Chapter 262: Shadow Puppets and Lamplight (28)
The courtyard gate slowly closed behind them.
Even after Yan Shixun and Xie Lin had been gone for a while, Zheng Tiantian continued to clutch the little wooden puppet, standing silently behind the gate with her head lowered. She didn’t speak, nor did she move.
It was as if she and the puppet in her arms had started playing a puppet’s game.
Zheng Shumu stood quietly beside her, also without saying a word.
He was no longer the brother who had just unconditionally spoiled his sister in front of Yan Shixun. Now that the smile had faded, the weathered and honest face revealed only helplessness and fatigue.
“Tian Tian, you…”
Zheng Shumu tried to say something.
But as soon as Zheng Tiantian heard his voice, she looked up. Her gaze was as cold as the waters of Baizhi Lake.
In that moment, all the emotions in Zheng Shumu’s heart were extinguished like fire doused in water. He couldn’t get a single word out.
“What is it you want to say, Brother?”
Zheng Tiantian’s voice was light and faint, easily carried away by the wind.
She stared directly at Zheng Shumu. Her large, beautiful eyes held no trace of cuteness—just the dull, lifeless gleam of a glass doll’s eyes. Their inorganic clarity sent chills down the spine.
“If it weren’t for my useless brother, how would I have turned out like this? And now, you want to scold me?”
Zheng Tiantian’s lips curved slightly, a bitter smile tugging at the corners. “But Brother, you never saved me. So what now? I had no choice but to save myself.”
“Neither you nor anyone else came to rescue me… It hurt so much, it bled so much, but you never appeared. No one did. I didn’t want to die, so someone else had to. That’s fair, isn’t it?”
“And now you want to scold me? Isn’t it a little late? Ah… I see.”
She tilted her head back and looked up at Zheng Shumu with a bright smile, but her words made his heart drop like a stone.
“That guy surnamed Yan… he’s a descendant of that exorcist from before, isn’t he?”
Zheng Tiantian tilted her head, voice sweet as syrup: “Brother, did you really think I wouldn’t know what you did? That statue you got—it was from that exorcist, wasn’t it? And now, you want to protect the one surnamed Yan? Just because he’s connected to that exorcist?”
“Tian Tian is so heartbroken, Brother.”
She pouted, deeply aggrieved. “I’m your sister, but why won’t you protect me? Do you want to see the same thing happen all over again?”
“No!”
Her words pierced Zheng Shumu like a blade, and he roared, cutting her off.
His pupils shrank, his breath grew ragged, and even the hands hanging at his sides trembled uncontrollably.
The memories surged back—the dark village, the swaying vision, that icy hand clutching his, the cries and footsteps behind him, and his desperate, unceasing run until he collapsed from exhaustion…
That deepest despair and pain had been ripped open once again by Zheng Tiantian and laid bare before his eyes.
Pain contorted Zheng Shumu’s face, his eyes filled with guilt and heartbreak as he looked at her.
But Zheng Tiantian merely snorted coldly, said nothing more, and turned to walk into the house.
Her beautiful skirt drew an elegant arc in the air, and the wooden puppet hanging from her arm gave a faint clatter as its limbs collided.
As she passed through the courtyard, the wooden puppets arranged there slowly shifted their hollow eyes to follow her every step.
Like soldiers obeying their commander.
Only Zheng Shumu remained, standing behind the gate, slowly turning to watch her retreating figure, his gaze full of sorrow and unspeakable bitterness.
All the words he wanted to say turned into a single sigh.
In that instant, Zheng Shumu looked as if he had aged ten years. His whole being exuded weariness.
Dragging his feet, he trudged toward the small workshop.
The furnace still crackled with fire, but the two chairs nearby were now empty.
Zheng Shumu lowered his head and stared at the chair where Yan Shixun had just been sitting, remembering his upright posture, tall and proud like a pine tree. He remembered the clarity and sharpness in Yan Shixun’s eyes when he spoke about his beliefs.
So alike.
Too alike.
