Chapter 264: Shadow Puppets and Lamplight (30)
After leaving Master Bai’s house, Yan Shixun kept thinking about the contents recorded in the notebook.
The Bai family’s ancestor had been a cautious man. After coming into contact with the ghost messengers of the old Fengdu, he realized this was no ordinary matter. So even though he wished to pass on the events of that year, he remained wary of the consequences should those details be written down and fall into the wrong hands.
After all, even though the old Fengdu had already been destroyed, it had once been a domain of ghost deities.
The lingering ghostly aura and power alone were far beyond what ordinary people could bear.
If someone with ill intent tried to make use of that ghost energy from the old Fengdu, it would spell a terrifying disaster for the human world.
Especially in a world no longer protected by ghost deities, there would be no defense against the ancient Fengdu’s oppressive power.
Therefore, the Bai ancestor had not written down everything in the notebook.
Most of it had been passed down orally, generation after generation among his Bai descendants, for over a thousand years.
As for the information about the old Fengdu’s location, it had been hidden discreetly within song lyrics, veiled beneath layers of trigrams and directional symbols from the Five Elements and Eight Trigrams. The exact position was never directly stated—it required one to unravel each symbolic location and rely on the natural geography of mountains and waters to finally pinpoint where the old Fengdu lay.
The Bai ancestor had thought it all through carefully.
If someone truly needed to find the old Fengdu to save the human world from ghosts, then these precautionary measures would not be obstacles. Instead, they would serve as tests of identity and ability.
If someone lacked the strength, or harbored ill intent like grave robbing, then they deserved to be kept out. They were not qualified to approach the old Fengdu.
Grateful for the help once offered by an unknown savior, and willing to do something for the ghost official he had come to regard as a confidant, the Bai ancestor had chosen to protect the old Fengdu—even though no one had ever asked him to.
He had become like a guardian of the tomb.
The Bai ancestor did not know what might happen in the future, or what kind of terrifying disaster would eventually send someone searching for the old Fengdu.
Perhaps no one would ever come looking at all.
But out of reverence for the heavens, the earth, and the ghost deities, he chose to pass the ancient tale down through generations.
As if preparing in advance a hidden path for his descendants—one that might never even be needed.
The only thing he hadn’t foreseen was that the world would change so drastically over time.
The landmarks he had marked—mountains, rivers, and lakes—had long since shifted. Over the course of a thousand years, towering mountains had been flattened into plains, and lakes had risen to form peaks.
So, the once clever design had instead become an obstacle that kept everyone from finding the old Fengdu.
After obtaining the notebook from Master Bai, Li Chengyun had stayed near Baizhi Lake for a long time, slowly deciphering every location it referenced as part of the Fengdu clues. Only after comparing them with what Master Bai knew from the past did he roughly determine that the old Fengdu lay somewhere near Baizhi Lake.
But where exactly it was—and where Li Chengyun had gone after leaving Baizhi Lake—Master Bai did not know.
Yan Shixun’s palm, through the fabric of his coat, gently held the notebook tucked carefully in his pocket. He lightly rubbed it, as if by touching this very notebook, he could somehow gaze across time at Li Chengyun from years ago.
His master had believed in him.
Believed that he would become an excellent exorcist, strong enough to take up this burden and continue the search for the old Fengdu—to find a way to hold up the heavens and earth.
Yan Shixun didn’t know what was inside the old Fengdu that had stopped Li Chengyun from seeking out the real Fengdu directly and made him fixate on this path instead.
But he would complete the journey Li Chengyun had left unfinished.
Yan Shixun pursed his lips slightly. The emotions he had shown in front of Master Bai just moments ago faded from his brow and eyes. Once more, his expression sharpened—firm and resolute.
When he lifted his eyes again, only a cold, indifferent calm remained in them.
He looked toward the village around him and suddenly felt it seemed much brighter than when he first arrived—as if several nearby households had lit their lamps.
This scene resembled the village by the lakeside theater far too closely.
Yan Shixun moved cautiously forward, not making a single unnecessary sound. Like a silent, prowling cat on tiptoe, he swiftly blended into the shadows by the window and turned his head slightly to peer inside.
A figure would occasionally flicker behind the window, appearing and disappearing.
From a distance, everything seemed normal. The eye would naturally tell the brain that it was merely a person’s silhouette cast on the window.
But only up close could the truth be seen.
—It wasn’t a person’s shadow on the window.
