Chapter 107: Yan Luo and the Snowstorm at the Mountain God’s Temple

"Old man, who are you? Where do you come from? Where are you going?"

The program had not sent a main quest. In this supernatural world, he hadn't activated any genetic abilities related to spiritual perception. He didn't even know if this old man was human or a ghost. Regardless, he had to start a conversation to gather information.

Under his questioning, the old man remained silent. Outside, the wind grew fiercer, whipping thick curtains of snowflakes into the temple. The dim firelight flickered against the dilapidated statue of the Mountain God, the Judge, and the minor spirits, filling the temple with a heavy, eerie atmosphere.

Yan Luo unslung the weapon from his back and gripped it firmly.

Something about this old man felt wrong. If he suddenly erupted in violence or, beneath the gloomy firelight in this ruined temple, lifted his head to reveal a Sichuan-opera-style mask change while whispering, "You tell me, who am I?" then Yan Luo would have no choice but to strike this old fellow hard with his thousand-year-old lightning-struck peach wood sword.

Just as he was about to act, the old man spoke.

"In my youth, I loved watching the string-puppet theater, obsessed with the craft of the spinning dolls. As I grew older, my resolve hardened, and I made it my profession, finding joy in mimicking life with inanimate objects. Alas, I have drifted my whole life, with no home to dwell in and no companion to travel with, save for this single wooden puppet."

As he spoke, the old man raised his withered, claw-like hands and slowly caressed the puppet that sat upright on the three-foot red stage. A stream of turbid tears rolled down his face.

"Now that I am old and my time has passed, what remains besides this string-puppet?"

Yan Luo: "Oh, magicabacune."

The old man seemed not to hear him. He wiped away his tears, moved the stage in front of him, and his thin fingers twitched the strings. With a simple movement of his fingers, it was as if he had instantly breathed life into the puppet.

"Yi, ya~"

The sound came from the old man’s throat. Despite his decrepit state, he produced the delicate, melodious voice of a young performer. Clear and resonant, it filled the air. On the tiny stage covered in red cotton, the puppet girl began to walk and dance in rhythm with the melody.

"Deep in the garden, the vibrant flowers bloom in vain, cast aside in this ruined well and crumbling wall. What a beautiful day, yet what use is it to me? Who would appreciate these pleasures? Clouds drift in the morning and evening, the painted boat sails through mist and rain. One hidden behind the screen wastes this glorious time! The cuckoos cry until the hills turn red, the wild roses bloom in the soft mist—all for the sake of a beautiful face, amidst the flowing years..."

The old man was singing an aria from *The Peony Pavilion*. He performed in a woman’s voice, his fingers dancing. Beneath the firelight, the puppet girl on the red stage moved with such grace—every gesture, every smile—that it stirred the heart, as if she were not a doll, but a living, beautiful girl. Her rouge was applied lightly, her cheeks rosy, her eyes charming. She extended her water sleeves, dancing like falling flowers chasing the moon, stirring up a thread of worldly romance.

The old man’s voice, initially clear and flowing, gradually became choked with sobs, fragmented and incoherent. Yet, the puppet girl continued to dance joyfully, her small body wrapped in bright red silk, her gaze spirited, her dark eyes like water, her brows like ink, with a faint trace of sorrow locked between them.

When the aria ended, the old man fell silent. The entire temple went quiet, save for the howling wind and snow outside and the faint "crackling" of wood and paper in the brazier, which only deepened the sense of loneliness.

The old man hugged the puppet to his chest, a sincere smile appearing on his face, still streaked with tears. But the smile vanished quickly.

"My life has been a failure, all because of this puppet. It is cold, and I have no winter clothes. To be so poor—better to burn it!"

The temple had limited paper for the fire, and the wood in the brazier was nearly spent. As the fire dimmed, the old man suddenly threw the puppet into the brazier. Yan Luo could have stopped him, but he didn't. He watched as the exquisitely beautiful, mesmerizing doll fell into the flames.

*Honestly, that figurine would probably sell for a fortune in the real world... at least no less than that 9.8 billion one...*

Even so, he wasn't sure if he could take the puppet out of this world. Besides, this was a Level 1 supernatural world; the old man or the puppet definitely had issues. He just didn't know which one. He suspected the old man, who had been sitting in this ruined temple for ages as if oblivious to everything.

Just as Yan Luo was deducing this, he suddenly saw the puppet girl in the brazier rise and bow in farewell, her movements lifelike, the tear stains on her face clear, a smile flickering across her lips.

Then, the puppet vanished into the flames.

Instantly, the dying fire in the brazier flared up ten times brighter, and a wave of warmth filled the freezing temple.

Yan Luo suddenly felt like he was in a scene where someone says, "Chang Wei, you still claim you don't know martial arts!" He had thought the supernatural element was the old man, but it was the puppet girl—or at least, she was the anomaly.

"If the puppet is burned, does that mean I can leave this supernatural world?"

Yan Luo waited quietly.

In the brazier, the puppet, who looked like a girl of fifteen or sixteen, slowly burned—from her silk dress to her delicate fingers and lotus-root-like arms. The old man watched, tears streaming down his face.

Not until the wind and snow subsided, the night passed, and the sky turned bright, did the puppet girl burn down to her last strand of black hair. Only a pinch of ash remained.

The old man suddenly covered his face and wept: "Warmth is gone, and I am alone."

"You burned it yourself, don't blame me!" Yan Luo reminded him. He still hadn't dismissed his suspicion that the old man was a monster. If the fellow suddenly went berserk—with fangs, a bloody maw, and a lunging attack—he wouldn't hesitate to unleash his thousand-year-old lightning-struck peach wood sword.

The old man beat his chest and stomped his feet, wailing as if no one were there. At that very moment, the surrounding scene began to distort and shift violently.

The vision before Yan Luo’s eyes changed from the temple, the brazier, and the old man, to a mountain path filled with thick fog, drifting snow, and deep night, with a faint light in the distance.

"What the hell?"

Yan Luo realized this was the exact spot where he had first entered this world. He stood there, speechless, for a while. The wind was bitingly cold. After a moment of thought, he stepped into the snow just as before, trudging against the cold wind toward the distant light.

"Don't tell me I'm going to see another old man and a puppet."

He muttered to himself while struggling through the snow. Soon, he spotted a dilapidated temple with a rotting wooden door. He pushed it open, and with a teeth-grinding "creak," the interior was revealed.

The Mountain God, the Judge, the minor spirits, the burning brazier, the old man, the three-foot stage covered in red cotton, and the puppet girl—who should have been burned to ashes—sat there, delicate and fine, her face smooth as goose fat, her lips like cherries, her brows like ink, her eyes like autumn water.

Yan Luo: "..."