Exactly like that man back then—unyielding and admirable, like a towering mountain, sacred and unreachable.
Zheng Shumu stood frozen for a long time before slowly pulling the chair over and sitting in the spot where Yan Shixun had been.
The firelight cast a warm glow across his cheeks, and the flickering flames danced in his eyes. In their wavering light, he felt as if he had just parted ways with that man yesterday.
Zheng Shumu had never considered himself a lucky person. He often wondered if he had committed evil in a past life, for this one had been filled with hardship and suffering. Even heaven seemed to disdain him—his family destroyed, every bitterness tasted.
But that man in white, who appeared one early spring at Baizhi Lake, was the greatest blessing in Zheng Shumu’s life.
That man smiled gently, sleeves tucked in, calling across the lake to ask for directions, yet immediately saw through the sins and karma clinging to Zheng Shumu.
Still, his eyes held no change—no disdain, no fear—only clarity and warmth.
Back then, Zheng Shumu had wondered: was this man unaware of fear, or simply foolishly kind?
He had scoffed at it, sneered in his heart, and even had malicious thoughts.
He wanted to destroy that smile, stain that white robe with mud, drag that upright pine tree into the abyss, and rip apart that kind exterior.
But…
That morning, when Zheng Shumu opened his eyes, he heard someone knocking outside the courtyard.
That man was still dressed in spotless white, standing under a bare tree with a bright smile, calling him “Brother Shumu.”
Zheng Shumu was stunned that he had survived, bewildered.
“I didn’t expect you to still be alive…”
He had sneered, “But after seeing all that… you still call me ‘Brother’? Calling a beast a man—what disgusting hypocrisy.”
But instead of anger, the man had thrown his head back and laughed, his expression bright and carefree. “Brother Shumu, all things in this world have their cause and effect—every drink and every bite. You killed them because they were already wrong to begin with, weren’t they?”
“I’ve never claimed to be a good man. I’m just a wanderer, traveling freely and making friends.”
With a smile, he added, “Ah, I haven’t introduced myself yet, have I? My apologies. I’m Li Chengyun. My dharma name is Chengyun—my name and Dao are one.”
Before Zheng Shumu could react, that man moved in naturally, like an old friend, as if they had known each other for years.
It was so convincing that even Zheng Shumu began to doubt himself—had he really forgotten an old friend after brushing so closely with death?
Though he spoke harshly, whenever Li Chengyun invited him to drink or wander, Zheng Shumu’s feet would carry him there anyway, and his mouth would grumble, but the smile tugging at his lips never quite disappeared.
He had no friends.
From the night his mother died, he had lived in nothing but hatred and pain.
Even after avenging her, he hadn’t found joy or peace—just a deep, directionless emptiness.
After drifting between life and death so many times, his sense of self had blurred. His dreams always brought him back to that freezing night.
As if, in truth, he had died that night in the cold lake alongside his mother and simply forgotten.
Every memory since was false.
It was then that Li Chengyun appeared—at that fork in the road—to pull the fading, numb Zheng Shumu back into the world.
And gradually, Zheng Shumu felt that only now had he started living like a real person.
Not like a wooden carving.
Not like a puppet controlled by someone behind a curtain.
Crack!
The fire snapped, sending sparks flying and jarring Zheng Shumu from his memories.
He blinked and returned to himself.
The room outside remained pitch black. Zheng Tiantian, who didn’t like flames, hadn’t lit a candle. Instead, she hummed a tuneless melody cheerfully in the deep darkness.
Her skirt twirled in the air, like a blooming flower, incredibly beautiful.
Zheng Shumu followed the sound of the song with his gaze, his eyes dark and devoid of light.
Under Zheng Tiantian’s singing, faint, scattered tapping sounds gradually responded to her rhythm—it was the sound of wood knocking against wood.
The wooden puppets placed in the living room slowly and stiffly raised their arms, clapping along with Zheng Tiantian’s tune.
Even the small puppet set on the platform nodded its head, swaying its legs in time.
