Chapter 261: Shadow Puppets and Lamplight (27)
No one was willing to accept an invitation from a strange old man to enter his home alone in a village that looked eerie at first glance.
No one, except either thrill-seeking youth who feared nothing, or the official in charge.
It wasn’t that he wasn’t afraid—it was just… he had no choice but to press forward.
Not only was the entire program crew still trapped in the shadow puppet museum, but the safety of the area surrounding Baizhi Lake also rested on his shoulders.
He couldn’t afford to step back.
The official took a deep breath. After leaving a signal for the nearby rescue team, he followed the old man into the house.
The interior of the house was just as rundown as the outside, dimly lit by a single candle that barely illuminated a small area.
Perhaps due to the house’s proximity to the damp lakeside, the walls were covered in dark green mold spots. In the gloom, they looked like eerie human faces staring out, making the official frown uncomfortably.
Whether from the cold or the disgusting sight of the mold, goosebumps prickled over his skin.
The old man, clearly accustomed to the conditions after living there for so long, showed no reaction. Stooped over, he simply shuffled inward without lifting his eyes.
Only then did the official see the full extent of the house.
Despite its current state of neglect and decay, beneath the layers of moss and mold, he could still see signs of the home’s former grandeur.
Much of the wooden furniture hadn’t yet rotted. A full set of Dalbergia odorifera furniture stood dignified and refined, intricately carved with landscapes and figures, revealing how proud and spirited its owners must have once been.
Unfortunately, they were now buried under thick layers of dust, slowly losing their former luster in the dim, dilapidated room.
It was as if the house, along with its owner, had become a final resting place—one large grave.
All the once-exquisite and expensive furniture had been discarded, shoved into corners. The only clean spaces left in the empty house were a crude wooden bed and a worn-out sofa.
These were likely the only pieces the old man still used. Though heavily worn, they bore no dust compared to the others.
The old man casually gestured toward the sofa, then sat down on the wooden bed.
Understanding the gesture, the official thanked him and moved toward the sofa.
The old man sat close to the candle, the flickering light casting a faint glow on half his aged face. His deeply lined features drooped in the half-light, giving him an almost inhuman eeriness.
The candle stretched his shadow long across the window, where the dusty glass looked like a movie screen. As the flame danced, the shadows swirled madly.
Just as the official sat down and lifted his eyes, he was caught off guard by the shadows on the window.
For a moment, he thought he saw the twisted faces of evil spirits pressed tightly against the glass, snarling and struggling to burst into the room. Their hollow, black eye sockets were fixed directly on the old man’s back.
At that exact moment, the old man lifted his eyes. From under heavy lids, those lifeless eyes looked straight at the official.
“What do you want to ask?”
The old man’s voice was hoarse and rough, like sandpaper scraping across stone.
It pierced the official’s brain like a needle and jolted him back to awareness. Cold sweat broke out as he looked at the old man.
His breathing grew ragged, and it took a long moment for his previously dazed pupils to refocus. His expression was a mix of shock and suspicion as he quickly turned back to the window.
But there was nothing on the window now—only floating dust stirred by the candle’s heat.
He nearly blurted out a question while pointing at the window, but the old man’s cold, dead gaze hit him like a bucket of ice water, sobering him instantly.
“Sorry, I… I was distracted just now.”
The official pressed his hands over his eyes, rubbed his cheeks hard, and forced himself to focus through the pain, quickly regaining composure.
The old man sat there motionless, eyelids drooping, as if asleep—or simply indifferent to everything the official did.
Each wrinkle carved by time and suffering seemed to conceal a heavy, untold story.
Those painful, unforgettable experiences had long extinguished any passion for life. Now, no matter what happened, nothing could stir even the slightest emotional ripple in him.
He was like a pool of dead water.
Only his breathing remained, the sole proof he was still alive—until the day someone came to take his life and end his sins, allowing him to finally close his eyes in peace.
