"Ping'er..." I shouted, that being the most direct, quickest, most instinctive reaction I had at the moment. Except for those stark black and white figures, this place, suffused with an indescribable, eerie atmosphere and profoundly silent, had not held a trace of human presence from beginning to end—let alone a living person. Of course, except for me!

Even though the burst of white light was brief and the shadow fleeting, I still registered that this shadow was not like the previous black and white figures. The reason was simple: the shadow was entirely pitch-black in my sight, meaning it was definitely clothed, and thus could not have been naked. As for whether it was a woman, I hadn't seen any corresponding physical characteristics; it was impossible to judge yet.

"..." No one answered. The room was quiet, so quiet it was unnerving.

"Ping'er..." This time my voice was much weaker, laced with infinite hesitation.

"..."

After calling out twice without hearing a reply from the shadow, a chill began to creep into my heart. I listened closely; the shadow didn't emit even the slightest breath. In contrast, my own heavy gasps sounded exceptionally loud, and I could even hear the frantic thumping of my own heart.

I dared not step forward to touch the shadow. Firstly, because the shadow had already merged completely with the darkness of the room, making its location impossible to discern. Secondly, I didn't know who it was or if it harbored ill intent, so I hesitated to make a move.

I had been entirely absorbed by the white statue on the shrine earlier, never noticing the deep darkness beneath it. Since I could only perceive shades of black and white, and the space was narrow, the darkness, surging like a tide, concealed the shadow beneath the shrine—its presence unseen was inevitable.

"Ping'er..." This time, the voice was only audible to me, for it arose from within my mind. This weak, internal cry was less an expression of hope and more an attempt to bolster my own courage.

Dead silence. The white statue atop the shrine was remarkably conspicuous.

Of the Thirty-Six Stratagems, fleeing was the best. Just as I resolved to retreat backward out of the room, intending to escape the terrifying reach of the shadow, a burst of ghastly white light suddenly erupted from beneath the shrine, equally fleeting. In that flash, I saw the shadow, its back turned, head bowed, kneeling on the floor...

And at that moment, a very strange sensation washed over me.

After the ball of white light extinguished, a small glow began to rise slowly, projecting onto the wooden paneling beneath the shrine. The area of white light grew wider, the shadow's outline clearer, and the strange feeling in my heart intensified.

One foot was inside the threshold, the other outside. Seeing the increasingly distinct shadow, I stood motionless, my eyes fixed unblinking on its back. The light, of course, came from burning joss paper, as I smelled the familiar scent of spirit money. The white light cast upon the paneling wavered, sometimes weak, sometimes strong.

In the ethereal white light, seven soybean-sized points of light suddenly appeared before the shadow, arranged in a short arc. I naturally guessed these seven points were from seven sticks of incense burning, but it was odd; usually, rituals involve "a pile of paper and three sticks of incense." Why would this person light seven?

The shadow held the seven sticks aloft for a moment before slowly waving them. The seven sticks traced streaks of light in the air, like shooting stars flashing by. I stared intently and realized the seven sticks seemed to be tracing some kind of pattern. After observing for a while, a thought struck me: wasn't this pattern precisely the Tiger motif of the Tujia people?

I almost cried out. Amidst the thunderous beating of my heart, the two large doors of the room suddenly swung swiftly and silently toward me. Startled, I was planning whether to leap outside or retreat further in when a blade shot lightning-fast toward my face. I barely had time to react, instinctively turning my head aside as the blade's edge zipped past my cheek, a wave of scorching heat washing over me.

This blade was the same strange weapon that had lifted me up to the stilt house earlier!

Before I could turn to see where the strange blade had flown, a strong force suddenly pushed me from behind, shoving me into the room, stumbling me toward the shadow kneeling on the floor. The two door panels slammed shut with a resounding clank.

As I was about to collide with the shadow's back, the strange blade flew back, suspending itself vertically in the air as if sentient, blocking the space between me and the figure. I was stunned by the cold glint of the blade and managed to halt my momentum sharply at the critical moment, my nose nearly touching the edge. A rush of hot air enveloped my head.

Startled, I retreated a couple of steps. When my vision refocused, I saw that the shadow on the ground had stood up.