Driven by Zheng Tiantian, all the wooden puppets suddenly seemed to come to life. Every movement was no different from that of a living person.
Though the dim living room held not a single living soul, it was bustling with energy.
The wooden puppets crowded together, lurking in the shadows like malevolent spirits submerged beneath the surface of water.
Zheng Tiantian glanced lazily to the side, her expression mocking.
—Look at that, some people stand in the light and mistakenly believe they belong there, forgetting the things they did in the past.
They clearly committed wrongs, yet they put on the face of a good person. It’s so disgusting… don’t you think so, little puppet?
Zheng Shumu quietly observed it all. The warmth that the nearby stove had brought to his body gradually faded.
He lowered his head, his eyes clouded and unreadable.
After a long pause, Zheng Shumu turned slowly, dragging his feet as he made his way toward the half-carved statue of an elderly man in his workshop.
Some things, when delayed too long, still had to come to an end eventually…
Uncle Bai.
…
Yan Shixun stood in Master Bai’s home. Master Bai hung his head low, eyelids drooping, still refusing to speak.
The room was deathly silent.
Even outside in the yard, the sounds had gradually faded away.
Perhaps it was because night had fallen and the villagers were used to going to bed early. The once lively atmosphere when Yan Shixun’s group had just arrived had completely disappeared. Every household was now silent—no barking dogs, no honking geese.
It felt as if the entire village had fallen into a deep slumber.
Yan Shixun furrowed his brows and turned his head to glance at the window beside him. He suddenly felt that the silence outside was unnatural. Even the air had grown a few degrees colder, the chill creeping up from his feet.
He rose and walked to the window, one hand in his coat pocket. When he looked outside, he could only vaguely make out the village’s dimly lit lamps through the thick dust on the glass.
The outline of the village was faintly drawn beneath a starless, moonless sky. Everything was blurry. Even the windows lit from within looked like yellowed backdrops. The figures passing by them appeared like shadow puppets manipulated by invisible strings.
Yan Shixun’s heart skipped a beat.
The scene outside the window began to overlap with what he had seen when leaving the lakeside theater. Back then, the village had looked the same.
It was as if… the village had never truly existed from the start.
There were only the props of a shadow puppet play, used repeatedly by someone behind the scenes—recreating the same scenes over and over again.
In that moment, Yan Shixun suddenly remembered: not only had the magazine interview he read mentioned that Master Bai had invited a carpenter to the village, but Master Bai himself had just mentioned Carpenter Zheng while speaking to the real-world official.
From Master Bai’s expression, Yan Shixun could tell that the man felt guilty toward Carpenter Zheng’s family.
Zheng… Zheng Shumu, the carpenter.
So, the person Master Bai had invited to the village back then was Zheng Shumu’s father.
At that time, Zheng Shumu had no plans to inherit the carpentry craft. He had been obsessed with shadow puppetry.
It was even likely that Carpenter Zheng agreed to move his entire family to the Bai family village because young Zheng Shumu loved shadow puppetry so much.
As a father, he had wanted to give his son the best learning environment. He had indulged his child, not minding if he didn’t want to inherit the family’s craft. As long as the child was happy, he could pursue whatever he wished.
But in that village, Carpenter Zheng and his wife had died in an accident.
And their deaths were connected to the people of the Bai family village.
That was why Zheng Shumu resented the villagers—and came to hate shadow puppetry as well. He gave up the art he once loved, returned to carpentry, and inherited the family trade. At the same time, he used it as a tool to take revenge on the villagers.
That was also why Master Bai felt so guilty toward Zheng Shumu. Perhaps, because of that guilt, Master Bai had turned a blind eye to everything Zheng Shumu had done.
Or perhaps…
He had willingly let himself be used by Zheng Shumu.
In just a brief instant, the village’s eerily similar silence helped Yan Shixun piece together all the previous scattered clues into a single coherent thread in his mind.
He immediately turned back to look at Master Bai and asked in shock, “So the one who’s been using shadow puppetry as a cover all along, deceiving even the heavens, is Zheng Shumu?”
