere with.
Still, since he was standing in front of Third Uncle Bai, Yan Shixun couldn’t exactly warn Zhang Wubing. And with the silly kid wiping tears and even rolling up his sleeves to help knead dough, it became even harder to say anything.
So, Yan Shixun decided to change his plan on the spot.
—Since he couldn’t drive Zhang Wubing away, he might as well make him useful.
For example, have him distract Third Uncle Bai. While Zhang Wubing kept the old man occupied, he could take the opportunity to scout out the village and surrounding areas, reducing the chance of Third Uncle Bai interfering with him.
With that in mind, Yan Shixun put on a look of idle curiosity, as if he simply wanted to stroll around before dinner. He asked Third Uncle Bai what time the meal would be served, then inquired about the home of the first villager who had died, saying that he wanted to go take a look.
Third Uncle Bai pursed his lips and motioned toward the wall separating the yard from the neighboring house, looking calm and collected, like someone who had weathered many storms.
Yan Shixun thanked him and, just as he was about to leave, remembered something else.
He asked, “Third Uncle Bai, is Baizhi Lake the lake up ahead? I heard it’s quite famous, so I was planning to go take a look.”
To his surprise, Third Uncle Bai looked at him with puzzlement and asked back, “Baizhi Lake?”
He thought hard for a moment, but still shook his head in confusion and said, “I’ve lived in this village my whole life. Born and raised here. But I’ve never heard of any Baizhi Lake. Are you sure you’re not mistaken, sir?”
“There is a lake in the village, but it doesn’t have a name. Everyone just calls it ‘the lake.’”
No Baizhi Lake?
Yan Shixun was startled too.
Even the shadow puppets were named after Baizhi Lake. Outsiders didn’t know the name of this village or that many people here had the surname Bai, but they all knew this area as “Baizhi Lake.”
How could such a distinctive name be completely unknown to the village’s original residents?
Yan Shixun simply nodded and turned to leave without letting his surprise show.
As he passed by Ye Li, he glanced at him with a smile. Ye Li, catching on immediately, gave him a quick wink in return—their understanding was seamless.
Yan Shixun wasn’t comfortable leaving the group in a place he couldn’t keep an eye on, and Third Uncle Bai’s lack of knowledge about Baizhi Lake had only deepened his suspicions. So, while he investigated the village, Ye Li had stayed behind to watch over everyone.
Fortunately, the ruins of the first deceased shadow puppet master’s home were nearby—hardly a far walk.
Yan Shixun quietly said to Ye Li, “Don’t worry, I’ll be right back,” then took long strides toward the adjacent courtyard.
In the kitchen, surrounded by the steam of boiling water, Third Uncle Bai calmly looked up and watched Yan Shixun’s back as he left. After a long pause, he lowered his head again and returned to kneading the dough in his hands, as if nothing had happened at all.
Sure enough, as soon as Yan Shixun turned the corner, he saw the run-down yard beside Third Uncle Bai’s house.
Unlike the clean and lived-in appearance of Third Uncle Bai’s home, this courtyard had been abandoned for a long time. Even the roof and beams had collapsed under years of rain and weathering, now reduced to piles of bricks overgrown with weeds and moss.
Standing at the gate, Yan Shixun looked up and could still catch glimpses of the home’s former glory.
The tall gates and overhanging eaves, the beautifully carved patterns on the door, and the once-imposing stone lions—now cracked and broken—at the entrance… It seemed the first puppet master to die had not only held a respected position in the village but had also been quite wealthy.
The red Spring Festival couplets on either side of the door had long since faded to white, looking eerily like funeral scrolls. The writing on them was so blurred it was nearly unreadable.
Yan Shixun stood at the entrance for a long while before finally spotting a safe spot to step on amidst the ruins.
Just as he was about to lift his leg to cross the decayed threshold and enter, a voice suddenly called out behind him.
“Huh? Mr. Yan, what are you doing here?”
It was a familiar male voice—curious and friendly, with no hint of malice.
Yan Shixun turned around to see that it was Zheng Shumu, whom he had met earlier.
Zheng Shumu looked at him quizzically, then pointed to the yard next door and said, “Mr. Yan, did you go the wrong way? Third Uncle Bai’s house is over there.”
Yan Shixun didn’t mention he had come to check out the ruins of the first deceased puppet master. Instead, he simply smiled politely and explained that since there was still some time before dinner and it wasn’t completely dark yet, he thought he’d take a walk and enjoy the village scenery.
“Oh right, you’re from another city. I guess you don’t get to see villages like this often.”
Zheng Shumu said, suddenly understanding. Then he chuckled sheepishly. “We’re so used to it that we just complain about how awful the place is when the roads get muddy after it rains. I didn’t expect you’d actually find it interesting—I must’ve overlooked that.”
“Third Uncle Bai’s probably busy cooking, right? He’s the only one at his place, and with so many guests to host, he can’t really step away.”
Zheng Shumu enthusiastically offered, “Mr. Yan, if you don’t mind, I’ll walk around the village with you. I’ve lived here a long time—I know every plant and tree.”
Seeing the surprised look on Yan Shixun’s face, Zheng Shumu laughed and added, “Don’t worry, Mr. Yan. I even know where all the pebbles in this village are.”
Yan Shixun smiled and nodded, having no choice but to temporarily give up on investigating the ruins and instead walk with Zheng Shumu.
After the two had walked some distance, a sound suddenly echoed from the deathly still ruins behind them—The sound of a small stone tumbling to the ground.
“Plop!”
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