Xi'an. A historic city wall encloses the central area of Xi'an, with Zhonggu Lou—the central hub—at its heart. Behind the drum tower, a street stretches out, always bustling with delicious food and tourists, regardless of season or weather. This street is known as Hui Min Street, also referred to as the "Famous Food and Cultural District," "the embodiment of Xi'an's ambiance," and a "must-visit attraction in Xi'an." As popularity grows, space becomes increasingly valuable—businesses strive to crowd into the narrow, pointed center of the street. When the street surface is full, they extend into the narrow side alleys. On the street itself, a simple sign is often erected, bearing phrases such as "15 meters inward—accommodation available." About one-third of the way from the street's end, there lies a lane. At its entrance, a vendor sells hawthorn juice. High above, a sign reads: "Shadow Puppetry Performance—Scheduled Showings." Below the sign, a shadow puppet woman is displayed—her eyes graceful, her figure slender, her long, dark braid flowing behind her—making a striking and charming presence. Visitors who are interested or simply tired from wandering will often stop by the alley entrance, grab a cup of hawthorn tea, purchase a ten-yuan ticket, and watch a ten-minute shadow puppet performance. The shadow theater is modest—beyond the stage, there's only about ten square meters with three rows of tables and chairs, and colorful shadow puppets are hung on the walls. Visitors can pay 50 yuan to take home three puppets if they like them. The shadow puppeteer, a retired man named Ding Zhou, in his sixties with white hair and slightly limited mobility, rarely engages in social events. He usually sits quietly behind a bright, smooth white backdrop polished with fish oil, skillfully manipulating a few small puppets in his hands, following the rhythm of the drum to tell stories of bustling life from an earlier era. His performances vary—sometimes it's "The Salesman's Play at the Young Lady's House," sometimes "Nezha's Three Sea Expeditions." That evening, the performance began at seven sharp, and by half past six, the audience had already filled the theater. Ding Zhou lifted the curtain slightly to look down at the audience. The audience was mostly composed of parents with young children, many of whom couldn't sit still, twisting their bottoms on the benches and asking excitedly, "When is the animated show going to start?" Dingzhou could already foresee what would happen next: after the show began, the children would find it dull, realizing how different shadow puppetry was from animated films, and find the soft, melodic singing difficult to understand, demanding to go outside to play. Adults would scold them, and the children would cry and fuss. And he would, amid all this chaos, stick to the old Qin-style singing, persisting until the performance was finished. It would be quite tedious, yet most of life's moments are inherently uneventful. Just two minutes before seven, a young woman entered. Dingzhou's heart leapt—she had come again, for three consecutive days, each time arriving at seven. When she first came, Dingzhou had already noticed: she was very beautiful, with long, wavy hair, a single shoulder draped over a slightly worn black canvas bag. She wore a plaid shirt, slightly frayed jeans, and sturdy leather-soled boots with laces, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, with oil stains on both her arms and legs. She looked like a motorcycle mechanic—yet clearly not one. — The performance ends, the lights come up. Most of the audience murmuring, "Not great," head for the exits. A few linger, selecting shadow figures from the walls, intending to take a few home as souvenirs. That woman sits still, her canvas bag hanging at an angle from the back of her chair, one hand gently rubbing her ticket, her wrist adorned with a snake-like pattern that at first glance seems like a bracelet. Dingzhou clears his throat, slowly descends from the edge of the stage, pretending to be gathering tables and chairs, and as he passes her, offers her a polite smile, asking, "On a tour, are you?" "More or less," she replies. "You've come several times now—do you understand the performances? It's all traditional style, and many young people don't appreciate it." The woman looks at the fading stage curtain: "So many shadow figures, yet only one person operates the strings—remarkable." Dingzhou speaks modestly: "I'm far from that. If you go to the backstage, you'll find the vocal styles and drum-and-bell rhythms are all pre-recorded." The real master of shadow puppetry is called "dancing both hands to command a hundred thousand soldiers"—handling a dozen or so figures in a chaotic battle, while singing, striking, reciting, and clapping all at once. That's truly impressive. What should I call you?" "Li, Li Liuxi." Dingzhou didn't introduce himself; his name was already printed on the playbill and tickets, so she must have known it. He pointed to the shadow puppets hanging on the wall: "Not just two? All made of cowhide, the skin is translucent. The technique involves hand-cutting with a knife—purely manual. Complex figures require over three thousand cuts, and each one takes two or three days to complete. That's a fine product." He knew himself that this was all just nonsense. Nowadays, there are dedicated machines for carving shadow puppets—automated lines that produce hundreds per day. Few people are willing to go through the painstaking process of hand-cutting each one anymore—yet, when convincing tourists, he always says this. Li Liuxi smiled: "You've probably already noticed—I'm not going around the bend. My real purpose isn't simply to watch the shadow pup The audience had mostly dispersed, and the soft light fell upon the shadow puppets hung on the walls—peach-red, willow-green, apricot-yellow. Their finely