Chapter 263: Shadow Puppets and Lamplight (29)
Master Bai had never imagined that Yan Shixun would share such a deep connection with Li Chengyun, the man who had come to Baizhi Lake many years ago.
When he saw the look in Yan Shixun’s eyes, he couldn’t help but think of his own feelings for Zheng Shumu. He was moved, letting out a silent sigh.
He was someone Zheng Shumu had once hated. Yet after all these years of being together, their relationship had grown into something not unlike that of a father and son.
That heartfelt care was not fake.
Because of this, after Li Chengyun left and Zheng Shumu gradually pulled himself together and even began to smile again, Master Bai had truly felt grateful to Li Chengyun.
So now, when he learned that Yan Shixun was Li Chengyun’s disciple, his initial shock soon gave way to affection for Yan Shixun. Beyond the deal he had originally intended to strike, he now harbored genuine feelings toward the young man.
He and Shumu… Hermit Chengyun and this young man… were all so very similar.
Because of this tender sentiment, when Master Bai looked at Yan Shixun, he suddenly felt that perhaps this was destiny.
What Hermit Chengyun had once tried and failed to accomplish—maybe his disciple could complete.
Master Bai’s gaze toward Yan Shixun gradually softened. Something he had buried deep in his heart began to stir once more, rising to his throat and choking him.
Yan Shixun had not forgotten that this was still within the shadow play world, not reality. Even when he heard again of Li Chengyun’s death, his emotional collapse was brief. He quickly pulled himself together and returned to his usual calm and rational self.
Only the reddened rims of his eyes betrayed the grief he had just endured.
The last place Li Chengyun had visited before his death had been Baizhi Lake. His purpose was not to exorcise evil or capture ghosts. He hadn’t come for the restless spirits of the Bai village, nor to meddle in Zheng Shumu’s vendetta.
He had come for the shadow puppetry passed down by Master Bai.
But what exactly was the secret hidden beneath the art of shadow puppetry? What had driven Li Chengyun to search here—what had ultimately led to his death?
Yan Shixun voiced the doubts in his heart.
Before confirming the relationship between Li Chengyun and Yan Shixun, Master Bai had not intended to reveal any of this. Even though he wished to strike a deal with Yan Shixun to rescue Zheng Shumu, he still hadn’t planned to expose the secrets that had been passed down through generations.
What died a thousand years ago should stay buried with the shadow puppetry—interred with him, never to be known again. And the shadow puppetry that had caused all these tragedies would also end with him.
No one would ever again use shadow puppetry as a gimmick to harm others.
But when Li Chengyun was mentioned, Master Bai hesitated.
Back then, before Li Chengyun left, Master Bai had gone to see him off. He had worriedly asked what would happen if Chengyun failed.
At the time, Li Chengyun had stood by the shores of Baizhi Lake, his robe fluttering in the mountain wind, looking for all the world like an immortal ready to ride the wind and return home.
He had turned with a smile to reassure Master Bai.
“If I die here, unable to attain the Dao, then someone will come after me to walk this path.”
His lowered gaze carried infinite tenderness. “Heaven and earth will guide vitality to this place. If I fail, from the depths of decay will rise new growth. In this death trap, the fierce ghost and the one bearing its mark will meet here. Life and death will cycle, and from it, the Taiji will be reborn. My Xiao Xun… will take my place and complete this road.”
“Though a million stand in my way, I go forth.”
Li Chengyun had laughed heartily as he departed, his footsteps firm and unwavering.
Master Bai had been left standing in the cold wind by the lake, watching through strands of gray hair tousled by the breeze, as Li Chengyun’s figure grew smaller and smaller in the distance.
And now, Master Bai had met the “Xiao Xun” Li Chengyun always spoke of.
This young man was just as excellent as Li Chengyun had said—so much so that even before Master Bai knew his identity, he had already made the reckless decision to trust him. Before the death trap could become an irreversible fate, he would take back Zheng Shumu from that entity’s hands.
Because of this, Master Bai didn’t hesitate any longer. He told Yan Shixun everything he had kept hidden.
—About the Southwest.
And about shadow puppetry.
Many people knew that the Southwest’s shadow puppetry dated back a thousand years. But no one knew that from the very beginning, Southwest shadow puppetry had been ghost plays.
