Little Puppet, You're Finally Alive!

Shen Le stood where he was, savoring the lingering sensation. That feeling of joy was vivid, warm, and soothing to his very core.

It was as if that old man, despite his own injuries and pain, was still gathering up the panicked, scattering children to comfort them;

It was also as if that Little Puppet, carrying out its master's wish, was doing its utmost to convey this joy and comfort to all the children:

Don't be afraid, don't be sad! Forget your sorrows, forget your pain, and be happy!

He sang, tugging at the silk threads, making the puppet perform. Not until the parents and relatives, busy amidst the fires of war, rushed over in a panic and saw their children gathered around the old man did they heave a great sigh of relief...

Shen Le had been watching from the sidelines, a smile fixed on his face. As he smiled, the view before him suddenly went black.

In the darkness, vast stretches of memory poured into his mind like a torrent:

A young child, squeezed into a street crowd, seeing a puppet show for the first time and being struck with wonder...

A stubborn teenager, arguing with his family, insisting on learning the art of puppetry...

A lonely young man, carving a puppet's head under a lamp, stroke by stroke. A slip of the knife cut his finger, and a drop of blood fell onto the puppet's face. The young man dipped his own blood to dot a cinnabar mole onto the corner of the puppet's eye...

A middle-aged man, drifting through the fires of war, never forgetting his original intention, and an old man passing down his craft...

Until the very end, still manipulating the puppet from his sickbed.

Singing operas to his young grandson, teaching him hand-over-hand how to make the puppet walk, dance, and tumble, watching him use his tiny, clumsy hands to pull the strings...

And the final memory was of the old man lying on his sickbed, his fingers gently tugging at the puppet.

The little grandson leaned against the old man's knee, his left hand balled into a fist level with his eyes, his right hand holding an empty fist, moving back and forth on the outer side of his thigh, pretending to play the erhu to accompany his grandfather:

"While I live, I must fulfill my duty; how can this inch of land belong to another..."

When his vision brightened, Shen Le found himself back at his workbench. The restored puppet lay across the table, its eyes brimming with emotion as it met his gaze.

That cinnabar mole, like the old man's heart-blood, was imprinted on the corner of the puppet's eye, and imprinted on the puppet's heart as well.

Shen Le let out a breath. This memory wasn't like the previous ones—a passive, movie-like experience—but an immersive, firsthand encounter.

Every stroke of the knife against the wood while carving, every bit of feedback from the silk threads digging into his fingers while manipulating the puppet—it all felt as if he had done it himself, not just once, but for over a decade, for decades.

So many memories gave Shen Le the immediate feeling of, "I can do this too."

He lifted the control board with his left hand and pulled the strings with his right. Just as he was about to perform a puppet show for himself, the puppet suspended by the strings suddenly leaped high into the air:

"Ah!!!"

Shen Le's left hand jerked, the control board slipped from his palm and fell straight down. Halfway to the floor, it wobbled and floated back up, hanging in mid-air.

The puppet dangled beneath the control board, moving without a breeze, its dress fluttering as if a young girl were swaying, wantonly enjoying the spring sunshine.

Shen Le rubbed his eyes, then rubbed them again. He took two steps back, then one step forward, reached into his collar with his right hand, pulled out the Copper Fragment, and flipped the front side to face the puppet:

"You're alive?"

Very well, this Copper Fragment had finally revealed a brand-new skill.

Whether the Copper Fragment had enchanted the puppet and turned it into a living thing, or whether it had enchanted him and allowed him to see its different state, the door to a new world had been opened...

A faint voice drifted over.

The puppet clearly hadn't opened its mouth, and its carved lips hadn't moved. Yet, as the Copper Fragment in his hand vibrated gently, Shen Le felt a voice enter his heart. It was delicate, crisp, and righteous:

"I was alive to begin with!"

The puppet leaped up, smoothed its dress, and spun around gently. It tilted its head, looked left and right, then lowered its head to look at the embroidery on its skirt:

"Where am I?—And who are you?"

Uh...

Shen Le put himself in its shoes and felt that if he had just opened his eyes and someone asked him, "You're alive?", he would also want to jump up and spray them in the face.

Thinking this, he felt a bit ashamed. He tucked the Copper Fragment back into his chest and scratched his hair:

"Uh, sorry about that. My name is Shen Le. I'm the one who restored you, and you're in my house right now. What's your name?"

"I..."

The puppet spun around once, then again. It looked up at the sky, then down at the ground:

"I... I don't know what my name is... The old man called me 'Little One,' and his grandson called me Xiao Lin, but I don't feel like those are my names..."

Ah, he'd asked an awkward question.

Truth be told, whether it was an animal or an object gaining sentience, self-awareness was a troublesome business, and a "name" was the most critical part of that self-awareness.

Knowing "I am I" was one hurdle; giving oneself a name to distinguish oneself from the masses was yet another.

As for humans, from the moment they are born and grow up, with parents and relatives calling them, they naturally know who they are and what their name is.

For spirits and monsters, it wasn't so easy to have a name. If it wasn't given by a human, but chosen by themselves, it usually meant their cultivation had already achieved something significant.

"Right, could you give me one?"

Shen Le hesitated for a moment.

He had once read in a novel called Spirit Wander that giving someone a name was either the act of a life-giver, like a parent;

Or the act of a provider, like a foster parent, or a master naming a servant;

Or perhaps a bestower of completion, like a mentor.

He had picked up the Little Puppet, mending and patching her, polishing and lacquering her, and dressing her in fine attire. Yet, he still lacked that final spark required to bestow life, upbringing, or completion. He feared he was not yet worthy of giving the Little Puppet a name.

"Give me one, just give me one!" The Little Puppet stood on her tiptoes and spun around several times.

"I don't want to be called 'Little Puppet', 'Little Puppet' anymore! You help me pick one first, and if it doesn't work out, we can change it later!"

Uh...

Shen Le's brain raced. Picking a name—what would be a good name? Seeing her dressed in red, should he call her Little Red?

Looking at the cinnabar mole at the corner of her eye, should he call her Zhu Zhu? Or Cinnabar?

Or perhaps, seeing her light-footed dance, spinning around every few seconds, should he call her Little Dance?

And later, when introducing herself to others, "My name is Little Dance, as in the dance of dancing?"

Forget it!

Shen Le shuddered violently. In his dilemma, a flash of inspiration struck, and he blurted out:

"How about Xiao Ling? The 'Ling' with the person radical, meaning a performer in a play... Do you like it?"

"Xiao Ling, Xiao Ling..."

The Little Puppet recited the name a few times. She didn't object, though it was unclear if she liked it or was just keeping it to see how it felt. She then asked casually:

"By the way, his grandson's child came over to play at my place a few days ago. Do you know what that was about? The one who jumped off the building a couple of days ago!"

"What? Jumped off a building?!"

Xiao Ling leaped up. Her willow-leaf eyebrows arched, and the cinnabar mole at the corner of her eye glowed brilliantly, making her look as if she were about to explode:

"That child jumped off a building?"

"Yeah... he jumped a few days ago... I heard from the police officer who saved him that the child kept crying in the hospital, saying he wanted to play with his 'big sister.' The 'big sister' he mentioned—is it you?"

"Of course it's me!" Xiao Ling puffed out a chest that didn't exist, her face beaming:

"I've been playing with him for so many years!

From the time he was small until now, whenever his family went to work or out to buy groceries, and he was crawling around the house all by himself, wasn't I the one watching him?

We played from kindergarten through elementary school, from the first grade all the way to the fifth grade—"

"So, when he ran over to my residence to play a few days ago, was it you who called him over?"