Yi Liu Xi spoke softly: “I never thought this would happen…” She stepped forward, lightly brushing her fingers along the edge of the incense burner and then raised it to examine. A thin layer of dust settled on her fingertip. At the corner of the altar, a spider whose web had been disturbed by the sounds of voices began to move rapidly with its slender legs, its silvery threads trembling and swaying. Yi Liu Xi tapped her finger lightly, then blew gently on it before handing it to her: “You don’t seem to honor this cousin very much.” Ding Zhou remained cold in expression. “People trust him as a guide, yet he insists on his own judgment—unyielding, even when circumstances grow critical. The results have been disastrous. I’ve read the news reports; some of those who passed away were only recently fathers. How many times must he fail before he earns redemption?” Yi Liu Xi sighed: “That’s not quite fair either. In a desert setting, you just never know what to expect…” She stepped back. Ding Zhou closed the door behind her and guided her out: “Ms. Yi, you’ll have to find someone else now. But I’d like to remind you—when possible, avoid going there altogether. Deserts are so dangerous—they only bite, never get bitten. To call them ‘sand wolves’ sounds almost absurd.” Yi Liu Xi smiled. Her steps were brisk. She reached the edge of the stage first, opened her canvas bag, and handed Ding Zhou a sealed delivery envelope. Ding Zhou was surprised: “What is this?” He turned it over—no stamp, no label, just an ordinary package. Yi Liu Xi said: “There are some things inside. Please take your time to open them carefully. Don’t tear anything. I’m going now. After the alley exit, I’ll head north. If you want to catch up with me, you’ll have to hurry.” Ding Zhou looked confused: “Why should I follow you?” Yi Liu Xi took her bag over her shoulder and indicated the envelope: “That depends on you—whether or not you’d like to keep going.” She opened the door. New ticket holders were waiting impatiently. As soon as they saw the door open, they surged in, making a commotion. Yi Liu Xi moved against the flow of people and quickly disappeared into the crowd. Ding Zhou carefully tore open the delivery envelope’s flap. It felt light—no weight at all—and smooth to the touch. Probably just a sheet of paper. He pulled it out—the contents revealed a large brown paper envelope. Then he opened that, and from within, extracted a medium-sized white envelope. Ding Zhou grew impatient: One layer after another, was this meant to amuse him? Fortunately, inside the white envelope there were things now—something tangible. It felt like a photograph. He carefully removed it. For a few seconds, suddenly, he could no longer hear any sound coming from the room at all. Instead, in the distance, he heard endless sounds: sandstorms sweeping through, glaciers cracking and collapsing, rocks rolling heavily. Ding Zhou rushed out. He had not left the building for too long—he’d forgotten how crowded the street was outside. As soon as he stepped into the alley, he nearly collided with tourists, stumbled slightly, almost tripping over their feet. The scene unfolded before him: stalls and storefronts lined up all along, the streets themselves filled to capacity, voices rising in constant rhythm. Camera flashes pulsed like a steady heartbeat. Eventually finding his balance, he stood surrounded by people—faces and silhouettes cut by lights into strange shapes. The sounds rose like waves, growing louder with the night deepening. People murmured complaints: “Is that man ill?” Others urged, “Stay away from him—don’t let him fall on us.” Ding Zhou stood among the bustling crowd, shouting loudly: “Yi Liu Xi!” No one answered. The noise surged forward like waves, rising higher as darkness settled in. — The young attendant Xiao He was busy calming impatient guests when Ding Zhou returned. As soon as he saw him, he hurried toward him—still halfway through his words before Ding Zhou interrupted with a single sentence: “I’d like to return my ticket.” He pushed the door open and walked stiffly through the theater hall, past astonished eyes, into the backstage area, then into his own cramped bedroom. He sank heavily onto the bed. Outside, the noise grew louder, mixed now with Xiao He’s apologies. Ding Zhou sat motionless, suddenly reaching for his hair—tugging at it until he pulled off his headwear. His face cracked open under the pressure of the adhesive—the skin had become pale and smooth as if pressed