Chapter 140: The Bunraku Performance Begins

The grotesque white demon face—it was only a mask, but at such a moment, its sudden appearance carried an uncanny terror.

Ji Li couldn’t help but think more deeply.

The floating flyers eclipsed the world before his eyes. The figure on them was the so-called ningyō.

As it clawed and writhed, Ji Li reached out in advance, crushing the flyer in his hand, its corners twisted into a ball.

In that instant, it felt as if Ji Li himself had become the puppeteer—whether the puppet lived or died rested on his will.

At the same time, Fang Shenyan, Mei Sheng, and the others had also caught their flyers.

That was all it was, after all—merely a disturbing poster, not enough to frighten the staffs.

Chi Rou and Gao Liangping’s worry was what came next.

It was almost certain now that their task would involve this so-called Bunraku puppet theater ghost…

The white-faced Japanese woman shuffled awkwardly toward Ji Li and gave a deep bow.

She seemed to be saying words of apology, about to take back the flyers.

But Ji Li would not let her. If they missed this chance, once time ran out, the hotel would deem them to have refused the task.

The result would be death without a grave.

“Tell her we’ll attend the play,” Ji Li said, looking at the team’s only Japanese member, Kondo Sei.

Nervous but with no choice, Kondo Sei stepped forward to speak with the white-painted woman, hoping to learn as much as possible about the performance and its venue.

Meanwhile, Cui Yanqing muttered useless words to Ji Li—only the fearful rambling of rookies about stepping into a place dripping with strangeness, perhaps true ghosts.

Ji Li had no patience to console them. He only reminded them it was not yet task time, so for now there was little danger.

Soon Kondo Sei returned, reporting to Ji Li:

“At eleven-thirty, the Bunraku puppet play begins. The audience will only be the seven of us—they couldn’t draw anyone else.

The location is in a basement at the eastern end of Sunset Bridge. We’ll need to hurry.”

Ji Li frowned. Everything else aside, if they alone attended, then should danger strike, they’d have no buffer.

The cost and pressure of such an arrangement were far too high.

After a moment of hesitation, Ji Li leaned toward Fang Shenyan and whispered instructions, then led the others after the white-painted woman toward the theater.

Only Fang Shenyan stayed behind, pacing alone across the bridge, his silhouette swaying.

“Ghosts aren’t the worry—only the Fourth Branch. Be cautious during the play,” Ji Li had said, uneasy about the rookies’ fragile nerves, fearing they’d crack at the wrong time.

Mei Sheng walked apart, her face expressionless, an iceberg.

As they went, she glimpsed a small boat drifting leisurely on the water. Its interior was concealed, impossible to see who sat within.

She spared it only a glance before looking away.

But after the six staffs crossed the river, the cabin’s curtain lifted slightly.

A stern face appeared, marked by a faint scar running from jaw to the corner of his mouth.

His lips curled in a thin smile—as if Ji Li’s arrival marked the start of his plan.

“Tomiko, you know what to do. I’ll be ready to respond at any time.”

“How much farther, Miss Akira?”

Kondo Sei asked the white-painted woman in Japanese.

Akira’s face was still unnervingly stiff, as though her role as a Bunraku promoter had swallowed her whole, blurring performance with life.

“Almost there—just ahead.”

Though Ji Li’s group couldn’t understand the exchange, the increasingly remote path told them they were close.

Sure enough, before long they saw on the lawn a cone-shaped structure about a meter high, with a stone stair leading to a small underground door.

“Please, hand me your ticket fee. Enter on your own. I must try once more to gather an audience before the show.”

Akira bowed, hands raised before her chest.

Ji Li drew a golden bean from his coat and placed it in her palm, his expression cold.

“No need. I’ve booked the place. My friends will all be arriving soon.”

Then, turning to a startled Kondo Sei, he added, “Translate everything I say. Tell her to lead us inside.”

Ji Li always had his own calculations. Kondo Sei, long used to it, asked no questions.

Akira stared, momentarily stunned by the wealthy man’s decisiveness. Without another word, she opened the small door.

Beyond the door stretched a dim, yellow gloom—perhaps the natural air of a basement.

Walking through stone corridors gave a sense of chill and dampness. In such an atmosphere, anyone coming to watch a play must surely be out of their mind.

Ji Li led at the front, face unchanged, silently counting their steps.

It seemed this place had once been an air raid shelter.

From the outside, nothing appeared unusual, but inside it was almost a labyrinth. Without Akira guiding them, finding the main stage would have cost time.

He expected the theater itself to be brighter. Yet when they arrived, it was darker still—more stifling than the tunnels.

The stage, cloaked in black, sat less than a meter from the front row.

Any draft across it struck the faces of the first-row audience directly.

Ji Li cast a quick glance. The third persona spoke precisely: There are twenty-seven chairs here.

Akira checked the time—only five minutes until the performance—and hurried them to their seats.

Ji Li, Mei Sheng, and Kondo Sei sat in the first row. Cui Yanqing and the others, not wanting to be too close yet unwilling to be too far from Ji Li, took seats in the second.

Just then, Ji Li’s phone buzzed. A message from Fang Shenyan.

He told Akira, “My friends have arrived. Please send someone to bring them in.”

Soon after, Akira returned—with Fang Shenyan at the lead, followed by a crowd of nearly twenty!

Their arrival almost filled the entire small theater. Akira’s eyes widened—never had she imagined a full house here.

Ji Li glanced at the travel-worn Fang Shenyan, then at the rows of Japanese spectators.

These were the ones he had instructed Fang Shenyan to hire with money. Had it been only the seven staffs, disaster might have struck without buffer.

So he had spent lavishly to pack the hall, ensuring that if something happened, there would at least be cover.

As he straightened in his seat, a spotlight snapped on above the stage, illuminating the center.

From behind the curtain came the unseen musicians, their heavy drums resounding—announcing the beginning of a grotesque, sorrowful Bunraku puppet play.

Ji Li saw four figures in black robes, veiled, step slowly from the backstage.

What clashed with their shadowy forms were the puppets they carried—white-faced figures grinning hideously under the light.