Rather, there was no person at all—just a black, humanoid silhouette.
A chill shot through Yan Shixun’s heart as he instantly realized that this might be the case in every house in the village. That was why he hadn’t seen a single villager, only heard the sounds.
Because from the very beginning—there had been no villagers.
It was like a projector, creating a facade to deceive.
Staging the illusion that life still lingered in the village.
Yan Shixun cautiously placed a hand on the door and gave it a gentle push.
Creeeaaak——!
The house had been uninhabited for years. The rusted hinges screeched harshly in protest.
Inside the room, candlelight flickered—but the space was completely empty.
Even the furniture was visibly coated in a thick layer of dust. The interior was rundown, stained with greenish-black mold, clearly abandoned for a long time.
Only by the window stood a lone figure.
The figure wore old-style clothes from years past. On a pale white face sat two red patches of rouge. Its gaze was locked directly toward the door.
Unprepared, Yan Shixun met that gaze and froze—then realized with a start that it wasn’t a real person.
It was a shadow puppet.
Just like Master Bai had said: Southwestern shadow puppetry emphasized blending life into its performance. This puppet looked like it was modeled after a former villager, wearing the same clothes, endlessly repeating the act of appearing and disappearing by the window, day after day.
The shadow cast onto the window. The candlelight was warm and bright.
It was as though the village remained frozen in its former peace, untouched by the tragedy to come.
Yan Shixun originally intended to leave and check other houses to confirm his suspicion.
But before he could turn around, he suddenly saw blood-tears slowly flowing from the black hollows of the puppet’s eyes.
The puppet raised its hand. Its intricate, flexible frame moved like a real human as it reached toward Yan Shixun.
It seemed to want to grab him—keep him there.
The candle’s flame flared up violently with a sharp crack.
In that instant, the entire house, along with the courtyard outside, plunged into darkness. Yan Shixun’s world spun wildly.
He felt like a traveler stepping into a swamp—his feet finding no solid ground, dragged deeper and deeper by the darkness.
When Yan Shixun opened his eyes again and the darkness slowly receded, he steadied himself.
He was still in the village.
But it was no longer the same peaceful and quiet place from before.
This… was the moment of calm before the storm.
Yan Shixun saw that he remained in the same house. But judging by the neatly arranged furnishings and tidiness, someone had clearly lived here. Only now, no one was inside.
Outside, faint sounds of noise and cheers drifted from the yard.
Yan Shixun pushed open the door and looked toward the source. Not far away, in the darkness, clusters of torches flickered up and down—like villagers running around with flames to light their way.
He narrowed his eyes. At once, his heart trembled at the familiar scene, and he took off running toward the torches.
The orange-red glow resembled the dying light of a setting sun, painting the starless, moonless sky blood-red.
The villagers shouted and jeered. The firelight stretched their shadows into grotesque lengths, swaying like ghoulish apparitions.
Ahead of them, a woman clutched the hand of a young boy and fled in panic.
Her face was ashen like gold paper, beads of sweat the size of beans, lips pale and colorless, bitten until they bled—she was clearly in poor health, barely hanging on.
Supporting her rounded belly, the woman repeatedly glanced back in terror—but her weak body couldn’t keep up. Her steps grew unsteady and sluggish; she stumbled, nearly falling.
Even though the boy was young, he understood what was happening. He tried to hold up his mother’s faltering body with his thin, tender shoulders.
But he was too small.
Behind them, the villagers roared with excitement like wolves. In front of him, his mother and the unborn child in her womb—
He could only watch everything spiral toward disaster, powerless to stop it.
The woman fell to the ground. Blood seeped into her skirt. She pleaded in despair to the villagers by the roadside—but they merely closed their eyes, hesitant and afraid, unwilling to lend a hand.
As the pursuing villagers closed in, the woman gritted her teeth, struggled to her feet, and dragged the boy forward once more.
But she and her child were no match for the strong young villagers behind them. They were like helpless rabbits, easily preyed upon.
Yet the villagers didn’t seem ready to end it so quickly.
They acted like beasts toying with their prey, laughing as they drove the woman onward—taking pleasure in her desperation and begging.
The raised torches lit up the lake water. The rippling surface reflected twisted, monstrous faces—like masks of demons.
The woman, panicking and without direction, tripped over a stone and tumbled toward the lake with a scream.
Mama——!
The boy’s eyes widened in shock as he lunged forward like a madman, desperately trying to grab hold of his mother.
But he missed.