carved, slender eyes and brows, densely clustered, seemed both eerie and alluring. Ding Zhou walked to the door, hung the "Rest" sign outside, and then locked it shut. The door could not block out the bustling voices from the Hui Min Street nor the vibrant aroma of various grilled foods. He turned to Ye Liuxi, his voice now even more weathered than before: "You've come to see Chang Dong—what's on your mind?" Ye Liux Xi replied: "I've heard he's a master of the Gobi Desert—he once traveled solo by bicycle across the Lop Desert, and people call him 'the Sand Warden.' To ordinary people, reaching that place is like fate; but he is the very tooth that can pierce through the desert." Ding Zhou understood: "So you're preparing to enter the desert and want Chang Dong as your guide?" "Exactly." "Do you know, though, that Chang Dong had a serious incident two years ago? It was covered in the news—he was criticized so harshly by online audiences that people treated Ye Liuxi opened his canvas bag, pulled out a magazine and placed it on the table: "If you're referring to the 'black camellia' incident, then I'm familiar with it." —— Dingzhou's eyes settled on the magazine cover. It was an outdoor publication, featuring a screenshot of a popular online post that Dingzhou had seen regularly featured and highlighted on China's leading outdoor website over the past two years. The post's author, a seasoned outdoor enthusiast, had compiled a thoughtful summary of major outdoor disasters over the past several years, including the "Muge hiking disappearance," the "Xiatie death river incident," the "Kanas snowland disconnection," and notably, the "desert black camellia" event. Two years ago, an outdoor group named 'Camellia' had planned a journey across China's four remote wilderness regions, beginning in Luobo Po, generating significant publicity, securing media interviews, and maintaining a consistent online posting throughout the journey. The guides they hired were from Changdong. That evening, they had only just entered the desert, not even reaching the edge of Luo Bu Po—on "Shancha"’s official WeChat account, a real-time update was posted, describing a disagreement between the team leader and Chang Dong over the overnight campsite. The team leader wanted to set up camp on-site, while Chang Dong insisted on pushing another two hours to establish camp near the Ge Tou Shabopo. Many outdoor enthusiasts responded, overwhelmingly supporting Chang Dong. Bear who loves to stay away from home: Chang Dong is a "sand specialist"—experienced and capable, so of course he should be listened to. Those who lack experience shouldn’t keep insisting. I’m a Prince from Saudi Arabia: Some outdoor enthusiasts actually have the mindset of donkeys—having only visited beaches, they think they’re ready to tackle deserts. Of course, Chang Dong should be heard. He’s crossed the Lop Desert, after all. Remember, Yu Chunshun himself never managed to make it through. Cilantro is dead: Yes, we should follow Chang Dong. He truly is an expert. In my eyes, he’s as much a desert king as Zhao Ziyun! …That evening, no one could have imagined a rare sandstorm erupting, with dunes advancing swiftly and sweeping the camp to complete destruction. Out of the original group of eighteen, all but Changdong perished. Due to the strong mobility of the dunes, the bodies and the camp itself may have been pushed several miles away overnight, leaving the search efforts entirely fruitless. Shanchai’s official WeChat profile picture turned black and remained unchanged thereafter. Once human lives are lost, outdoor news naturally evolves into a social hotspot, drawing exponentially growing attention. Yet the story wasn’t over. Two days later, a person claiming to have insider knowledge posted an explosive revelation— —During the Shanchai team’s trip to Lop Nur, although the guide was included, a total of eighteen people were reported missing, not just seventeen. If Changdong is still alive, then who is the additional person? —Why did Changdong insist on pushing the journey an extra two hours? Was it truly for logistical planning and safety in camp placement? The netizens were furious to discover that the extra one was Kong Yang, Chang Dong's girlfriend. Chang Dong insisted on making it to Ge Tou Shapuzi because there were many exposed desert rose stones in that stretch of sand dunes, where he wanted to propose to Kong Yang. The criticism poured in, more intense and relentless than a sandstorm, instantly engulfing Chang Dong. Ye Liuxi was about to speak when Ding Zhou pulled the lamp cord. Under the hazy yellow light, she could see clearly that the small glass panel was actually a glass frame, with a black border enclosing a black-and-white photograph of a young man in his twenties or thirties—his features strong and his eyes filled with despair. In front of the photograph stood a incense burner, its pot containing a shallow layer of ash, and two small porcelain bowls—one filled with rice, the other stacked with small packages of candies and cookies. Chang Dong was dead, wasn’t he? Ding Zhou said: “He caused the deaths of eighteen people. The world is blaming him—not just him, but also Kong Yang, whom they call a lowly woman. After selling off all his assets and arranging compensation for the families of the deceased, he came to see me.” He lived with Ding Zhou, quiet and reserved, often sitting silently beneath the stage, repeatedly watching Ding Zhou perform shadow puppetry, gazing at the lifeless puppets, and weeping as he listened to the timeless, melodic singing. One midnight three months later, Changdong cut his wrist in his room, and the blood flowed throughout the room, seeping through the door seams and into the corridor behind the stage. When Dingzhou saw the early morning light casting a patch of deep red across the corridor, he paused, wondering: What was this?