The old man sang as he worked the puppet. When he lowered his gaze to it, his eyes held tenderness and contentment, along with some deeper emotion Shen Le couldn't yet identify.
Even with not a single person in the audience, even as sunlight streamed through the high windows, illuminating countless specks of dust drifting through the air, his singing remained impassioned and powerful. He was utterly absorbed, as if the seats below were filled with spectators—or as if this were the last performance of his life.
Suddenly, the noise outside the theater drew closer, growing louder and more chaotic. The old man tilted his head to listen to the slogans being chanted over and over. His face filled with worry. At last, he wrapped up the puppet, held it in his arms, and quietly made his way out:
He went backstage, passed through a narrow corridor, and dragged an old iron basin out of a storage room. Then he went to a patch of bare ground by the wall, about a square zhang in size. He tossed in some firewood and lit it. As the flames roared upward, he hesitated again and again. Several times, he lifted Little Puppet, only to clutch it tightly to his chest once more:
The slogans kept coming from beyond the wall. They mingled with the blows that struck like hammers smashing the wall, the crash of heavy objects hitting the ground, and the cheers of the crowd. At last, the old man stopped hesitating. He clenched his teeth and threw Little Puppet, bundle and all, into the iron basin.
The flames leaped up, swallowing the cloth wrapped around Little Puppet. The fire licked at it, and the fabric blackened, split, and crumbled into ash inch by inch. Sparks flew everywhere, nearly reaching the old man's beard, but he made no move to dodge them. Kneeling in front of the basin, he stared unblinkingly at Little Puppet inside and sang softly:
"While I yet live, I must fulfill my duty; how could I let an inch of land belong to another..."
He sang these bold, stirring words with a mournful lilt, as though this were the only way he could see his beloved Little Puppet off on its final journey. The bundle caught fire, and soon the flames spread to the puppet itself. Its brocade clothes ignited at once, blazing fiercely, while the wood crackled and popped.
The old man stared unblinkingly at the puppet in the fire. He watched its clothes catch fire, then the wood, his cheeks twitching faintly all the while. Suddenly, a whirlwind sprang up from nowhere, swept a scrap of cloth into the air, and plastered it over his face. The old man could no longer bear it. With a heart-rending cry, he overturned the iron basin and reached in with his bare hands to pull out the burning puppet!
The puppet landed on the ground, its clothes, hands, and feet still burning. The old man took off his own clothes and beat at the flames with all his might, but they didn't die down at all. Instead, they spread to his clothes. People on the other side of the wall seemed to have heard the commotion; noisy voices drew closer.
The old man made up his mind. He threw himself onto the ground, wrapped his arms around the puppet, and rolled back and forth, trying to smother the flames with his body. After seven or eight rolls, the fire finally went out. Several patches on the old man's chest had burned through, leaving blackened blisters.
He seemed not to feel the pain. Holding Little Puppet tightly in his arms, he slowly walked back. His expression was caught between joy and sorrow, his song as faint as a thread, yet unbroken:
"What are those clownish vassal kings to me? One sword of mine can stand against... a million troops..."
A drop of bright red blood fell onto the puppet's fair cheek, like a teardrop of pearl.
Darkness flickered before Shen Le's eyes. When his vision cleared, he was standing at the workbench, with the puppet lying quietly in pieces before him. He reached out and gently touched the burned area on its right arm, his feelings complicated:
"So that's what happened..."
Was this what you went through?
Were these your memories?
You were taken away, burned, and thrown into the fire by your own master. Just as you were about to burn up, he rescued you...
How do you feel about your master?
And how do you feel about humanity?
Was that child who jumped from the building really connected to you? Were you the one who lured those three children into the house, where they slept in the Great Camphor Tree all night?
He held Little Puppet in his palm, examining it closely as he questioned it in silence. On Nanhua Street, the Baby-faced Youth and the Tang-suit Youth had already counted the house numbers as they made their way step by step to his front door:
"Number 14 Nanhua Street... Number 16... Number 18... This is the place. Wow, what a big mansion! Senior Martial Brother, should we knock?"
"Wait..."
The Tang-suit Youth looked down at the Compass in his hand, his expression growing more and more grave, even turning anxious. The Baby-faced Youth glanced at him, lowered his head, muttered a few words, and tapped his forehead. Then he looked up at the mansion gate. The moment he saw it, he let out a scream:
"Ah! My eyes—my eyes!"
To ordinary people, 18 Nanhua Road was just an old mansion. You could find seven or eight like it in any ancient town, old street, or tourist area. Ordinary people could enter, the police could enter, and even children who hadn't finished elementary school could climb over the wall to play inside. None of them would sense the slightest danger.
But when Zhang Bingxin opened his Spirit Eye and looked, he saw an entirely different scene:
Demonic aura gathered around the mansion like clouds and mountains. Though it didn't spread outward, it stood like an impregnable fortress, refusing to let outsiders peer inside. And if anyone tried to investigate by any means, even the slightest action would provoke a backlash from the demonic aura.
He had only taken a single look with his Spirit Eye, yet the demonic aura inside the mansion had struck back at him. Tears streamed down his face, and his vision was still blurry.
"The owner of this mansion isn't someone we can afford to provoke." The Senior Martial Brother checked over his junior, put in a few drops of eye drops, then warned him with a stern expression:
"Let's go and think of another way. We can either ask our sect to step in, or... Wait, they found the child! The police found the child in this mansion!"
"Thank goodness. We don't have to try forcing our way in. As for this puppet, uh, we'll have to think of something else..."
The puppet lay perfectly still, neither moving nor making a sound. It was just like an ordinary toy, unable to call for help or show anyone snippets of its memories. Shen Le watched it for a while, sighed, and had no choice but to grab a pen and start sketching:
He had no idea how to trigger that memory again, or whether he'd be able to watch it a second time. While he could still remember some of it, he'd better hurry and draw the details of the puppet's wooden panels, then sketch its Red Skirt!
The Red Skirt had already been burned to tatters. If he didn't draw it now, he'd never find anything with a similar design!
Drawing was a basic skill in architectural restoration. He drew the wooden panels, the skirt, and the puppet's makeup. When Shen Le finished and looked at the makeup on the page, he sighed:
How was he supposed to paint this?
What materials should he use?
What if he messed it up the first time?
He could just about manage to carve a puppet head. With enough practice, he might even get pretty good at it. But as for applying makeup to a puppet and recreating its look—he really didn't know how.
He'd never even had a girlfriend in college, let alone helped someone with their makeup at a comic convention!
Thankfully, the internet could do anything. Shen Le flung himself online, searched for a good while, checked the shipping progress on Taobao, and placed several more orders:
Plaster powder!
Resin clay!
Polymer clay!
And most important of all:
Three-quarter-scale BJD practice heads, special clearance version—one dozen to start!