The truth did not match the rumors. The cause and effect were reversed.
It wasn’t that the puppet masters had moved to the Southwest and others with the Bai surname had followed, forming a village dedicated to the tradition.
Rather, it was that the ancestors of the Bai family had encountered a ghost official in the Southwest. They had learned ghost plays from them, which they then transformed into shadow puppetry. From that point on, they had passed down the craft and relied on it to make a living.
The first ancestor of the Bai family had been on the brink of death while fleeing when a mysterious being passing by saved him. Grateful for having his life spared, the Bai ancestor decided to stay in that place and wait for his savior to return so he could express his thanks.
However, the savior never came back. Instead, the Bai ancestor encountered something non-human.
Fengdu. A ghost official.
But there was another qualifier to add—
—An old Fengdu’s ghost official.
When the Bai ancestor found the ghost official, he was badly wounded, barely clinging to life.
Originally, the Bai ancestor intended to avoid him. But as he turned to leave, he hesitated. The being who had saved him before had dashed through the night like a bolt of lightning, crossing vast distances in a blink, as if possessing the power to bring the dead back to life. That being was certainly not human.
Seeing the ghost official suddenly reminded the Bai ancestor—could the one who saved him have been a ghost deity?
Moved by the kindness he’d once received, he brought the ghost official home. It was then that he learned the truth of what had happened.
Fengdu had collapsed.
Fengdu had existed between heaven and earth, outside the jurisdiction of all divine beings. No god could control or influence it—it was a realm all its own.
But then, a ghost soul had charged tirelessly across a thousand miles, shattering all of Fengdu in a single violent blow. The mighty realm that had existed for millennia was reduced to rubble and ash.
That former giant of a realm had been ground into dust. The ghost deities perished and returned to the earth.
Even the ghost official had only escaped by sheer luck. He should have disintegrated as well, but upon reaching the doorstep of the Bai ancestor’s home, the process of death mysteriously halted—he lived.
While recovering in the Bai family’s home, the ghost official drew page after page of everything he had seen and handed the collection to the Bai ancestor.
To repay his benefactor, the ghost official gave him countless pieces of gold, as well as the art of “ghost plays”—and only then did he leave.
Before departing, he told the Bai ancestor that a new Fengdu would rise to replace the old one. The war god who had raged against the heavens would eventually become the lord of the new Fengdu.
But those who belonged to the old Fengdu, even if they managed to survive for a time, would inevitably fade away—forgotten and rejected by heaven and earth.
Heaven and earth showed no mercy—whether human, god, or ghost, all were mere specks in the vast sea, fleeting and insignificant.
The ghost official never understood how the Bai ancestor had saved him, but having encountered countless spirits, he had long come to terms with life and death. He left with no regrets. After bidding farewell, he vanished without a trace.
The Bai ancestor considered the ghost official a kindred spirit and decided to pass on ghost plays so that future generations of the Bai family would remember the kindness of their savior and the gift of the ghost plays.
When word spread that one of the Bai clan members had suddenly become wealthy, many others came seeking refuge.
The Bai ancestor, still deeply grateful for the life once saved, did not hesitate to help others.
But he had one condition—if you wished to stay, you had to carry on the tradition of ghost plays.
Hundreds, maybe even thousands of years passed. The original story gradually faded from memory, and ghost plays eventually evolved into shadow puppetry. Though the old songs still recounted ancient tales, they were now seen merely as the fantastical inventions of old storytellers. The truth was buried beneath rumor and forgotten. No one believed anymore.
Only the direct line of inheritance preserved the tale, passing it down by word of mouth. Although much had been lost over time, the tradition had not been completely broken.
But after the entire Bai village was wiped out, only one person remained who still knew this history—Master Bai.
Years ago, Li Chengyun had found the Bai village after hearing from a knowledgeable exorcist in the southwest that the origin of southwestern shadow puppetry was ghost plays. Sensing something unusual, he came to investigate.
“My master came looking for ghost plays… Could it be because of the old Fengdu?”
Yan Shixun looked at Master Bai in shock.