The old man’s gaze shifted slightly to the side, coldly glancing at the window beside him.
His pupils reflected nothing, yet it seemed as if they absorbed everything.
Outside, the dead branches brushing against the window in the wind suddenly stopped moving. Even the subtle noises beyond the glass fell silent.
He turned his gaze back again, still wearing that disinterested expression, waiting quietly for the official to gather himself.
“Do you live here alone?”
The official looked around and confirmed that only a few pieces of furniture were in use, with no signs of anyone else living there.
Even the old man’s personal traces of life were minimal to the extreme.
No warm clothing, no soft bedding, and certainly no good food.
On a makeshift stove sat a battered stainless steel bowl, scorched and pitted from years of use. Inside was a dark clump of something unidentifiable, now congealed and cold after the fire had gone out.
The old man’s living conditions bordered on destitution. It could only be called survival, nothing more.
Though he suspected the old man might be unusual, seeing how he lived still made the official’s nose sting with emotion.
He remembered what Yan Shixun once told him: If you haven’t confirmed whether the person you face is human or ghost, and whether they’re worth saving, then treat them as someone who can still be rescued. Even if you’re harmed, you must not harm the innocent.
The official didn’t know whether the old man was human or ghost, but he knew—no one should live like this.
He wanted to help him.
“Where is your family? Living with children would be much easier, wouldn’t it?”
With concern, he offered, “If you’re willing, one of my companions knows a bit of medicine and could check your health. We could help you contact the authorities to get you into a care facility or—”
“No need for all that trouble.”
The old man cut him off before he could finish.
For the first time since the official’s arrival, the old man lifted his eyelids and looked him in the eye.
“I was born here, and all misfortunes started because of me. So I’ll die here too, watching it all end. I’m a tree rooted in this soil—if I leave, I die.”
His voice was calm.
When speaking of the village and himself, he sounded utterly detached, like an outsider.
“From the moment that young man took the statue, I knew this day would come. I just didn’t expect it so soon.”
The official hadn’t even explained his purpose yet, but the old man had already stated it plainly: “Something went wrong at the shadow puppets, didn’t it?”
The official was stunned. “How did you know…? Did you see the students who went into the temple and took the statue?”
“Then why didn’t you stop them?!”
But the old man asked in return, “Why should I stop them? People should bear the consequences of their choices. That applies to them—and to me.”
“You came here because someone disappeared, didn’t they? In the shadow puppet museum.”
The official stared at the old man, completely bewildered.
He couldn’t understand how someone who seemed so cut off from the world could know so much.
The old man seemed to see through everything in life. To him, all things followed their own course. He didn’t interfere, didn’t rescue.
That made him seem especially cold.
Just looking at him made the official shiver all over with chill.
He opened his mouth but had no idea what to say. The concern he had felt moments ago was completely suppressed by the old man’s indifference, vanishing without a trace.
“The village… did it relocate? Or did something happen? How do you know what’s going on in the museum? Who exactly are you?”
After a long silence, the official finally found his voice again, low and tight with urgency and trembling.
The old man suddenly began to cough violently.
He coughed with such gut-wrenching intensity it seemed as if even his lungs would come out with it. With each cough, his back hunched lower, his entire figure curled up before the window. His already thin and frail body appeared even more pitiful.
He was like a dying candle in the wind—ready to be extinguished at any moment.
The official in charge immediately forgot his original task and rushed over to support the old man, urgently patting his back to help ease his breathing. He asked frantically if he had any medicine and where it was kept.
The old man couldn’t speak through his coughing; his throat was filled with blood-tinged foam.
Seeing this, the official quickly pulled open the drawer in the nearby cabinet, rummaging for pills. Usually, the elderly or the ill would keep their most-used medicine close to the bed—within easy reach in case of emergencies at night.
Now, he could only take a gamble. If he couldn’t find any, he was ready to carry the old man out himself and have the medical team from the rescue team perform emergency treatment—regardless of the old man’s identity or whether anything seemed suspicious.
