Paper Puppets

Chen Mo thought it over for several minutes, then headed toward the middle courtyard.

He remembered that a fine sheet of yin paper was still in Chen Dachuan's room.

Chen Dachuan's room was right next door to his. Its door was shut tight, and he had rarely gone inside since Chen Dachuan disappeared.

The original Chen Mo had been afraid of being overwhelmed by memories. Chen Mo himself sensed that some kind of yin energy still lingered in the room, which could do no good for his body, already invaded by baleful intent.

He pushed open the door, and a blend of old wood and dried herbs washed over him.

The room was simply furnished: a bed, a cabinet, a table, and a chair. All were old, and lightly veiled in dust.

He knew exactly what he was after and walked straight to the black-lacquered wooden cabinet against the wall.

The cabinet was locked, but its key hung on an inconspicuous hook by the bed.

He took down the key, inserted it into the lock, and gently turned it.

"Click."

The cabinet door swung open.

Inside, it was divided into several layers.

The top shelf held a few neatly folded old clothes. Below them were several ancient books wrapped in oil paper. They weren't the Nether Paper-Crafting Art manuscript, but miscellaneous books on local tales and customs.

At the very bottom lay a long rectangular object wrapped tightly in thick, dark blue cloth.

Chen Mo carefully took out the bundle and set it on the wooden table.

He undid the fastenings and lifted away the thick cloth.

What lay beneath wasn't ordinary colored or plain paper.

The sheets were a deep gray, almost black. They felt icy to the touch, yet were unusually supple and smooth, their surfaces shimmering faintly with a dull sheen.

This was the yin paper Chen Dachuan had occasionally mentioned but strictly forbidden the original Chen Mo from touching.

It was supposedly made from the fibers of yin-settled bamboo of a particular age, mixed with graveyard grass and other rare materials, then crafted using an ancient secret method.

It was not only expensive, but unavailable in ordinary markets.

There were just over twenty sheets in the bundle, stacked neatly and exuding a profound, eerie aura.

Chen Mo lightly brushed his fingers across the paper. Its icy touch seemed to seep through his skin.

The baleful intent that had lain dormant inside him seemed faintly stirred by the yin paper's aura, stirring restlessly for a moment.

"This is the one."

Chen Mo wrapped up the yin paper, locked the cabinet again, and returned to his room.

He wasn't going to make paper boys and girls. He was making something with far greater bite: a Weaponized Paper Puppet.

At the end of the Paper Puppet Spirit-Communication Chapter, the manuscript contained a few vague passages mentioning that, with special materials as a foundation and secret-method runes and blood essence as catalysts, one could craft a simple battle puppet capable of cutting and dispelling baleful intent.

But this was a forbidden offshoot, fraught with danger.

The slightest mistake could damage the maker's mind and spirit at best, or leave them ravaged by yin energy or draw the attention of an unfathomable evil at worst.

Chen Mo didn't begin right away. First, he rummaged through the workbench drawer and took out a small sandalwood box containing several tools.

A spirit-pattern brush made from the hair of a hanged man.

A small dish of dark red cinnabar mixed with blood.

And a small bundle of dark golden thread, used to bind the puppet's key joints, strengthening its frame and helping spiritual energy flow through it.

Once he had everything ready, Chen Mo took a deep breath, shut the door, and left only a window slightly open for ventilation.

He carefully spread the stack of yin paper across the tabletop and took out one sheet.

First, he selected the toughest strips of yin-settled bamboo, then carefully shaved and roasted them with a small knife, assembling a simplified humanoid frame about two feet tall.

The frame didn't need to be beautiful or finely made. Its key joints only needed to be sturdy and flexible.

Then he picked up the yin paper and began cutting and wrapping it to match the frame, making sure every seam fit snugly and the paper clung perfectly to the bamboo bones, forming a dark gray shell with only the rough shape of a person.

Next came the most crucial step: drawing the spirit patterns.

Chen Mo dissolved a little blood cinnabar in clean water, soaked the spirit-pattern brush in it, and recalled the tadpole-like runes in the manuscript. Then he slowly began to draw.

The moment the tip touched the icy yin paper, he felt his mind jolt.

The cinnabar marks were faint against the dark gray surface. Guided by his intent, he drew one strange pattern after another across the puppet's chest and abdomen, the joints of its limbs, and its hands.

Drawing the spirit patterns took an enormous toll—not just on his mental strength. He felt the baleful intent near his heart stirring too, as though it wanted to pour out through the brush tip.

Chen Mo forced himself to stay calm and keep his movements steady.

By the time he finished the spirit patterns, fine beads of cold sweat had appeared on his forehead.

At last, he carefully wound the golden thread around the paper puppet's joints, tying each length with a special knot.

With every loop, he guided a thread of his own energy into the string, connecting it little by little to the spirit patterns on the puppet's bamboo frame.

The whole process took nearly two hours.

When he tied off the final length of golden thread, the sun outside was already high.

Chen Mo let out a breath, his body swaying slightly. He steadied himself against the table's edge.

Making this Weaponized Paper Puppet had cost him more than materials. It had drained his vitality and spirit, and even stirred the baleful intent inside him.

By then, his face was as pale as paper. He sat in a chair and rested for the better part of fifteen minutes before he recovered.

Only the final step remained: bringing it to life and forming a blood pact.

But that had to be done at midnight. The yang energy was too strong during the day, making it unsuitable for the ritual.

After storing the unfinished Weaponized Paper Puppet in a wooden box, Chen Mo felt waves of hunger roll through his stomach.

He forced himself to scrape the last bit of old rice from the bottom of the rice jar, mixed it with mostly brown rice and a few dried vegetable leaves, and cooked a thin pot of vegetable porridge on the little clay stove in the corner.

The warm food chased away some of the chill and brought back a little of his faltering strength.

After washing up the dishes, Chen Mo changed into his least conspicuous gray cotton jacket and tousled his hair to make himself look more like an ordinary youth struggling to make ends meet.

He checked the few copper coins hidden in his sleeve, then felt the empty cloth pouch in his chest. After locking all the doors and windows, he left through the back gate of the middle courtyard.

The afternoon sunlight was a little harsh.

Funeral Street was still gloomy in the daytime, but beyond it lay the clamor of Linhe County's ordinary streets.

With his head lowered, Chen Mo blended into the flow of people.

The street was paved with bluestone slabs, worn and neglected, with potholes and stagnant water in many places, gleaming blackish green.

On either side stood uneven rows of shops with gray tiles and wooden eaves. Their signboards and shop flags swayed in the breeze.

There were grain and oil shops, general stores, teahouses... Most had weathered storefronts and peeling paint.

The air was a jumble of food, sweat, livestock droppings, coal smoke, and a faint musty smell drifting from who knew where.

Accountants in long gowns hurried past with cloth bundles under their arms. Shop assistants in short jackets shouted from doorways. Old women with bound feet shuffled along with baskets of vegetables, while ragged beggars huddled in corners, their eyes vacant.

In the distance came rickshaw pullers' cries and the jingle of bells, mingled with the long-drawn calls of vendors selling wontons, repairing foreign-style umbrellas, sharpening scissors, and honing kitchen knives.

Yellowed notices plastered the walls: government wanted posters for bandits, grand-opening promotions, and, more than anything, layers of old posters and scraps of unidentified slogans.

Electric poles leaned at crooked angles, tangled with wires like the threads of an enormous spiderweb.