Master Bai nodded. “Yes. One of the characteristics of southwestern shadow puppetry is that it’s based on real stories. Our ancestor had composed songs about the events of that time, and the location of old Fengdu was hidden within those lyrics. That’s what the hermit came seeking.”
“Although many long-standing sects also lived through that era, most of their records were lost or broken over time. In the end, it was the shadow puppetry in the hands of an old man like me that preserved the story.”
Master Bai gave a bitter smile and shook his head. “Who would’ve thought that the shadow puppetry I used to perform for children at the market would be hiding such an ancient story? Even I only knew of its existence, but never truly understood which line or passage concealed the location of old Fengdu.”
He had occasionally met exorcists, but since he spent all his time and energy perfecting his craft, Master Bai never expected that he would one day be involved with ghost deities and dark forces.
He had always thought those things were far removed from his world.
Even his son’s generation no longer believed in ghost deities.
Back then, to spite him, his son had led a group of friends up to the mountain behind the village and smashed the temple there.
“If that thing can’t even protect its own statue and temple, what kind of god is it? If it has the guts, it can come for me itself. There’s so many of us—are we really going to lose to one pathetic so-called deity? I’ll go borrow a few hunting rifles and see whether divine power or my firepower wins.”
That was what his son had said to him.
After that, only Master Bai was left in the village.
Dark forces surged, and exorcists came one after another.
It was only then that Master Bai finally realized—ghost deities were far closer than he had ever imagined.
And yet, even then, he never expected that the legendary Fengdu had been hidden all along in the lyrics he recited daily.
If Li Chengyun hadn’t heard about ghost plays, and if he hadn’t noticed that Baizhi Lake harbored darkness far beyond anything in the human world, and if he hadn’t traced it back to the shadow puppetry, Master Bai might have died without ever uncovering the secret.
“I originally thought I’d take shadow puppetry with me to the grave. But your master, and now you, both found me.”
Master Bai sighed. “Is this destiny?”
“Then… did my master find it? The old Fengdu site?”
Yan Shixun asked. “Did he ever mention why he was searching for it?”
Master Bai paused, lost in memory. “The hermit… it seemed he was looking for a particular ghost deity in Fengdu. But he didn’t say much.”
That matched what Yan Shixun had suspected, so he wasn’t too disappointed by the vague answer.
Many people claimed they wanted the truth.
But most only said it with their mouths.
In reality, very few could bear the cruelty that truth often carried. Many never even considered that they might not be as strong as they believed.
Yan Shixun had witnessed it time and time again—grieving families begging exorcists or district officials, sobbing that they must know what happened to their deceased loved ones in order to find peace.
But once they learned how their loved ones died, many fainted from shock. Some even died from overwhelming grief.
Even Lan Ze’s parents were never told the full details of his death, nor were they allowed to see his mutilated remains.
All the funeral arrangements had been handled by Cheng Jing.
It was a commonly shared understanding among experienced exorcists: never casually share what you know with others.
Not even with the person directly involved.
No one could predict whether the person would be terrified by the truth, or worse, react in such an extreme way that it would sabotage the exorcising process or even harm themselves.
Li Chengyun knew this well.
And as the most talented person in the field before Yan Shixun joined, Li Chengyun had often glimpsed the universe in his meditations. He also knew the price of peering into the Great Dao.
Power that does not match the information obtained would only lead to death under the weight of the truth.
Heaven and earth were merciless. Nature would never allow anyone to glimpse the grand chessboard laid out by the Dao. Even the slightest variable could change the future.
And humans were emotional beings. No one could guarantee they would always remain rational and composed, free from bias toward those they knew or loved.
—If the future laid out by the Dao required the death of someone close to you, would you be able to watch your loved ones die with your eyes wide open? Could you truly endure doing nothing?
The Dao would never allow its meticulous plan to be subjected to any risk. Thus, regardless of whether a human, deity, or ghost tried to peer into it, as long as they were not acknowledged by the Dao, they would undoubtedly die from the intense backlash of cause and effect.
Li Chengyun had not told Master Bai the full truth—he was protecting him.
The fewer people who knew, the greater the chance things could succeed.
There remained only a sliver of hope between heaven and earth—narrow and elusive.
Even Li Chengyun, who wished to change the world, had to tread with extreme caution.
