Ye Liuxi spoke softly, "I never thought..." She stepped forward, brushing her finger along the edge of the incense burner and lifted it up. A thin layer of ash rested on her fingertip. At the corner of the altar, a spider whose web had been woven steadily was startled by the commotion, its slender legs moving swiftly, the silvery web trembling. Ye Liuxi tapped her finger lightly and then blew gently on it, "You don't pay much attention to this nephew of yours." Ding Zhou remained expressionless. "People trust him as a guide, yet he insists on his own experience, acting unilaterally—now that the consequences are so serious, I find he deserves to die. I've read the news—some of the people who died were just becoming fathers. No matter how many times he fails, he can't atone for that." Ye Liuxi sighed, "That's not quite fair—deserts are places where even the most experienced often find themselves unprepared..." She stepped back. Ding Zhou closed the door and led her out. "Miss Ye, you'll have to look elsewhere. But I'd like to remind you: if you can avoid it, do avoid it." The desert is so dangerous—it only bites you, never the other way around. To call it "Sand Fang" is ridiculous. Ye Liuxi laughed, her steps brisk, stepping ahead of the others to the edge of the stage, opening her canvas bag, and withdrawing a sealed courier envelope she handed to Ding Zhou. Ding Zhou was surprised: "What is this?" He said while turning the envelope over—unstamped, unlabeled, just a plain container for items. Ye Liuxi said: "There's something inside. Take your time to look at it, be careful when you open it, don't tear it. I'm leaving now. Once I step out of the alley, I'll head north. If you want to catch up with me, you'll have to hurry." Ding Zhou was puzzled: "Why should I chase you?" Ye Liuxi adjusted her bag on her shoulder, gesturing toward the envelope: "That depends on you. If you want to follow, go ahead. If not, just stay." She opened the door. The audience members who had just purchased their tickets were growing impatient. As the door opened, they surged in, shouting and crowding in. Ye Liux Dingzhou tore open the courier envelope. What on earth was it? It felt weightless, flat and smooth—just a piece of paper, surely. When he pulled it out, it was a large brown envelope made of kraft paper. He opened it and reached inside, pulling out a medium-sized white envelope. Dingzhou grew impatient: layer after layer—was this all a game being played with him? Fortunately, the white envelope contained something. It felt like a photograph—he drew it out. For a few seconds, the sounds of the room faded from his ears, replaced instead by distant, endless sounds: a sandstorm sweeping in, glaciers cracking and collapsing, rocks rolling steadily. Dingzhou rushed out. It had been too long since he’d stepped outside—he’d forgotten just how crowded the street was. As soon as he stepped out of the alley, he nearly collided with tourists, stumbled, and almost tripped over the cluttered stalls and storefronts. The street itself was crowded, with people constantly calling out, camera flashes cutting through the air like waves. Finally, he found his footing, and all around him, people’s faces and silhouettes were fragmented and distorted by the lights. Voices sounded like serpents, winding and pressing into the eardrums. Some complained, "Is this old man ill?" Others urged, "Stay away from him—don't trip and land on us." Ding Zhou stood amid the bustling crowd, roaring, "Ye Liuxi!" No reply came. The clamor rose like waves, growing stronger and taller as the night deepened. Then hurriedly darted into the back office, calling, "Dong...!" But the next words were swallowed by her throat. Chang Dong sat there, his white headband tossed aside, patches of adhesive paper peeled off his face, some still clinging, his artificial beard frayed and messy—his whole appearance strange and grotesque, like a zombie with drooping skin. What on earth was going on? Xiao He was busy earning money to marry, didn't care much about the internet, nor about news, and had never heard of "black camellia" – he thought Changdong was rather odd: at such a good age, with such promising talent, yet unproductive, always dull and lifeless, barely speaking for days, never leaving the house, like a real-life vampire afraid of sunlight. Dingzhou also encouraged Changdong: "Why not find something to do to take your mind off the negative things? Don't keep thinking about them every day." So Changdong took up shadow puppetry, learned from Dingzhou how to thread the strings, making the puppets run, stand, sit, grasp, roll, do a flying somersault, and even launch a surprise counterattack. Sometimes he would carve his own puppets, using chisels to shape star patterns, plum blossoms, and thousand-character motifs, then gently baking them with an alcohol lamp to soften the glue, and while still warm, applying dyes and paints. Xiao He felt particularly relieved and thought that Dingzhou had truly found a promising successor. Playing shadow puppetry didn't require formal training, and nowadays, with few professional audiences, most people came just to watch the show, and even fewer truly understood the art—Changdong could simply imitate and get by. A year and a half ago, Dingzhou passed away from illness. The "Resting" sign at the theater stayed up for several days, as the management didn't want to disrupt business and kept the news quiet. After the event, Xiao He had been thinking about how to broach the subject with Changdong—only to find that Changdong had already volunteered to step in and help cover for the theater. Xiao He was overjoyed, yet soon became bewildered by Changdong's elaborate stage attire. Changdong removed the plaster mask, purchased specialized film-and-television makeup materials—sulfurized latex, hair wigs, and false beards used for application—and transformed into an elderly man, wearing Dingzhou's old clothes, even mimicking Dingzhou's slight limp as he walked. At first, his technique was clumsy, and upon closer inspection, there were clear flaws. Yet he never tried to compensate—instead, he simply stayed