Fortunately, his luck held out. The drawer indeed contained many pills, wrapped in brown kraft paper clearly labeled with dosages, frequency, and the date they were prescribed.
It appeared the old man had seen a doctor before and received these medications properly.
This allowed the official to breathe a little easier. With trembling hands, he tore open the packaging and carefully fed the pills to the old man.
But just as he was about to close the drawer, he noticed something odd.
There were several similar packages of kraft paper, and the earliest date written on them was from six months ago—clearly beyond the indicated medication period.
In other words, the old man had continued picking up his prescriptions for the past six months, but he had stopped taking the pills entirely, letting them pile up here.
As if he had been waiting for death.
Six months ago… That was exactly when that young man had taken the ebony statue.
The official’s fingers hovered over the kraft paper package, stunned.
The old man had personally witnessed those young tourists stumbling into the deserted village, finding the temple, and discovering the corpse of the exorcist who had died guarding the evil spirit. They had thrown out the remains like they were trash, looted the temple of gold and sacrificial artifacts like bandits, and—most importantly—taken the ebony statue.
The old man hadn’t tried to stop them or even warn them. After returning, knowing full well how frail his health was, he simply stopped taking his medicine.
He endured the growing pain of his deteriorating body day after day and quietly sat in the deserted village, waiting for death to come.
Why… why would he do that?
The official had met many people who would stop at nothing to survive, even at the cost of others’ lives—like the villagers from Longevity Village.
But the man before him now clearly longed for death.
Was it atonement? Had he done something he deeply regretted and could never make up for, and now wanted to use death to repay his sins?
If that were the case, then why had he been taking his medicine and seeing doctors properly before? Why stop exactly six months ago?
What deity did that ebony statue represent? And what exactly did this old man know?
The official’s thoughts were a complete mess.
But under the dim candlelight, he suddenly noticed that beneath the kraft paper packages were several faded red papers—and a few group photographs.
Out of curiosity, he glanced over—and froze in shock.
His hand rested on the red paper, completely forgetting his initial intention of closing the drawer.
This old man… actually held an officially recognized certificate.
Golden characters embossed on the red background clearly stated his surname: Bai.
He was the 28th-generation inheritor of Southwest shadow puppetry.
And currently, the last remaining shadow puppet craftsman of the Southwest.
In the group photos, Master Bai stood at the forefront years ago, laughing heartily. The sunlight was warm, and he looked proud and spirited.
Back then, his face still held hope for the future.
But now… Master Bai looked like an empty shell, living in a daze.
“Life is unpredictable, isn’t it?”
The old man’s tired, hoarse voice came from beside him. “When a person’s career is at its peak, they’d never imagine that one day they’d end up losing everything.”
Master Bai blinked slowly. Leaning against the bedhead, he tilted his head to stare at the ceiling, his cloudy eyes filled with sorrow.
This house had once been full of laughter and joy. Children used to run across the floor with thumping steps, their happy voices seemingly endless.
At that time, there were the gentle, caring words of his wife, the chatter of his son and daughter-in-law, the booming laughter of visiting friends, and the sizzling sounds from the kitchen as the oil bubbled and the firewood crackled… All those sounds together made up a place called home.
But now, everything was gone.
His wife had lain in her hospital bed, asking him in grief whether they had truly done wrong—whether their greed to see Southwest shadow puppetry flourish had led them to invite Carpenter Zheng’s family to settle in the village, inadvertently causing all the misfortune that followed.
He had sat beside her hospital bed at the time. The stench of disinfectant filled the air, yet what pierced him most was the memory of that dusk—of the frightened and angry shouts of a young boy, of the rotting corpse he had seen in the warehouse, swarmed by flies and maggots, and the nauseating stench of decay.
Master Bai lowered his head, his throat tightening so much he couldn’t respond.