But Li Chengyun’s true goal had always been Fengdu…
Yan Shixun pressed his lips together as he recalled Ye Li.
Ye Li had once told him that the Dao had tried multiple times to have Fengdu bear the burden of heaven and earth. Now that the Dao had weakened and the underworld had collapsed, a new force was needed to uphold the crumbling world.
But each time, Ye Li had refused.
Fengdu rarely concerned itself with worldly affairs. It only acted as a last resort when the underworld could no longer manage things—to prevent vengeful spirits and unjust souls from wreaking havoc on the living world.
The innocent deserved justice. The guilty deserved punishment.
But that delicate balance had been shattered twenty years ago, after what happened on Mount Nanming.
Disappointment with the human world had built up in Ye Li’s heart. The villagers of Nan Village, with their disregard for life and selfishness, had crushed Ye Li’s last hope for humanity.
He had refused the Dao one final time. Fengdu shut its doors and withdrew from worldly matters completely.
Until Ghost Mountain, existing between yin and yang, finally merged with Gui Mountain of the living realm, and Xi Shuang—who had been imprisoned in Ghost Mountain—was able to reincarnate. The power unleashed was so overwhelming that even the underworld could no longer manage it and had to turn to Fengdu.
It was then that Ye Li saw Yan Shixun.
The Lord of Fengdu stepped down from his divine pedestal and walked into the mortal world.
He became the final possibility after the collapse of the Dao.
And all of this… had happened after Li Chengyun’s death.
Yan Shixun bit his lip tightly. He finally understood why his master had died all those years ago.
Li Chengyun had sought out Fengdu to search for that final sliver of hope, to uphold the Dao.
He had glimpsed a part of the future—and had died beneath the weight of the Dao itself.
“Mr. Yan, Mr. Yan?”
Master Bai’s voice suddenly snapped Yan Shixun out of his daze.
He blinked and looked toward Master Bai, meeting his concerned gaze.
“Sorry… I zoned out.”
Yan Shixun quickly turned his head. Loose strands of hair fell and concealed his reddened eyes, but the hoarseness in his voice still gave away his true emotions.
Master Bai understood. He let out a long sigh, and the look in his eyes gradually softened.
It was no longer the wary, calculating gaze of someone evaluating a person for mutual benefit. Nor was it simply because of Yan Shixun’s strength or his relationship with Li Chengyun.
It was a gaze like that of a father looking at his child.
Master Bai even felt a hint of envy toward Li Chengyun.
That hermit had left behind such an outstanding disciple—one who still honored and revered him, treating him as both a father and a dear friend, even long after his death.
But he was gone. Zheng Shumu would probably applaud his death… that child hated him.
It was a sin Master Bai had committed. He deserved the consequences.
His smile took on a bitter edge.
He looked out the window. As he saw the villagers gradually lighting candles in their homes, he silently marked the time in his mind—counting the beats.
As if preparing for a countdown to his own death.
When Master Bai turned his gaze back, Yan Shixun had already composed himself again.
When faced with the life and death of someone they loved and respected, even the calmest and most rational person could not help but waver.
Night after night, the pain would quietly rot away inside him before beginning to heal. And before the wounds could truly close, Yan Shixun had already hidden them beneath his clothes, unseen by anyone.
Until the scars were torn open—until the pain became unbearable.
“Mr. Yan, are you alright?”
Master Bai glanced at the window and murmured absentmindedly, “The time… it’s getting close.”
There was still a trace of wetness on Yan Shixun’s lashes. He blinked, then gave Master Bai a slight nod. “Apologies. I lost my composure. Let’s continue.”
He asked, “Did my master ever find the original site of Fengdu back then?”
From the time he had met Li Chengyun over a decade ago until he entered university, Yan Shixun had rarely left his side. They had spent nearly every moment together.
Their bond and understanding of each other ran deeper than even their understanding of themselves.
Yan Shixun knew—though Li Chengyun always appeared calm and unhurried, as if nothing in the world could disturb him—everything around him had been seen through those smiling eyes.
The one who seemed the most carefree was, in truth, the most persistent and determined.
The path Li Chengyun walked, he had never strayed from—not for a moment.