“The one using your skills, hiding in the background to manipulate all of this and trap us here—was it him?”
Master Bai’s eyelids twitched slightly.
Beneath his sagging skin, his eyeballs slowly rolled before he cracked them open and looked seriously at Yan Shixun.
He stared at Yan Shixun for a long while, then lowered his head again.
Even after having his secret exposed, all it caused in him was the smallest ripple—he was surprised by the young man’s sharpness, but then fell silent again.
It was like a tiny stone had been tossed into a lake—just a few ripples, then stillness returned.
Master Bai sat quietly in his grand chair, so still that even the sound of his breathing seemed to vanish into the air.
The walls of the grand living room were covered with shadow puppet figures. When Master Bai closed his eyes, he seemed to blend into the surroundings.
He, too, had become a forgotten, dust-covered shadow puppet—no different from the others.
In an abandoned house, he had slowly weathered and decayed, buried under the sands of time. No one would ever know that a village had once existed here.
And that it had once thrived with shadow puppetry.
Though Master Bai said nothing, his attitude had already given Yan Shixun an indirect answer.
Yan Shixun understood what Master Bai had tried to convey. From his actions, he realized something else as well.
—They weren’t just trapped in a shadow puppet play.
The person pulling the strings behind the scenes had been watching them all along.
Like an audience member seated below the stage, gleefully watching the shadow figures above being manipulated into various actions, laughing as they struggled through their hardships and despair.
And from the audience below, there was nothing but delighted applause and laughter.
Realizing everything, Yan Shixun immediately turned and strode toward the door, intending to leave Master Bai’s home.
But just as he stepped forward, he suddenly heard Master Bai’s voice call out from the darkness, hoarse and rough from years without speaking.
“…Shumu.”
His voice was like a ghost’s rasp: “Take Shumu away.”
Yan Shixun froze, stunned. He turned back to look at Master Bai.
What was going on?
Just moments ago, when he asked who was behind all this, Master Bai hadn’t denied it. But now he was expressing a wish for Yan Shixun to protect Zheng Shumu?
Was it out of guilt?
Before Yan Shixun could ask, Master Bai lifted his heavy eyelids and stared at him with lifeless eyes. In a quiet voice, he asked, “What you saw—was it really the living?”
A smile slowly spread across Master Bai’s lips. “Child, do you know that shadow puppet plays have another name… ghost plays?”
Yan Shixun’s eyes slowly widened.
In that split second, he finally understood what Master Bai had tried to warn him about.
Ghost plays. In them, all those who had died in the real world could continue to live here, as if nothing had changed.
Let alone the person behind the scenes—he had flipped the roles of shadow and reality to escape the heavens’ watchful gaze.
If that was the case, then aside from Zheng Shumu, who might be the one pulling the strings, and Master Bai himself as the medium of the shadow puppet play—were the other villagers even real?
As soon as this thought surfaced, the first place Yan Shixun thought of was the home of Third Uncle Bai, where they had stayed.
When he had asked earlier, Third Uncle Bai had casually told him that all those in the village who knew shadow puppetry had died.
But this village had originally been settled by a shadow puppeteer with the surname Bai. Over time, his relatives came to join him, and for dozens of generations, they all made a living from this craft. With such constant exposure to the art, it was hard to say if anyone in the village didn’t know how to perform shadow puppetry at all.
…Then what about Third Uncle Bai?
Third Uncle Bai lived right next to the shadow puppet master’s home. How could he have known so much about what happened back then, yet still survived?
Or, to put it another way—was Third Uncle Bai really still alive?
And all the villagers and children that Yan Shixun had seen along the way in the village—were they truly still alive?
Yan Shixun’s train of thought suddenly hit a snag.
He realized he had been misled by the inertia of his own assumptions.
In truth, aside from Third Uncle Bai and Zheng Shumu, he had barely seen any adult villagers in the entire village.
What he had actually seen, alive and lively, were only the children playing outside. As for the other villagers, he had only heard their voices, or seen faint silhouettes through windows.