His wife’s tears soaked the pillow. She didn’t look at him again, murmuring about that poor child, and that poor woman—already full-term, about to give birth—who had ended up…
The hand he held in his own slipped lifelessly from his grip, falling heavily onto the hospital bed.
His wife died with her eyes open.
Even in death, she refused to forgive either of them. Her heart broke over the fate of the Zheng family.
Master Bai’s eyes reddened, the veins on his neck bulged, and he sobbed dryly, unable to make a sound.
After arranging her funeral, he returned home in silence. He severed ties with all his family and chose to live alone in the woodshed.
Until one day, a young man carrying a wooden case appeared at the entrance of the village.
He smiled and greeted Master Bai, saying, “Uncle Bai, I’m back.”
When Master Bai looked at the young man, memories from years past came flooding back.
He knew exactly who the youth was but said nothing. He remained silent and reclusive, living like a ghost in the village.
He neither warned the villagers nor dared to confront the youth.
His wife’s death had been the final straw, utterly breaking Master Bai.
He kept wondering—if he hadn’t blindly trusted the villagers, if he hadn’t invited the Zheng family—none of this would’ve happened. The Zhengs wouldn’t have met a tragic end, and his wife wouldn’t have died consumed by grief and regret.
It was all his fault.
He had to atone.
Master Bai lived like an ascetic. He ignored the villagers’ gossip and mocking stares, remained unmoved when his son and daughter-in-law flaunted their wealth before him.
His son, furious, had called him a relic, saying this was an age where poverty was mocked but prostitution wasn’t, where it didn’t matter how money was made—as long as there was money, it was good.
His son demanded to know whether he really thought shadow puppetry was still worth anything, if he realized no one cared about authenticity or traditional training anymore. It wasn’t about heritage—just about hype. A few TV appearances and magazine interviews could turn even the village idiot into a so-called “master” of shadow puppetry.
“Dad, wake up! Your old ways are outdated! What’s the point of spending months making one puppet? They can’t even tell good from bad—you’re performing for the blind!”
In a rage, his son smashed everything in the woodshed.
But Master Bai remained unmoved, like a monk in meditation. His eyes half-lidded, he let his son scream and throw things—even when a thrown statue gashed his forehead.
His son rushed to him in a panic, full of remorse, trying to stop the bleeding.
But over his son’s shoulder, Master Bai saw the young man standing at the gate of the courtyard, smiling brightly at him.
The shattered statue on the ground seemed to mock him.
Look—this is your sin.
When the Zheng family met their end, his son hadn’t been a direct participant—but he had known.
He had known, yet done nothing.
To stand by and watch death unfold—how was that any different from killing?
Master Bai brushed his son aside with a long sigh.
He had a feeling… the time had come for all their sins to be repaid.
And sure enough—
From that day on, everyone in the Bai family village began to die.
The young man carried a wooden case on his back and stood on the village road that the funeral procession was bound to pass. He smiled brightly as he watched the grieving family wail, while paper money fluttered to the ground.
Behind him, on a narrow path, stood Master Bai. He remained silent, his gaze fixed on the scene unfolding before him.
The young man turned around and smiled as he asked, “Uncle Bai, my parents didn’t even get a proper funeral. As their son, doesn’t that make me terribly unfilial?”
He didn’t wait for Master Bai to respond. Still smiling, he continued, “So I want to make it up to them by giving them a proper send-off. Let this village, which killed them and my younger brother or sister, serve as their grave.”
Master Bai stared at him, while the young man laughed heartily. But as he laughed, tears streamed down his face.
He closed his eyes, quietly waiting for death to come for him next.
The funeral procession grew shorter and shorter. When the ancestral tomb could no longer hold the dead, they were casually thrown to the ground. No one cared about their loved ones’ deaths anymore, nor did they bother to grieve.
The entire village was gripped with dread, each person terrified they would be the next to die.
