Chapter 302: Emperor's Dream

On the stage, the human-skin puppeteers brandished knives and spears; the opera vocals alternated between clangorous, gentle, and sorrowful, while offstage, a steady stream of listeners arrived.

Ordinary people passing by probably couldn't see these listeners.

Some of them were wandering ghosts from the vicinity, but more had crawled up from the Pearl Plate River.

Their bodies were bruised purple and soaked; some had knives slung at their waists, they craned their necks to stare at the stage, occasionally shaking their heads, utterly entranced.

The human-skin puppeteers on stage sang and danced, and Chen Fuying, leaning against the doorframe, hummed along.

Although her voice was soft, I could tell she had solid training.

This is a family tradition.

I didn't disturb her; I simply stood beside her and listened.

After the song ended, Chen Fuying murmured, "She is my great-great-grandmother, isn't she beautiful?"

I nodded: "Indeed, she is peerlessly elegant."

Chen Fuying chuckled lightly: "The women of our Chen family are never ugly; it's all thanks to our great-great-grandmother's good genes."

She then added: "She died at only twenty-eight, suffocated; a small opening was made at the back of her head, her entire skin was peeled off intact, and through special means it was made into a human-skin puppet, so, to some extent, the few we see on stage now are not truly ghosts."

At that moment, I was genuinely shocked.

Human-skin puppet?

To have such complete human-skin puppets, and so many of them, what kind of method could achieve this?

This made me think of Zhao Zixun.

After Chen Ping drove a coffin nail into Zhao Zixun's brow, he completely controlled Zhao Zixun, who then began killing and skinning people, but his methods surely couldn't have reached such a shocking level, could they?

Then, is there any connection between the creator of these human-skin puppets and the coffin nail embedded in Zhao Zixun's brow?

I glanced sharply at Chen Fuying; her appearance brought me a greater mystery, yet also a direct path to some truths.

Coming to find her, I had found the right person.

Chen Fuying sensed my gaze, she smiled and said, "A new performance has begun again, Xiao Jiu—listen and cherish it; soon, you might not even be able to hear it if you wanted to."

From 11 p. m. until nearly 3 a. m., the ghost stage kept performing, and the audience below grew ever larger.

I don't know if it's my imagination, but I even felt that the waves of the Pearl Plate River were higher than before.

At three o'clock, all the listeners quickly left.

The human-skin puppets on the ghost stage also vanished.

If they were merely a few ghosts, their instantaneous disappearance would be understandable, but they are human-skin puppets.

Puppets have physical substance.

They have no flesh and blood; a layer of skin traps the soul, making instantaneous disappearance impossible.

Where did they go?

In the distance, a faint rooster's crow drifted over; Chen Fuying finally straightened her body, looked at me, and asked, "Do you want to go see them?"

I exclaimed, "Is that possible?"

Chen Fuying raised her eyebrows: "Of course!"

I naturally jumped at the chance.

Chen Fuying turned, led me into the tea house, closed its main door, then took me to the back kitchen.

The tea house's back kitchen was large, with many people coming and going each day; beside a stove in the corner of the back kitchen wall, Chen Fuying, unaware of what mechanism she triggered, caused the stove to spin continuously.

I clearly saw a steamer basket on the stove, obviously used daily.

The stove rotated clockwise a few turns, then counterclockwise, until a click sounded; Chen Fuying pushed it, and the whole stove, along with a patch of ground beneath, shifted aside, revealing an opening.

Inside the opening was pitch black; Chen Fuying turned on her flashlight and shone it downward.

The edge of the opening had steps; Chen Fuying led me down, we walked about thirty steps and stood on a platform; she then inadvertently touched some mechanism, and the oil lamps on the wall lit up one after another, illuminating a stone door ahead.

The stone door was carved with a large "opera" character; around that character was a circle, half of which was a curved red-tassel spear, the other half a half-length water sleeve.

The tip of the red-tassel spear lifted the water sleeve, and one end of the water sleeve was wound around the tail of the red-tassel spear.

Chen Fuying produced a round emblem.

That emblem looked quite old; its front bore a carved "opera" character, its back a "plum" character.

Chen Fuying aligned the emblem's back with the point of the "opera" character on the stone door and set it in.

It fit seamlessly.

Only a boom was heard; the stone door slowly slid open, and a gust of Yin Cold Qi rushed forth.

The oil lamps lit up one by one, their dim yellow light casting the stone door's interior in vague shadows.

At first glance, my heart tightened, causing my pores to involuntarily constrict.

After I steadied my mind and saw the scene clearly, that clenched heart began to throb with pain.

Inside the stone door lay a vast space.

On the four walls hung hundreds of opera costumes, high and low, each perfectly preserved, with exquisite embroidery, clearly valuable at a glance.

In the center stood a high stage, likely unused for many years, its surface covered in dust, yet one could still tell it had been costly to build.

Opposite the stage, on the main seat, was placed a chair taller than the stage—a grand tutor's chair.

No, to be precise, that is not a grand tutor's chair, but a... dragon throne!

That dragon throne was broad and large, appearing to be made of pure gold; its armrests coiled with two gold dragons baring fangs and claws, each dragon's mouth holding a fist-sized night pearl.

On the wall behind the dragon throne hung a dragon robe embroidered with gold thread, depicting a five-clawed golden dragon.

On each side of the stage stood a coat rack about a person tall, on which were neatly arranged a dozen or so... human skins...

The hooks were driven through the back of the skull of each skin, leaving a scar only a few centimeters long.

On the skin surfaces, eyebrows and lips were painted, lifelike; several were clearly the very ones who had just been singing on the ghost stage.

Behind the racks, against the wall, stood several large boxes filled with various ornaments; beside them stood some props such as red-tassel spears.

Amid the dim light, the myriad things were utterly indiscernible.

At this moment, I even had the illusion of having fallen into a dream.

But I know this is not a dream.

All of this truly exists; it is a world that Chen Ping personally crafted for himself over a hundred years ago.

Here lie his imperial dreams and his preferences.

Chen Fuying walked up to one of the human skin figurines and stared at it intently.

Upon close inspection, one could see that the figurine's features were ninety percent similar to Chen Fuying's.

If that human skin figurine were filled with flesh and blood and brought back to life, it would be another living Chen Fuying!

Under my gaze, Chen Fuying bit her finger, and a bead of blood instantly welled up.

She touched the figurine's brow with her bleeding finger; the blood instantly spread and was quickly absorbed by the figurine.

Chen Fuying's face grew paler, a fine layer of sweat covering her forehead, while the figurine's face strangely acquired a hint of color.

In just a few seconds, the once plump Chen Fuying seemed to have shrunk a notch, and at the same moment, the figurine's chest faintly rose and fell…