And when they arrived in the village, it had been right around dinnertime—a time when everyone should’ve been at home.
So, at first, Yan Shixun hadn’t noticed anything wrong.
It wasn’t until now, prompted by Master Bai’s remark, that he suddenly realized the flaw in all of it.
If all there were were shadows and voices—how was that any different from a shadow puppet show?
And if Third Uncle Bai’s face were just a little more aged, with a few more wrinkles…
Yan Shixun quickly painted over Third Uncle Bai’s face in his mind.
Then he realized—that face was exactly the same as the one he’d seen before at the shadow puppet museum!
The old man guarding the museum, the one who said there was an entrance fee to get in, was clearly just a much older, more worn-down version of Third Uncle Bai.
And as coincidence would have it, Third Uncle Bai’s home was also at the edge of the village.
Just like… a gravekeeper.
Yan Shixun lifted his eyes in shock and looked at Master Bai. From the young man’s striking face, Master Bai could clearly tell that just from his one small reminder, the youth had figured out everything.
Master Bai let out a low chuckle. Then the laugh grew louder and louder, until even his chest trembled from it.
But soon, he broke into a harsh coughing fit. Mixed in with his laughter was the sound of blood bubbling in his throat.
His body, as fragile as a candle in the wind, simply couldn’t handle such intense emotional upheaval.
Yet Master Bai felt a deep sense of relief.
After so many years spent tucked away in a remote corner of the world, with life gradually falling into a silent death, guilt had weighed so heavily on him he could hardly breathe. Along with that came a loss of hope in everything.
He had hoped that child would live well, and had never refused him anything he asked for.
But all he could do was watch, helplessly, as that child sank deeper into the mire.
He was supposed to be the one seeking revenge—so why was he living in even more pain than his enemies?
Master Bai had wanted to do something—anything—even though he knew he didn’t truly have the right to.
Yet in the end, he couldn’t do a thing.
Just like years ago when Carpenter Zheng’s entire family was murdered, and he, already ostracized and isolated by the whole village, knew nothing about it.
All he had done was cry in front of the corpses, roaring in anger and slamming the table, only to be mocked by the villagers as a hypocrite. Beyond that, he had been powerless.
Even when he was still a child, Master Bai had already vaguely sensed that the villagers were growing impatient with shadow puppetry. They longed more and more for the glamorous, indulgent world outside.
At the time, his father had only patted his head lovingly and told him that it was enough to focus on doing his part. Regardless of what others did, as long as their family quietly and diligently preserved the art of shadow puppetry passed down from their ancestors, it would not be lost.
That was also the first time his father had revealed to him the true nature of southwestern shadow puppetry.
“My son, do you really think the shadow puppets passed down by our ancestors are just toys to amuse kids at the market?”
His father had gently shaken his head. “Within shadow puppetry lie a thousand years of time—and the truths of a thousand years ago.”
“What we inherit isn’t just a form of art, but everything that once happened on this land. When future generations want to know what occurred here a millennium ago, they’ll come looking for southwestern shadow puppetry.”
“And our mission is to pass it on, so it won’t be lost, so that the past won’t be forgotten.”
His father had instructed him so.
So, Master Bai had followed that teaching. He focused only on honing his craft, refining his work, and recording the once orally-transmitted legacy of shadow puppetry onto paper.
He had taken comfort in believing that even if something happened to him one day, shadow puppetry wouldn’t disappear.
Future successors would rely on these notes to rediscover the old ways of the art.
But in the end, it seemed he had only managed to protect himself.
The world he had always ignored had slowly, quietly changed while he wasn’t looking—turning into something unrecognizable.
His childhood friends no longer gasped with wonder like when they first saw a shadow play. They no longer adored the Monkey King, nor slapped their hands red with excitement during the Havoc in Heaven, screaming the Great Sage’s name at the top of their lungs.
Now, all they talked about was money and status.
They bragged about whose work was bought by whom, which TV station interviewed them, or how much money their performances now made.
Even fellow puppet craftsmen—who had once come from the same roots—competed with each other, wracking their brains to innovate and promote themselves.