Yet, even after every single person in the village had died—men, women, children, not one spared—Master Bai was still alive.
All those who had wanted to live had perished. The only one who had wished to die had survived.
Master Bai did not feel joy—only an overwhelming sense of irony.
He silently took care of the corpses from the households that had been wiped out. As he looked down at those pale, lifeless faces, he recalled the death of Carpenter Zheng all those years ago.
Back then, had Carpenter Zheng begged for mercy too? Had he pleaded with them to spare him, sobbing that he had a wife and child, that his wife was still pregnant?
But they hadn’t spared him.
And so, when his son returned to take revenge, he didn’t spare them either.
Master Bai buried his brutally murdered son, daughter-in-law, and grandson with care. Then, he knocked on the young man’s door.
“Shumu, I know you hate me. You hate this village.”
He looked at the young man who opened the door and solemnly begged him to take his life. “Everyone else is dead now. Only I remain. That’s why I’m here. If I die, maybe then, you’ll finally be able to let go of your hatred and start a new life.”
The young man laughed freely, a kind of carefree joy Master Bai had never seen on him. But his words were like the flick of a venomous snake’s tongue—chilling Master Bai to the bone.
“Uncle Bai, all of this started because of you, but in the end, none of it really has anything to do with you.”
He said, “You weren’t even there when my parents died. The only mistake you made… was inviting our family to this village in the first place. No—actually, the mistake was mine.”
“If I hadn’t seen those shadow puppets at the marketplace, hadn’t fallen in love with shadow play, maybe my father wouldn’t have accepted the invitation. It was me, pestering him to stay and watch the Monkey King a few more times, that caused everything.”
As he spoke, the young man smiled and cried at the same time. “So you see, Uncle Bai, we’re both sinners. This pain—we deserve to live with it, until we die, until we’ve repaid our sins in full.”
Master Bai let out a long sigh and closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, everything from the past faded like bubbles on water, leaving behind only the dim, cobweb-covered rafters above.
And the official in charge, half crouched beside him, looking at him with a mixture of concern and shock.
“He built his tower high, feasted guests inside, and then watched it all collapse…”
Master Bai began singing softly, like the buzzing of a mosquito. His fragmented melody broke apart mid-phrase. Scenes from the past replayed in his mind before shattering again—until only those pale, lifeless faces remained.
He gave a bitter smile and slowly shook his head. “If only I had known… If only I had known back then… But people never know. There’s no medicine for regret.”
“Child, have you ever made a mistake that got someone else killed?”
Master Bai looked at the official in charge, his gaze deep and heavy. “Make sure you never do.”
“Because if you do, even breathing will feel like torture.”
The hand holding the envelope of herbal medicine trembled slightly: “So that’s why you gave up on taking your medicine, and stayed here…”
To die?
But those two words—the official couldn’t bring himself to say them.
Master Bai, however, nodded. “When I saw those young people take the statue, I knew. My death was finally coming.”
“They made the same mistake I did. And now, they have to bear the consequences.”
“My mistake was trusting the people of this village. I thought, since many of them had grown up with me, they were good people. But I was terribly wrong. When it comes to money, there are no good people.”
“And those kids…”
Master Bai laughed. “They released all the ghosts of the villagers, and also set free what had been sealed here. Even if I had tried to stop them, they wouldn’t have listened—just like how I ignored my wife’s warnings back then.”
“Everyone keeps repeating the same mistakes. No one deserves to be saved.”
Master Bai shook his head. But when his gaze swept across the official, his aged body paused for a moment.
The official hadn’t expected such a buried past to lie beneath this village. Nor that the strange mass death at Baizhi Lake all those years ago had actually started from a greedy murder.
When Carpenter Zheng first moved into the village, he had accidentally revealed signs of wealth. Some villagers, tempted by greed, murdered him. His pregnant wife died along with him.
Only a young boy jumped into the lake. His body was never found.
Years later, that boy grew up.
