While I racked my brain for a solution, my mind was already utterly blank—a complete muddle—and for a moment, I had absolutely no idea how to save Man Niao Niao. While screaming Calm down, calm down internally, I frantically sifted through the legends my grandfather had told me about the "Yin Arrow" and the methods for curing someone struck by it.

The concept of the "Yin Arrow" has always existed in local lore; as a child, I had personally witnessed my grandfather treat a man afflicted by one. The story went that this man returned from hunting with inexplicable, agonizing swelling and pain in his backside, making it impossible to sit down. The man, in his forties, lay prone, weeping uncontrollably like a child, his tears and sweat soaking his pillow. They summoned a renowned local physician—Grandpa hadn't made a name for himself yet. The doctor gathered some herbs and plastered the man’s rear end until it resembled a small hill. There was no sign of improvement; instead, the man began to babble incoherently, his entire body growing progressively cold, like a lump of ice. Frantic, the family rushed him to the hospital. The doctors worked on him for hours, unable to pinpoint a cause or prescribe effective treatment. In desperation, they administered some muscle injections, but this only intensified the pain, leaving the man barely breathing, clinging to life by a thread. The doctors regretfully informed the family to prepare for the worst. The family, helpless, accepted this grim reality.

In our local tradition, one must never let a person die away from home. Seeing that all hope was lost, the man's family reluctantly carried him back to his house to await his end in peace.

My grandfather heard about the situation and hurried over. The moment he saw the man's backside, his expression changed drastically. He ordered the man's wife to fetch a basin of clean water. Grandpa splashed some water onto the swollen area—which looked like two great lanterns—then raised his hand high and brought his palm down in a heavy slap across the man’s rear. Instantly, the entire area was covered in vivid red handprints. Strangely, however, as the slap marks grew denser, a patch of ghastly white suddenly emerged on the man’s buttock. The white area was spattered, exactly like the appearance when a perfectly ripe persimmon is smashed hard onto the ground. Seeing the moment was right, Grandpa told the wife to find a pair of chopsticks. He then carefully picked up the chopsticks, approached the center of the pale region, pinched down, and lifted upwards as if pulling something out. The man jerked, letting out a piercing scream, like a dying fish being prodded. After two or three minutes, the man's gasps grew stronger, and his pained groans of "Aiyo, aiyo" slowly returned.

I was my grandfather’s devoted shadow back then, so I saw the entire scene with perfect clarity. It was after this incident that he told me the legends of the "Yin Arrow." I initially dismissed the story as myth, but the man he saved later confirmed it himself: he had been hunting a rabbit deep in the hills, chasing it into a patch of overgrown graves where it vanished. Frustrated, he unzipped his trousers, pulled out his manhood, and relieved himself on one of the grave mounds before returning home, only to be struck down. I secretly chuckled at the time, thinking how fortunate it was that he urinated on his backside; if he had aimed at the real culprit, my grandfather would have likely beaten him senseless until he was a wrinkled prune.

Recalling it now, my grandfather's method required two things: clean water and chopsticks. It also required a specific action: striking. The striking itself was no issue; in my prime, my strength certainly matched my grandfather’s from back then. The crucial unknowns were where to find the clean water and chopsticks. Regarding the striking, my grandfather gave a detailed explanation: the principle was the same as striking a sunflower—the goal was to loosen whatever had pierced the flesh, making it easier to extract. As for why clean water and chopsticks were necessary, perhaps Grandpa never said, or perhaps I simply forgot.

Hearing Man Niao Niao's increasingly faint moans, Tan Ping’er urged me repeatedly, "Ying Ying, have you thought of anything? If you don't hurry, he's going to be in real danger... What exactly is this Yin Arrow?" I didn't have time to answer. I felt Man Niao Niao's back; it was indeed ice cold, and it had already swelled up like a horse's back, the flesh clammy and greasy, like poorly thawed pork.

While I was struggling to figure out substitutes for the clean water and chopsticks, Hua’er suddenly barked out a deafening warning, backing away as she did, her sound laced with menace and sheer horror. Turning back in alarm, I caught a glimpse of vague, flickering shapes coming from the direction of the passage—several figures pursuing us, some holding crudely made weapons, including a bow fashioned from bamboo strips.