Some abandoned traditional plays and themes, creating new ones that appealed more to younger audiences. Others, unwilling to be outdone, claimed they could perform shadow puppetry with their feet.
Some went so far as to sabotage their peers before performances—giving them diarrhea so they couldn’t go on stage—then conveniently stepping in to take their place.
It became a game of rivals outshining each other with every dirty trick in the book.
Although they gained fame under the title of “Shadow Puppet Masters,” the actual shadow puppetry in their words and actions grew thinner and thinner.
Master Bai saw it all.
Unwilling to become like them, he gradually found himself pushed to the margins by the villagers. They only tolerated him because of his title as the officially recognized inheritor of the tradition, but even then, they often rolled their eyes and told him that perhaps he should give up the title so someone else could better carry forward the legacy of southwestern shadow puppetry.
Master Bai would just smile without replying. After much thought, he decided to invite Carpenter Zheng—whom he had met by chance—to help him perfect the unique “bone” craftsmanship that set southwestern shadow puppetry apart.
Since the most distinct feature of southwestern shadow puppetry lay in the exquisite flexibility of its framework, he figured that improving the skeleton structure would further elevate the art.
Carpenter Zheng came from a long line of carpenters, already well-known in his former hometown.
But he hesitated to move.
Though he also longed to achieve something meaningful with a friend, and though craftsmen found greater joy in perfecting their skills than in chasing money—for that was where they found their personal worth and sense of accomplishment—Carpenter Zheng had a wife, children, and generations’ worth of accumulated possessions.
Moving wasn’t a decision to be taken lightly.
Then one day, as Carpenter Zheng and his son were leaving Master Bai’s house, they happened to catch Master Bai heading to the market to perform. He invited the father and son to come along.
Little Zheng Shumu, still a child at the time, had excitedly shouted the Monkey King’s name, clapping until his hands turned red.
Flushed and sweaty from the thrill, he had turned to his father with glowing cheeks and declared that he had found something he truly loved—he was determined to become the best shadow puppet craftsman!
Carpenter Zheng smiled as he looked at his son.
Soon after, Carpenter Zheng moved his whole family to the village.
When the villagers heard that he was a renowned figure, they eagerly came to help with the move.
But as they unloaded boxes from the pickup truck, a few young men grew curious about one particularly heavy box. Taking advantage of the commotion, they secretly opened it.
Inside, they found part of the wealth accumulated by Carpenter Zheng’s family over generations—along with many rare woods, worth their weight in gold.
Their hearts stirred. Greed took root.
They were like venomous snakes hidden in the grass.
It didn’t take long for the perfect opportunity to strike. Ignoring Carpenter Zheng’s desperate pleas, they killed him, hid his body behind the curtains in a storage room, and stole a portion of his wealth.
But the young men weren’t careful. With their newfound riches, they flaunted their purchases—items far beyond their means.
Their elders and friends quickly noticed the unexplained abundance.
Instead of punishing them, they scolded the young men for not acting sooner—clearly, Carpenter Zheng’s family was far wealthier than this. Why only take so little?
Now that his family was just a defenseless wife and child, the rest of their fortune would be easy pickings.
So they all conspired—to kill the mother and child and divide Carpenter Zheng’s fortune among themselves.
Meanwhile, Carpenter Zheng’s wife, pregnant and distressed by her husband’s disappearance, searched desperately.
Eventually, she found him—his lifeless body tossed like a slab of rotting meat behind the curtain in the storeroom, eyes wide open in death.
She fainted from grief.
But that very act had startled the villagers, who had been unaware she was getting close to the truth.
While pretending to comfort her and promising to find Carpenter Zheng’s killer, they exchanged knowing glances. That very night, they came to her door—intending to silence her and the unborn child.
By the time Master Bai learned of what had happened, everything was already done.
His voice hoarse, Master Bai paused often from weakness as he spoke. By the time he finished, his cloudy eyes were already brimming with tears.
The room was silent.
