The burned puppet, do you hate humans?

The old man sang while manipulating the puppet, his gaze fixed on it with a mixture of affection, satisfaction, and a deeper emotion that Shen Le could not yet identify.

Even though there was not a single soul in the audience, and even though the sunlight streaming through the high windows illuminated countless dust motes dancing in the air, his singing remained powerful and resonant. He was completely immersed, heart and soul, as if the theater were packed with spectators, or as if this were the very last performance of his life.

Suddenly, the roar of voices outside the theater grew louder and more chaotic, drawing closer. The old man tilted his head to listen to the repetitive slogans, his face etched with worry. Finally, he wrapped up the Little Puppet, held it to his chest, and crept toward the exit.

He slipped into the backstage area, navigated the narrow corridor, and dragged a battered iron basin out of the storage room. He moved to a patch of open ground near the base of the wall, threw in some firewood, and lit it. Watching the flames leap upward, he hesitated again and again, lifting the Little Puppet only to pull it tightly back into his embrace.

On the other side of the wall, the chanting continued, punctuated by the rhythmic thud of objects striking the wall as if to tear it down, the crash of heavy debris, and the cheers of the crowd. The old man finally stopped hesitating; he gritted his teeth and tossed the Little Puppet, still wrapped in its cloth, into the iron basin.

The flames surged upward, swallowing the fabric. Tongues of fire licked at the cloth, charring it inch by inch until it split and crumbled into ash. Sparks flew, nearly singeing the old man's hair and beard, yet he did not flinch. He knelt before the brazier, staring unblinkingly at the Little Puppet inside, and began to sing softly:

"While I draw breath, my duty must be fulfilled; how could this inch of land ever belong to another..."

He sang these heroic lyrics with a poignant, mournful grace, as if this were the only way to bid his beloved Little Puppet a final farewell. The wrapping caught fire, quickly spreading to the puppet itself. The brocade clothing ignited instantly, burning fiercely, and even the wood began to crackle and pop.

The old man stared at the puppet in the fire, watching the clothes and then the wood catch flame, his cheeks twitching uncontrollably. Suddenly, a whirlwind whipped up from the ground, blowing a scrap of burning fabric onto his face. Unable to bear it any longer, the old man let out a heart-wrenching cry, 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, limbs, and torso still ablaze. The old man stripped off his own outer garment and beat at the flames, but the fire did not diminish; instead, it caught onto his own clothes. The commotion seemed to alert those on the other side of the wall, and the sound of noisy footsteps drew near.

Driven by desperation, the old man threw himself onto the ground, hugging the puppet and rolling repeatedly to smother the flames with his body. After rolling six or seven times, the fire finally died out. The old man's chest was scorched, his clothes burned through, revealing patches of charred, blistered skin.

Seeming oblivious to the pain, he clutched the Little Puppet tightly to his chest and began to crawl back. His expression was a mix of joy and sorrow, his singing thin as a thread, continuous and lingering:

"What are these petty usurpers worth? With a single sword, I can hold off... a million soldiers..."

A single drop of bright red blood fell onto the puppet's pale cheek like a pearly tear.

With a flicker of darkness followed by light, Shen Le stood at his workbench, where the dismantled pieces of the puppet lay in silence. He reached out and gently stroked the charred section of the puppet's right arm, his heart heavy with complex emotions.

So, that's how it was...

Is this your experience?

Is this your memory?

To be snatched away, burned, thrown into the fire by your own master, and then saved by that same master just as you were about to be consumed...

What kind of feelings do you have for your master?

And what do you feel toward humanity?

Did that child who jumped from the building really have anything to do with you? Were you the one who lured those three children into the Old Mansion to sleep under the Great Camphor Tree for the entire night?

He held the Little Puppet in his palms, observing it closely, asking silent questions. On Nanhua Street, the Baby-faced Youth and the Tang-suit Youth were counting house numbers, stepping closer to his front gate.

"Nanhua Street, number 14... 16... 18... This is it. Wow, what a massive house! Senior Brother, should we knock?"

"Wait..."

The Tang-suit Youth looked down at the compass in his hand, his expression growing increasingly grave, bordering on nervous. The Baby-faced Youth glanced at him, then lowered his head, muttering an incantation as he tapped his own brow. He looked up at the gate, and with just one glance, he let out a shrill cry:

"Ah! My eyes!—My eyes!"

To the eyes of an ordinary person, 18 Nanhua Road was nothing more than a dilapidated Old Mansion, the kind you could find half a dozen of in any ancient town, street, or tourist district. Ordinary people could enter, police could enter, and even children who hadn't finished elementary school could climb the walls to play without sensing the slightest hint of danger.

However, when the youth Zhang Bingxin looked with his Spirit Eye, the scene was entirely different:

The mansion was thick with stagnant demonic energy, vast as clouds and mountains. Though it did not leak outward, it stood like a wall of bronze and iron, utterly forbidding any intrusion. Any attempt to probe it would be met with an immediate, violent backlash of demonic energy.

He had only taken one look with his Spirit Eye, and the reflection of the mansion's energy had caused his eyes to stream with tears; even now, his vision remained blurred.

"The master of this house is not someone we can provoke." The senior brother checked on his junior, applied a few drops of eye medicine, and warned him with a grim face:

"Let's go. We'll have to think of another way. Either we ask the sect to intervene, or... wait, the children have been found! The police found them inside this very house!"

"Thank heavens, we don't have to try and force our way in. As for this matter with the puppet, uh, let's think of another plan..."

The puppet lay quietly, neither moving nor making a sound, just like the most ordinary toy—one that wouldn't call for help or reveal fragments of memory. Shen Le watched it for a while, sighed, and finally picked up a pen to sketch rapidly.

He didn't know how this memory had been triggered, nor if he could ever see it again. While the details were still fresh, he had to draw the patterns on the puppet's wooden boards and that red dress!

The red dress had been burned to ruins; if he didn't draw it now, he would never find another one like it.

In the field of ancient architecture restoration, drawing was a fundamental skill. He sketched the boards, the dress, and the puppet's makeup. Shen Le finished his work and sighed at the face on the paper:

How was he supposed to paint this?

What materials should he use?

What if he messed it up on the first try?

He could manage to carve a puppet head if he pushed himself, and with enough practice, he might even do a decent job. But asking him to apply makeup to a puppet and restore its original look—forgive him, he really didn't know how.

In college, he hadn't even dated a girlfriend, let alone helped anyone with makeup at a convention!

Fortunately, there was the omnipotent internet. Shen Le dove online, searched for a long while, checked the logistics status on Taobao, and placed a few more orders:

Plaster powder!

Resin clay!

Polymer clay!

And most importantly:

A dozen 1/3 scale BJD practice heads, special clearance edition, coming right up!