The figures reached us in moments, stopping quietly in front of Hua’er, standing motionless. Although I could distinguish the silhouettes fairly clearly, I couldn't make out any expression on their faces. Perhaps stunned by Hua’er's terrifying snarls and whimpers, the figures shuffled amongst themselves but dared not surge forward rashly.

My vision was still limited to black and white, but the figures and their weapons were extremely indistinct, their outlines fringed with a faint, hazy fuzz—exactly as things had looked before I wiped the tears from Hua’er’s eyes. Moreover, these figures seemed broad and bulky, yet they moved with surprising lightness, drifting and swaying in the narrow passage—ethereal, unsettling.

"Who... are... you people?" I asked, taking a deep breath, my courage barely holding, positioning myself tightly between Tan Ping’er and the prone Man Niao Niao, standing just behind Hua’er.

The figures remained silent and still, no one answering, their faces still unreadable, but the various weapons they held slowly rose.

"Ying Ying... who... are you talking to?" Tan Ping’er’s voice, fragile as a mosquito’s wing, trembled near my ear.

I held the embroidered shoe in my left hand and discreetly squeezed Tan Ping’er's hand with the back of my right, signaling her to stay quiet. In those few seconds, my mind was racing through possibilities as fast as lightning. The arrival of these figures was clearly not friendly; they weren't here for pleasantries. The most urgent priority now was finding a way to escape; everything else could wait.

Tan Ping’er held her breath, shaking uncontrollably against my shoulder. Although this girl's courage had improved recently, hearing me speak to them had jolted her to her core. Man Niao Niao behind me was completely silent, his fate unknown.

My anxiety intensified. The moment Tan Ping’er asked who I was speaking to, I already knew those figures were no living humans; they must be the "Half-Puppets" from the legends. But where had they emerged from? Why could Tan Ping’er see the eerie, white-bearded old man in Anle Cave, yet be completely oblivious to these figures? A second thought struck me: back in Anle Cave, the light was far brighter—we had flashlights and torches. Here, the single flashlight was barely as powerful as a match head. The fact that I could see those figures in such deep darkness was all thanks to Hua’er's tears.

Seeing the weapons pointed directly at us, a cold sweat broke out on my forehead. To confront unconventional foes, one needed unconventional weapons. In my memory, the most potent defense against such a situation was my "Yao Ku’er" (loosely, my male essence/prowess), but I had lost mine at the Hanging Tower; it was currently "hanging empty." Using Tan Ping’er's would require two things: ensuring she’d give it up, and ensuring it would actually work. According to Grandpa's teachings, only a man's "Yao Ku’er" possessed that specific function. The only remaining option was Man Niao Niao's. The problem was that Man Niao Niao had arrows lodged in his back and the nape of his neck, preventing any sudden movement, and I couldn't spare a hand to reach for his "Yao Ku’er." If Tan Ping’er were to attempt that plan, she'd likely refuse even if threatened with death, and I couldn't bear the thought of her having such close contact with Man Niao Niao.

Of course, all those thoughts flashed through my mind instantaneously. Those figures didn't give me much time to devise a strategy. The bowstrings vibrated silently, and shadowy arrows shot toward us with lethal force. Tan Ping’er, unable to see them, remained unaware. I was fortunate to possess a strong heart; even as the countless arrows seemed to strike my body, my residual awareness told me I had a strong immunity to these phantom projectiles—no need to fear. But Man Niao Niao, lying helplessly on the ground, was less fortunate; his weak whimpers served as a constant reminder: this unlucky fellow might already have turned into a porcupine!

In my desperation, I instinctively swung the embroidered shoe in my hand, attempting to bat away the incoming arrows. Surprisingly, this maneuver was quite effective. The figures halted their shooting, and Man Niao Niao’s moans transitioned from a steady drone to an intermittent stutter, like a television show jarringly cut short by intrusive commercials.

A sudden realization dawned on me: with my skill level, even with Hua’er’s sharp teeth, I posed no real threat to these entities. The reason they hesitated to approach must be that I possessed something they either feared or deeply respected. Now I knew: that object was the embroidered shoe.