Since his extraordinary talent had allowed him to sense the Dao and foresee the coming calamity, it made perfect sense that he would try to find the root of the problem before it erupted.
—Like the ancient physician Bian Que, who claimed his medical skills were lacking because he treated illness only after symptoms appeared.
He had said the greatest healer treated illness before it surfaced.
Li Chengyun had discovered the affliction before it showed itself and had known precisely how to cure it.
He had set his heart on the final solution to support the Dao—and that solution lay in Fengdu.
So there was no way he would have left Baizhi Lake without finding an answer.
But if the old site of Fengdu was nearby… why hadn’t Li Chengyun sought out the new Fengdu? Why hadn’t he gone to Ye Li?
Was it because he didn’t know Fengdu had changed—or was there another reason?
Yan Shixun frowned, unable to deduce what Li Chengyun had been thinking back then.
At that moment, Master Bai sighed and shook his head. “Even if some records from that time survived, finding the dwelling place of ghost deities is no easy feat.”
“After hundreds or thousands of years, the landscape has completely changed. The rivers, mountains, and lakes once used as landmarks in old ballads have either shifted location or disappeared altogether.”
“Hermit Chengyun searched very hard, but in the end, all he could confirm was that the old Fengdu site was somewhere around here. Nothing more.”
Yan Shixun asked, puzzled, “What did my master base that conclusion on?”
“Malevolent energy.”
Master Bai answered with certainty. “When Hermit Chengyun arrived, it just so happened that Baizhi Lake erupted with malevolent energy.”
At the time, the entire deserted village, along with the surrounding forests and lakes, had been enveloped in thick, dark grey mist. You couldn’t see a person half a meter away.
Master Bai had even heard radio broadcasts warning citizens in the southwest to avoid travel—the smog index near Baizhi Lake was extremely high, and unnecessary travel was discouraged.
Only one person had come here—an exorcist from the southwest.
That exorcist quickly realized this wasn’t smog at all. It was evil energy erupting like a volcano from beneath the earth’s surface.
If left unchecked, it could spread further. Villages and towns within a dozen kilometers could be affected—not just by misfortune, but by serious threats to health.
So, the exorcist entered the abandoned village, attempting to drive away the malevolent spirits.
Master Bai had watched what the exorcist did. When the man was on the verge of death, he couldn’t bear it anymore. He broke his vow to ignore outside matters and flung the exorcist out of the village.
The exorcist’s apprentice, who had been waiting anxiously outside, took him away.
But not even a day later, the exorcist came back.
And this time, he brought Li Chengyun with him.
—His apprentice hadn’t been able to save him. Desperate, he had tearfully sought help from fellow exorcists, but they all shook their heads, unable to assist.
As fate would have it, Li Chengyun had been traveling through the southwest, searching for the old site of Fengdu based on rumors.
When he saw the exorcist’s condition, he healed him—and from his mouth, he learned about what had happened at Baizhi Lake. So the two of them returned together.
Both to quell the evil energy—and to search for ghost plays.
—As repayment to Li Chengyun, that exorcist, born and raised in the southwest, had told him everything he knew, including the location of the ghost plays.
The exorcist said that it wasn’t an ordinary evil spirit—it seemed more like the remnants of a malevolent ghost that had not been properly dealt with in the past, now erupting after years of festering. For it to reach such a level, it had to be either from the Underworld or Fengdu.
Master Bai said, “Since Mr. Yan is an exorcist, you must have heard the rumors about the Southwest. For thousands of years, the Southwest has always been believed to be the site of the ghost city of Fengdu.”
“Perhaps that’s why the hermit was so certain this was the old site of Fengdu.”
“But as for the exact location…”
Master Bai shook his head. “Maybe only the ghost deities or the ancestors from that time would know.”
Yan Shixun tensed his jaw, his lips pressed so tightly they turned pale.
Just as he had promised, Master Bai told Yan Shixun everything he knew—all the secrets, without holding anything back. He even retrieved an old ancestral notebook, long buried at the bottom of a cabinet, and handed it to Yan Shixun.
The pages had long since yellowed. Despite careful preservation, they could not withstand the wear of time. This notebook, passed down from a Bai ancestor a thousand years ago, had become incredibly fragile.