flat. He glanced at Xiao He carefully: “What has happened?” After a long pause, Chang Dong finally spoke: “Did you visit Dunhuang recently?” “Yes.” Xiao He had taken his girlfriend and her future mother-in-law to tour the Mogao Caves and then the Yadan landforms, before moving on to the Han Great Wall—posting updates across his social media. “Here’s a photo,” he said. He took it, quickly scanning: “Whoa—that looks like a Photoshop edit or even a scene from a horror film. It seems completely real.” The image showed an eroded clay mound shaped like a ship’s prow, with a young woman embedded in the center—her face delicate and pale, hands folded over her chest as if pressed into the structure, eyes wide and blurred, hair flowing in the wind. After watching it for some time, it began to feel unsettling. Chang Dong asked: “Do you recognize this place?” Xiao He reviewed all the Yadan formations: “It’s probably the Devil City—the clay mounds look like ships. Isn’t that where the Western Sea Fleet is located?” Indeed, the Western Sea Fleet was a famed attraction in the Devil City—rows of wind-eroded stacks aligned perfectly, like an army on parade. Chang Dong murmured softly: “There are many Yadan clusters across China—not just the Devil City. This one reminds me more of the Dragon City.” Dragon City? Xiao He had just thought to ask when his phone rang. He looked at the screen—unfamiliar number. Xiao He’s number was always listed on numerous tourism websites, even printed on theater tickets—he received calls from travelers daily, requesting information about performances and venues. After answering once or twice, he puzzled and handed the phone over to Chang Dong: “Mr. Chang, it says you should answer.” Never before had anyone called through him directly to reach Chang Dong. Chang Dong picked up—on the other end came a soft, gentle laugh. “Yi Liu Xi?” The voice carried a tone of amusement. “Didn’t make it, did you? Hasn’t this role as an elderly man become too consuming for your mobility?” “What exactly are you?” “You really think I’ll answer you over the phone?” Chang Dong paused: “You mentioned needing a guide—now I’ve agreed to that.” Yi Liu Xi laughed softly. “Chang Dong, you’ve been inactive for two years. Who knows if your sharpness remains intact? Here’s what I propose—give yourself one week. If you locate me, it proves you have some presence of mind—and we can work together on something new. Should you fail to find me, then you’ll simply continue living with your shadows and puppets.” — Yi Liu Xi hung up the phone. She hadn’t moved far at all—she remained tucked inside a white minivan parked at the alley’s end. On the passenger seat were casually stacked food items she’d packed from the Hui Muslim street: green bean cakes, pomegranate juice, yogurt, and several bundles of lamb skewers wrapped in plastic. She didn’t rush to eat right away—instead, she gently removed a new liquid eyeliner pen from the dashboard, wiped it clean on the inside of her rearview mirror, and began drawing her eye lines. Her hand was steady—no shaking. As she reached toward the outer edge of her eyes, she naturally slipped slightly outward, as if guided by instinct rather than precision. Yi Liu Xi paused, surprised—and then consciously followed only what felt right in her touch. She hooked, lifted, wiped, turned, and sealed—the process finished swiftly. At the very tip of her eye, a small scorpion appeared—its tail angled upward like a graceful flourish, one pair of claws holding firmly, one lifting as if about to grasp her eyeball. Yi Liu Xi let out a soft “hmm,” dropped the eyeliner pen, and reached into her canvas bag for a small notebook and pen. She flipped to the latest page, bit down on the pen cap, then wrote: *“The scorpion is quite well-drawn.”* Finished writing, she set the notebook aside and pulled out the lamb skewers from the packaging, chewing them slowly. The lamb cooled with time—always carrying a distinct aroma of musk. The flavor couldn’t be entirely masked by spices, unlike sheep from Jiayuguan that drink snow water from Qilian mountains, fed on desert herbs—the meat was tender, the skin crisp, and when served with beer, the scent of freshness faded entirely. One by one, tourists began to emerge at the alley entrance, walking past her in small groups. Yi Liu Xi observed them casually—then finally lifted her brow and fixed her gaze once more on the scorpion now resting at the corner of her eye. She murmured softly: “A woman of mystery indeed.”