Yan Shixun stood off to the side in the dim light, one hand in his pocket. His head was slightly bowed, hair falling over his eyes, hiding his expression.
No one spoke first.
Yan Shixun hadn’t expected that something like this had happened in the village—or that such deep blood vengeance lay behind Zheng Shumu.
“I can tell you everything—whatever you want to know, I’ll give you. Just one condition.”
As Master Bai slowly raised his head, tears streamed down the craggy lines of his face.
“Take Shumu… away.”
“Don’t let him stay here. Don’t let hatred keep him shackled. He should have started his own life long ago—not drift through the past like this, ruining himself just for revenge.”
Choked with emotion, Master Bai said, “You… maybe you can do it.”
When Yan Shixun looked up, he saw the old man’s face covered in tears.
After a moment of silence, he asked softly, “Even if he caused everyone’s death, trapped us inside the shadow puppetry, and summoned such powerful evil that we needed the ebony statue to suppress it—do you still think he’s worth saving?”
Master Bai looked stunned. “You know about the ebony statue?”
“No, wait—you think the ebony statue… was to suppress Shumu?”
Master Bai looked like he had just heard something ridiculous. He shook his head and said, “It’s true that all the deaths in the village were caused by Shumu, but ever since that hermit accidentally stumbled into Baizhi Lake a few years ago, Shumu has changed. He’s a good kid now.”
Hermit?
Yan Shixun immediately thought of the painting hanging in Master Zheng’s house and quickly asked, “Do you know the name of that hermit, Master Bai?”
Master Bai nodded. “He was a very unique person. He came seeking the shadow puppetry of the southwest and asked me about things from a thousand years ago. Shadow puppetry ruined Shumu’s life… but it also gave him a sliver of hope, a thread to live on like a human being.”
Master Bai gave a bitter smile. “That Hermit Chengyun was an extraordinary person. But I heard later that he sacrificed himself for the Dao and has already passed away.”
The moment Master Bai said that, it was as if Yan Shixun’s brain rang with a loud “buzz,” and everything went blank in an instant.
It felt like the world around him was collapsing and vanishing. That final meeting with Li Chengyun all those years ago flashed vividly in his mind—Li Chengyun had gathered his sleeves, smiled softly beneath a slanting blossom, and spoke of reunion.
But that reunion never came.
Yan Shixun’s hand at his side slowly clenched, so tightly that his knuckles turned white and his nails dug deep into his palm.
Even though he knew clearly that Li Chengyun had already died several years ago—he himself had arranged the funeral and, as both Li Chengyun’s personal disciple and adopted son, had seen him off and personally watched him be buried—
But he had never once had the courage to turn around and truly face Li Chengyun’s death again.
It was a pain too deep to speak of.
Now, Master Bai’s words tore open the scar that had barely healed, and the wound that had once festered began to bleed anew.
Yan Shixun forced himself to remain composed in the face of Li Chengyun’s death.
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he asked hoarsely, “Then, do you know… how that Hermit Chengyun died?”
His once-sharp mind felt like a stuck disk, grinding along in painful slowness.
But the intense emotions he tried to suppress made his eyes burn red, his throat tighten with unspoken grief, and even his limbs begin to tremble.
News of Li Chengyun’s death had come from others. The young Yan Shixun hadn’t known the specific cause, nor what had led to it.
All he had seen was a cold body with a faint smile on its lips.
Li Chengyun—his master—had faced the end knowing it was death, and yet held no resentment toward the mortal world.
He had died with a smile, as if it were what he had longed for.
Yan Shixun blinked rapidly, forcing the tears back into his eyes.
When Master Bai saw the emotions so clearly written on Yan Shixun’s face, he gradually realized something. His expression turned serious as he asked, “What was your relationship with Hermit Chengyun? Were you his descendant? Or his disciple?”
Yan Shixun opened his mouth, but several attempts yielded no sound.
When a tear finally slipped from the corner of his eye, he forced a smile through the pain.
“He was the one who once shielded me from wind and rain.”
“He was my master, my father, my dearest friend.”
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