Any slight pressure would easily tear the pages apart.
Holding the notebook, Yan Shixun instinctively softened his breath, afraid that even the slightest disturbance might reduce it to dust.
“I have no use for it anymore. I had originally planned to take it with me into the grave. But since it might be of use to you, you should have it.”
The rough fingers that could no longer craft delicate shadow puppets gently brushed over the cover of the notebook. In Master Bai’s eyes was a deep sense of nostalgia.
It felt like all the stories that had sprouted in his life because of shadow puppetry—learning to speak while toddling after his father, watching him create the puppets, then later hearing about the secrets hidden within them, and finally, smashing all ten of his own fingers, determined to let the art die out with him—every single memory flashed before his eyes.
In the end, it all turned into the image of Li Chengyun, sleeves gathered, smiling as he rode the wind to depart this world.
And now, the image of Yan Shixun standing before him, sharp-featured and resolute.
Master Bai finally closed his eyes as though coming to peace, withdrawing his fingers.
“When I saw you, I realized perhaps all of this was destined to happen. Heaven had long laid out the path. Whether it was Hermit Chengyun… or your arrival…”
He gave Yan Shixun a solemn request: “You must, you absolutely must save Zheng Shumu.”
Yan Shixun accepted the notebook. After quickly flipping through the lyrics and stories recorded within, he carefully stored the thin volume away and gave Master Bai a nod.
“Don’t worry.”
Yan Shixun said, “I’m heading to Master Zheng’s home now. I also have some things I want to ask him. Once I’ve taken care of it, I’ll return.”
Unlike when Yan Shixun first arrived with a cold demeanor, Master Bai personally saw him off at the door.
He hunched over, watching Yan Shixun’s tall, upright figure gradually fade away along the village road toward Zheng Shumu’s house.
The cold winter wind in the mountains blew through Master Bai’s dry, gray-white hair. His lips trembled, and at last, as if all strength had left him, he collapsed heavily onto the doorstep.
One by one, the households in the village began lighting their candles.
At the same time, an astonishing and strange change began to take place in Master Bai’s body.
His legs and feet gradually stiffened. Even beneath his clothing, it was clear that they had become unnaturally rigid—no longer like a living person’s. On the bits of skin that remained exposed, rings of wood-like patterns slowly appeared, replacing the natural texture of human flesh.
It was as if his legs and feet, once made of blood and bone, had turned into wooden sculptures.
Master Bai broke into a cold sweat from the pain, yet he clenched his jaw and remained silent.
With eyes glazed from the torment, he slowly and with effort raised his head to look in the direction of Zheng Shumu’s home.
His vision blurred into darkness, the world spinning without a single fixed point.
Still, Master Bai managed a pained smile and rasped hoarsely, “Shumu…”
*Clang!*
The carving knife slipped from Zheng Shumu’s hand and hit the ground.
It broke into two pieces.
Zheng Shumu looked down at the broken blade in silence.
Before him, the elder statue that Yan Shixun had seen only half-finished was now mostly complete—only the legs and feet remained unfinished.
Even the once-blank face now had detailed features carved into it.
The flames in the furnace gradually dimmed, and the workspace turned cold and damp. Thin, wisp-like ghostly energy silently crept along the walls, engulfing the room.
Zheng Shumu bent down and picked up the broken knife.
He held it silently.
This carving knife had been with him for a very long time.
It was one of his father’s relics.
But it had been passed into his hands by the very man who had caused his hatred.
Zheng Shumu recalled the shocked look on Master Bai’s face when they met again in the village.
He had told Master Bai, bluntly and cruelly, that he would personally kill everyone—all who had been involved in or had turned a blind eye to the deaths of his parents. All of them would pay for their sins with their lives.
Yet Master Bai had shown no fear.
He had only remained silent for a long time, then turned around, found the carving knife once gifted to him by Zheng Shumu’s father, and handed it over with his own hands.
When you kill me, use this knife.
Master Bai had said.
But before you do… your father once told me that he sincerely hoped you would become an excellent carpenter. This carving knife was a gift from him to me. But I was never worthy of using it. I’m better suited to being the one it cuts down.
He had spoken like an elder genuinely caring for a child, calmly and sincerely.