He returned to the village carrying a wooden box, smiling as he asked if he could stay the night.
He kept his name hidden and settled in the village. Master Bai, the only one who recognized him, kept silent out of guilt.
Then the young man began his revenge.
In the end, he didn’t spare a single person in the village—not even himself or Master Bai.
But who could say which was worse—being trapped as a tormented soul, unable to leave this land even after death, or staying alive, tossing and turning every night with the memory of the past gnawing at your heart?
Whether crime punishable by death or one condemned to live—he had sent off the souls of Carpenter Zheng and his wife.
When the official in charge finished hearing Master Bai’s story, a chill spread through his entire body, deep into his heart.
“I can tell—you’re a good kid.”
Master Bai reached out and gently took back the photo of all the shadow puppet artisans from the official’s hand. His old, withered fingers traced the aging image. Once nimble and skilled, those fingers had long since given up on crafting exquisite shadow puppets. Now, they were stiff and clumsy, barely able to move.
He hated himself. And with that, he came to hate the very shadow puppetry he had once vowed to pass on. The villagers’ careless treatment of shadow puppets back then had only made his anger worse.
So, after the entire village had been slaughtered, right in front of Zheng Shumu, Master Bai had smashed all ten of his own fingers.
The broken bones healed, but his skill never returned.
Yet in a way, that had allowed Master Bai to finally breathe again.
“I’m going to die soon. But what about you, child? If you learn the truth, or stay here too long and end up entangled with evil spirits—what will you do then?”
Master Bai stared at the official for a long time before softly saying, “While you still can—leave.”
“Take my advice.”
“I feel like… many of the things you’ve said—weren’t really meant for me. You were speaking to someone else.”
Yan Shixun sat calmly in a chair, his long legs crossed.
He set down the stack of photographs in his hand and looked up at the hunched old man across from him.
“But there’s only the two of us here. So who were you talking to, Master Bai?”
Yan Shixun smiled, though there was nothing but cold scrutiny in his eyes. “Was it your shadow puppets? Inheritor.”
The old man kept his head down, his eyes dull. Though he sat right in front of Yan Shixun, he didn’t show even a shred of hospitality. No matter how much Yan Shixun questioned him, he didn’t say another word.
But Yan Shixun wasn’t in a rush. He slowly flipped through the photos in his hand.
These pictures covered everyone in the village. Yet from them, Yan Shixun couldn’t sense a trace of life. It was as if every person captured in the photos was already dead.
But that shouldn’t have been the case.
Normally, since a photo captures someone’s true appearance, it should be possible to locate them with precision. Even without a birth date and time, one could use the facial proportions—the three sections of the face and the five eye widths—to cast divinations, asking the heavens about the person’s fate and current condition.
Though this method was difficult for most, and many dismissed it as myth or superstition, it could be done.
Yan Shixun could do it.
In a natural world, if he wanted to, he could deduce everything about a person from a single photograph.
But now, as he looked at these photos, he couldn’t see through any of them.
It wasn’t just that Heaven and Earth had been blocked from entering—rather, Heaven and Earth regarded these people as already dead.
—People and shadow puppets had swapped identities, fooling even the heavens.
Not even the subtlest details had been overlooked.
Yan Shixun could feel it. Right now, it was as if he were trapped inside an artificial, sealed-off space. He had been cut off from all outside contact and power, as if blindfolded and gagged. The overwhelming falsehood distorted his perception of reality.
However…
“Oh, I said it backward.”
Yan Shixun shrugged, his tone casual. “It’s not that you’re speaking to the people in the shadow play. After all, we’re the ones inside the shadow play now—you’re speaking to someone from the real world, aren’t you, Master Bai?”
“You exist simultaneously in both reality and the shadow play, like a bridge connecting the two worlds.”
His smile deepened.
Master Bai slightly lifted his eyelids and looked at Yan Shixun, saying nothing.