The figure's attire was bizarre: it wore a treasure crown like the one Tang Monk wears, draped in a voluminous eight-panel skirt, with a curved water buffalo horn hanging from its waist. It held the strange blade in its right hand and a horse-head object with six small bells dangling from it in its left hand... Of course, in the glow of the burning joss paper on the floor, everything I saw, aside from the strange blade, was black.

Although the person still faced away from me, although I had never seen such attire, although it had never spoken, and although my eyes could only discern black and white—that strange feeling from before surged into my mind, unstoppable: I knew this person intimately; I felt an immense closeness.

"Lao Ya..." I cried out in joyful recognition and lunged toward the figure.

The person did not turn around. With a wave of the right hand, the strange blade pointed directly at my sternum, halting my forward rush.

Seeing the blade aimed at my heart, the excitement was instantly doused as if by a bucket of cold water, and my thoughts snapped back to reality. Wasn't my grandfather long dead? How could he be here?

A dream, this must be a dream!

No wonder I could only see in black and white, no wonder I saw the stilt house suspended in the air and the Ma-sang tree, no wonder I saw those black and white figures, no wonder a single strange blade could lift me, no wonder the second floor of the stilt house had arrangements contrary to common sense, no wonder so many things defied logic, and no wonder I couldn't find Tan Ping'er... It turned out this was all a dream! I pinched my cheek hard with my fingernail; indeed, there was no pain, only a numb sensation!

If I hadn't seen my long-dead grandfather, how would I have realized this was a dream?

But dreams and reality always fork; at what point did I begin this dream?

Before I could contemplate this question, the figure, still with its back to me, crossed the strange blade and the bell-laden object over its head, bowed seven times to the shrine, kowtowed seven times, rose, bowed another seven times, then transferred the bell object to its right hand, pulled off the horn from its waist, silently blew toward the twelve statues on the shrine for a moment, put the horn away, and then, holding the strange blade in its right hand, swung it violently at the white-lit paneling beneath the shrine. The panel instantly burst open silently with a hole, and the figure bent over and drilled into the opening.

Agitated, I had no time to analyze whether my current situation was reality or a dream. I shouted, "Lao Ya!" and followed, bending down to squeeze through the hole.

The moment I plunged into the opening, I remembered that behind the paneling was the back eaves, and this stilt house hung in the air. If I dove through so recklessly, I would surely fall off the floor. But then I thought, since it was a dream, I couldn't worry about that; I urgently wanted one more glimpse of my grandfather's kind face.

The back eaves were indeed open to the air, but a bridge had materialized out of nowhere.

The bridge was perpendicular to the eaves, one end resting on the rear structure, while the other extended deep into the peach forest, its terminus unseen.

This was no ordinary bridge, but a covered, two-story pavilion bridge, its roof fixed with chevron rafters covered in fish-scale tiles. It was supported by countless pillars suspended in the air, richly adorned with carved beams, painted rafters, and numerous peculiar railings, lending the bridge an ancient, elegant air. The floor was paved with wide wooden planks, and along the inner side of the railings on both sides sat a row of long benches, integrated into the bridge's structure... However, it wasn't easy to clearly see these two rows of benches because they were blocked by men in bizarre attire and exhibiting frenzied movements!

These men—since this was a dream, they certainly weren't the "half-puppets"—wore pointed straw hats, straw vests over their shoulders, and straw skirts around their waists. They were barefoot, their entire bodies rippling with muscle knots and exposed veins. Their every move was exceedingly rough. Their mouths gaped wide, yet emitted no sound, while the speed of their hand and foot movements accelerated continuously...

What they were dancing was naturally the most ancient Tujia dance, the "Maogusi." In the Tujia language, "Maogusi" means "Gusibapu," signifying "Story of the Ancestors." Performers used rugged movements to create a scene interwoven with dance and drama, reflecting scenes of ancient Tujia life such as farming, hunting, and sacrificial rites.

What horrified me was not the "Maogusi" dance performed by these men, but why these people would appear on this endless covered bridge. As they moved their hands and feet, they all turned their heads to look at me—standing dumbfounded at the bridgehead—with expressions that seemed like a welcome reception, or perhaps a cheer for the victorious return of their tribal chief.