At that time, Zheng Shumu only found him hypocritical and disgusting.
He swore he would use this knife to kill Master Bai and avenge his father.
But over the years, it was this knife that had accompanied him through all his pain—and the rare moments of happiness. With this knife, he had carved wooden puppets of every villager.
Now, only Master Bai remained.
And at last, it was his turn.
But now… the knife had broken.
Zheng Shumu’s hand holding the blade gradually clenched.
He lowered his head, and the face that was no longer youthful was lined with wrinkles and weariness, devoid of the brightness and conviction he once had.
Even if it was driven by hatred, once, he had held onto something with firm determination.
But now, he was just a confused shell of a man, still standing guard in the village just as Li Chengyun had once told him to.
“Brother, what are you doing?”
Suddenly, a sweet voice came from outside the door.
Zheng Tiantian stood there in a beautiful dress, her smile bright and sugary, yet the words she spoke dripped with malice: “Brother, don’t tell me you’re hesitating?”
“The one who caused mom’s death… caused mine… you really plan to let him go?”
“I’m not… I just…”
Zheng Shumu’s voice was so low it was nearly inaudible.
Just what, exactly?
Was it because of Master Bai’s years of companionship? Or Li Chengyun’s parting words? Or the shock and clarity he had felt when he saw Li Chengyun die before his eyes?
Back then, when Zheng Shumu poured out all his pain to Li Chengyun, saying he hated the village, hated Master Bai, Li Chengyun hadn’t argued nor agreed. He simply watched him for a long time, and then spoke.
He said, “Brother Shumu, do you know? Truly evil people don’t feel guilt or remorse. Only good people do.”
He said, “The cause and effect were never tied to Master Bai. It’s you, Brother Shumu, who held on so tightly that you couldn’t see the truth.”
It was a view that went completely against Zheng Shumu’s long-held hatred. But because it was Li Chengyun who had said it, Zheng Shumu had listened—and remembered.
For many years.
Sometimes, when he thought of Master Bai, Zheng Shumu would grow confused and wonder: Was I the one who got obsessed? Maybe… Li Chengyun was right?
Because of that doubt, Zheng Shumu had never sculpted Master Bai’s wooden puppet.
And earlier that day, Zheng Tiantian had seemed terribly agitated. She had screamed hysterically over and over that it was impossible—no one should be able to disappear from her shadow puppets.
Zheng Shumu had grown worried, but she had grabbed his arm and demanded to know why there was still someone left. There was clearly still one person in the village who hadn’t died.
Zheng Tiantian had said it was because that one person was still alive that she kept failing. Just one more death, and she would succeed.
Looking at that face so similar to his mother’s, Zheng Shumu had softened. Remembering all the suffering that she and their mother had endured, he felt a wave of guilt and agreed to carve the final statue.
But just as he was almost finished, the knife broke.
As if the heavens themselves couldn’t bear to watch—warning him.
Zheng Shumu stared blankly at the broken knife, drawing Zheng Tiantian’s disapproval.
She stormed over, snatched the knife from his hand, and before he could react, tossed it into the furnace.
Zheng Shumu instinctively reached out, but grasped only empty air.
“I knew it. No one loves me. I have to save myself.”
Zheng Tiantian saw his reaction and sneered, “I should’ve known long ago. Brother… you never loved me. You never wanted to protect me.”
“What now, brother? Mom gave me the wrong name. She wanted me to have a sweet life, but from the moment I was born—no, even before that—it’s been nothing but suffering.”
Zheng Tiantian tilted her head. The smile vanished from her face, leaving her expression dull and lifeless—like a puppet.
She spoke slowly and clearly: “If no one loves me, then I’ll love myself. If no one saves me, I’ll save myself.”
“All of this is because of your weakness and cowardice. Mom and I died because of you.”
Zheng Shumu lowered his head, his shoulders starting to shake.
He raised his hand to cover his eyes, his face contorted with pain and guilt. “Tian Tian, Tian Tian… I’m sorry. It was my fault. If only I had been a bit stronger back then, if I had run just a little faster…”
“Why wasn’t it you who died?”
Zheng Tiantian asked coldly, “Zheng Shumu.”
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