“Deceiving Heaven and Earth isn’t that easy, plenty of people dislike the Dao, shouting that the heavens are unfair. But in truth, it sees far more than any human, ghost, or god ever could.”
Yan Shixun continued, as though talking to himself: “Even I have to admit, using the shadow play to replace reality is quite the brilliant move. But if you really want it to work, it has to be identical to reality. That means, from the moment you all began this plan, you were doomed to be trapped in this village until the day you die.”
“Both the real world and the shadow play play out within this village. All the ghosts and the living must remain here. There’s no way out.”
“So, if you want to talk to someone from the real world, they’d have to willingly walk into the village in reality.”
Yan Shixun tilted his head slightly, a realization dawning on him.
“Looks like the official in charge have arrived.”
He nodded. “Makes sense—we’ve been stuck in the shadow play for quite a while now. Even the two Taoists have made it here. There’s no way the official in charge wouldn’t have noticed.”
“But Master Bai, were you trying to get the official to leave the village just now?”
Yan Shixun raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. “That I didn’t expect. Seems like you still have a shred of conscience left?”
“Or maybe… I misunderstood you from the beginning. You’re not the one behind all of this.”
His voice turned cold. “Everyone’s been trapped in the shadow play, but you weren’t the one who orchestrated it. There’s someone else pulling the strings.”
Master Bai slowly closed his eyes. He sat on the chair in the dimly lit room and said nothing more.
His silence spoke volumes.
His response had already given Yan Shixun the answer.
Yan Shixun wasn’t a fool. The scattered clues began to connect in his mind, the broken pieces of the puzzle falling into place. The true face of the shadow play was gradually revealed.
When Yan Shixun returned to Third Uncle Bai’s courtyard, he found that Third Uncle Bai was no longer there.
From Zhang Wubing, he heard that Third Uncle Bai had “left because he wasn’t feeling well,” but unlike Zhang Wubing, who believed it without question, Yan Shixun quickly picked up on the truth—Third Uncle Bai had run away.
What could have scared Third Uncle Bai so much that he fled?
Just earlier, when they had first met, Third Uncle Bai had seemed perfectly normal.
Yan Shixun’s first suspicions fell on the siblings Zheng Shumu and his sister who lived across the way—and on Master Bai, who lived not far off.
These two were the only ones on the poster who were still alive, which made Yan Shixun especially wary of them.
And when he had visited the Zheng household, he had kept in mind those last few words Zheng Shumu had said before he left.
Zheng Shumu had warned him—if there was anything he needed to ask Master Bai, he’d better do it soon. Preferably that very night.
Yan Shixun didn’t know what would happen tomorrow, but because of that painting in the Zheng house, and because Zheng Shumu had once known Li Chengyun, Yan Shixun chose to trust him this time.
He hadn’t expected the visit to yield such a revelation.
While talking with Master Bai, Yan Shixun noticed something strange—Master Bai would often begin speaking normally, then suddenly shift, as if talking to someone else entirely. His responses didn’t match the questions, and his words made no sense.
That caught Yan Shixun’s attention, and confirmed that Master Bai was not ordinary.
Someone had indeed used the shadow play to deceive Heaven and Earth—but that person wasn’t Master Bai.
Master Bai was merely a tool used by the true mastermind to achieve their goal. He was the node linking the shadow play and reality.
If they wanted to escape the shadow play, the way out lay through Master Bai.
Zheng Shumu knew that too.
Yan Shixun even suspected that if Master Bai were to die, the connection between the shadow play and reality would be severed—and they would be trapped inside the shadow play forever.
And this place… would then become real.
A true birth—forcing Heaven and Earth to accept it as reality.
Like Fengdu or the underworld, it would become an independent world.
It might even replace Heaven and Earth, becoming the new cosmos and the new Dao.
Yan Shixun pressed his lips tightly together, his expression solemn.
He felt a growing urgency. There wasn’t much time left for him to end all of this—before the true mastermind did.
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