The woman’s expression was frozen in fear and panic, yet her heavy, powerless body tumbled uncontrollably into the lake.
*Splash!* A loud sound erupted.
In the freezing water, the woman screamed for help, struggling with all her strength. Her soaked head bobbed in and out of the surface.
She reached her arms out frantically, hoping someone—anyone—would pull her to safety.
But the villagers had already run to the lakeside, only to gradually slow down and stop. They gathered by the shore, coldly watching her thrash in the water, bursting into cruel laughter at her suffering.
The boy tried to rush into the lake to save his mother, but the strong villagers grabbed him and held him up as he kicked and struggled, screaming in grief and rage—yet all he could do was watch helplessly.
The woman’s struggle grew weaker and slower.
The icy water choked her mouth and nose, stealing the warmth from her body, draining the last of her strength until her limbs were completely numb and cold.
So cold… so painful… so tired.
Through the freezing water, the woman cast one final, weary, heavy glance at the boy standing on the shore.
Then, she closed her eyes. Her arms no longer moved. She slowly sank into the lake.
Ripples spread across the surface, reflecting the flickering torches. The setting sun shattered in their reflection.
She never surfaced again.
The boy watched wide-eyed as his mother, along with the unborn child in her womb, sank to the bottom of the lake.
The cold mountain wind stole the warmth from his body. In his ears, there was only mocking laughter and the strange cries of joy. Among the jubilant crowd, his mother’s struggle and death were nothing more than a shadow puppet show put on for amusement.
His eyes burned red with fury. His cry of anguish tore through the air, raw and soul-shaking, like a young beast mourning its dead mother, coughing blood as it howled.
The sound echoed through the surrounding mountains and lakes, layer upon layer, like a chorus of weeping ghosts.
Startled, the villagers flinched. Then, as if ashamed, they grew furious and began punching and kicking the boy.
Yet when the sharp winds of their fists flew, it was the villagers—not the boy—who were hurled to the ground.
Yan Shixun’s eyes were bloodshot. His body trembled slightly with repressed rage, his clenched fists so tight that the knuckles turned pale. Every villager who stood in his way was sent flying by his merciless punches.
The villagers who had surrounded the boy finally noticed the unfamiliar man—Yan Shixun. They quickly let go of the frail, small boy and surged toward Yan Shixun, shouting questions about who he was.
Yan Shixun pressed his lips together tightly. His cold, sharp gaze was filled with fury, but not even a trace of fear at being surrounded. The sound of his fists landing, heavy and solid, only fueled his fighting spirit. Each blow was more brutal than the last, sending the villagers flying, their faces bloodied.
Soon, the once-arrogant villagers lay all over the lakeside, clutching their wounds and groaning in pain.
Meanwhile, the boy—who had been thrown aside—rushed into the lake the moment he was free, trying desperately to save his mother.
Only Yan Shixun remained standing at the water’s edge, silently watching the boy in the lake with his head lowered.
The knuckles of his fists were scraped and bleeding. Blood dripped slowly from his fingers, but he didn’t seem to feel any pain at all. Standing among the moaning villagers, he looked at the boy with pity in his eyes.
To make a child watch with his own eyes as his mother, carrying an unborn sister, sank to the bottom of the lake… That kind of cruelty was something even beasts could not match.
But what was even crueler—
Was that Yan Shixun knew all too well: everything he saw was only a shadow puppet play.
All of this had happened decades ago. It was already sealed in the past.
He couldn’t save the woman who drowned in the lake, nor could he save Zheng Shumu, who had been consumed by hatred and rage.
Even if he now stood among a sea of wounded villagers and had the strength to topple the entire village… he had still come decades too late.
Yan Shixun stood in silence for a long time. Around him, the boy’s grief-stricken cries echoed, along with the sound of water being stirred.
But just as Yan Shixun noticed the boy’s face in the lake turning pale blue from the cold and stepped forward to pull him out—
A light set of footsteps suddenly approached from behind.
Yan Shixun instantly turned around, alert.
He saw Zheng Shumu gently parting the drooping branches by the lakeside and walking slowly down the slope.
His head was lowered, strands of graying hair scattered among the black. His weathered face was filled with a deep, unspeakable sorrow.
“Mr. Yan.”
Zheng Shumu’s gaze passed over Yan Shixun’s shoulder and settled on the boy sobbing hoarsely in the lake. “You’ve realized… haven’t you?”
“That’s me. And that woman who died… was my mother.”
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