behind the curtain, manipulating the shadow puppets with quiet focus. After each performance, no one paid any attention to the old man behind the scenes, and some audience members remarked, "This elder truly impressive—he manages to control three shadow puppets at once!" Xiao He, naturally lacking curiosity, gradually came to accept this: everyone has their quirks, and Changdong is inherently unusual, so why not? Moreover, seasoned artisans always appear more composed and trustworthy than younger faces, which is better for promotion and for business. Over time, Changdong's costume changes grew as refined as the puppeteers' skill in handling the strings, and his voice became deliberately aged and low. Yet if one argued that he adopted an older appearance solely for business reasons, one would find that once he began dressing as an elder, he would often remain in character—eating, sleeping, even dining with the makeup slightly worn, only re-dressing when the makeup began to fade. Xiao He also once advised him: "Dong, this gel on your face—over time, it'll really create wrinkles. Nowadays men pay attention to skin care too. You're not doing yourself any favors; you're actually more prone to breakouts..." But eventually, he stopped mentioning it—after all, the advice didn't make much difference. There was another reason: Chang Dong, when he pretended to be older, actually came across as more natural. He could chat easily and smile warmly. Once his makeup was removed, however, his face grew expressionless and rather intimidating. Now, with his makeup barely holding on, looking like a ghost, it was even more unsettling. Xiao He asked gently, "Dong, what's going on?" Chang Dong remained silent for a while before speaking: "You went on a trip to Dunhuang, didn't you?" "Yes, I did." A few weeks ago, Xiao He had taken his fiancée and her future father-in-law to tour the Mogao Caves, then the Yadan landforms, and finally the Han Dynasty Great Wall—posting updates on his朋友圈 one after another. "Here's a photo," Chang Dong said. Xiao He took it and glanced at it quickly. " There's a Yardang wind-eroded clay mound in the photo, medium to close-up, shaped like a ship's bow. Embedded on top is a young woman, as if grown out of the clay itself—elegant in appearance, pale-faced, her hands folded over her chest, resembling a mural carving set into the hull, her eyes wide and blurred, her long hair swaying in the wind. It becomes rather eerie after looking at it for a while. Chang Dong asks, "What do you think this is?" Xiao He, having seen all the Yardang mounds alike, replies, "The Devil's City, right? This mound looks like a ship—could it be the Western Sea Fleet?" The Western Sea Fleet is a well-known attraction at the Devil's City, where wind-eroded formations stand in orderly rows, like an army ready for action. Chang Dong murmurs, "Actually, there are several Yardang groups within the country beyond the Devil's City. This one feels more like the Dragon City." What is the Dragon City? Xiao He is about to ask when his phone rings. He picks it up—it's an unknown number. To promote his shadow puppet business, Xiao He's phone number has been prominently displayed on countless travel websites, and is clearly printed on ticket brochures—receiving calls from tourists is now a regular occurrence. After he "huh"ed twice, he looked puzzled and handed his phone to Chang Dong, saying, "Dong, they said... have you take this call." It was the first time anyone had ever called through him to reach Chang Dong. Chang Dong took the phone, and on the other end, a woman's light laughter could be heard. "Ye Liuxi?" Ye Liuxi's tone carried a hint of mockery. "Didn't make it, did you? Have you gone completely overboard with the old man act—your legs must be stiff now?" "Who exactly are you? And what about the photos?" "Do you really think I'd answer you over the phone?" Chang Dong paused. "You mentioned wanting a guide. Now I've agreed to that." Ye Liuxi chuckled. "Chang Dong, you've been out of commission for two years—how do I know your sharp tongue is still sharp?" Well, here's the deal—give yourself a week. If you can find me, that proves you've got some sense, and then we can team up and do something together. If not, just keep living with your shadow puppets. —— That's what Ye Liuxi said when she hung up. In fact, she hadn't moved far—she was just settled in a white minivan parked at the end of the street. On the passenger seat, casually stacked were the snacks she'd packed from the Hui street: lotus seed cakes, pomegranate juice, yogurt, and about a dozen lamb skewers wrapped in plastic. She didn't rush to eat yet. Instead, she lowered the rearview mirror, unscrewed the new, budget-brand liquid eyeliner pen, and began drawing her eyeliner on the mirror. Her hands were steady, not trembling. When it came to the outer corners of her eyes, she usually just lifted the brush—yet, habitually, her hand slipped outward. Ye Liuxi noticed this, and deliberately drew only by feel. Hook, lift, sweep, pivot, close—within a moment, a tiny scorpion hangs from the edge of his gaze. Its tail arches upward, like the lingering grace of a phoenix's raised wing. The two clawed limbs extend in a grasping, up-and-down motion, as though about to squeeze out his very eyesight. Ye Liuxi lets out a low "hmm," sets down his pen, pulls out a small notebook and pen from his canvas bag, flips to the latest page, bites off the cap of his signature pen, and writes: "The scorpion is well drawn." After writing, he tosses the notebook aside, reaches into the packing bag for a lamb skewer, and begins to chew slowly and deliberately. Cold lamb always carries a certain aroma—no matter how many seasonings are added, it never fully fades—unlike the lamb from Jiayu Pass, which drinks snowwater from Qilian Mountains, eats herbs from the Gobi plateau, and yields tender, crisp meat when served with beer, leaving no trace of its subtle scent. One after another, tourists emerge at the entrance, passing by the vehicles in small groups. Ye Liuxi observes the various men and women with casual Murmuring, he said, "What a mysterious woman."