Chapter 141: November 5th

The heavy drumbeats, coupled with the stagnant air, left most of the audience struggling to breathe.

Among them, the staffs suffered most.

Chi Rou had already chewed her fingernails bald, still gnawing without realizing she had torn off a hangnail, blood seeping into her mouth unnoticed.

Cui Yanqing longed for a cigarette, but one glance at the pitch-dark theater forced him to endure.

Only Ji Li, Fang Shenyan, and Mei Sheng seemed able to focus on the performance.

Even so, they weren’t here to admire it—they believed this play might point the way to survival for their mission.

In truth, for them as Chinese, this art form was incomprehensible.

The four puppeteers, clad in tight black suits, sat onstage, manipulating half-human-sized dolls in staged motions.

The guttural Japanese chants sounded like endless droning; without the drums, it would resemble a solemn yet farcical memorial.

The group felt more like mourners—but they still didn’t know who had died.

They sat bewildered, unable to grasp the meaning.

Even Kondo Sei, a native of Kyoto, couldn’t understand this art. She sat as if on needles, sweat beading her face.

“Four Japanese men, but their singing is strange. Not spoken words—ventriloquism,” the third persona relayed to Ji Li.

What the play depicted hardly mattered.

What mattered were the performers—and the puppets.

“The backstage—can you hear anything?” Ji Li massaged his throbbing temples and asked inwardly.

“Drums, gong, reed pipes… strange,” the third persona hesitated, listened again, then sharply corrected himself.

“No! All the instruments are played by one person!”

Ji Li frowned, straining to listen. In the flurry of beats, the transitions were clumsy, hurried—like a single man struggling to play everything at once.

“Notice the broadcast—the timbre shifts whenever he can’t keep pace. An electronic tone fills in. That’s the cause of the sound difference!”

Ji Li’s confusion deepened. If so, the Bunraku troupe numbered only five: four puppeteers onstage, one musician behind.

His gaze returned to the puppets. They were lifelike—eerily so.

Each half the size of a person, resembling children of thirteen or fourteen.

Their torsos were small, undeveloped, almost dwarf-like.

But the limbs—especially the arms—were as long as an adult’s.

Spliced together.

That was Ji Li’s first impression. Their clothing was simple, ordinary Japanese garb.

But their faces bore the iconic white masks, with hollowed eyes.

Behind the sockets gleamed gem-like black pupils—fixed, lifeless.

He glanced at his watch.

November 4th, 11:47 p.m. Thirteen minutes until the task would be issued, and the mission would begin.

Ji Li hesitated, then rose from his seat. Under countless stares, he strode boldly onto the stage.

Kondo Sei’s eyelids twitched—too late to stop him.

The others, though unsure, were eager to watch. If Ji Li uncovered something, it would benefit all.

The play went on, uninterrupted by his intrusion.

Ji Li’s eyes flickered as he approached the puppet on the far right. He reached out, wanting to touch its material.

Suddenly the puppeteer behind twitched his wrist.

The doll spun around, its cold hands seizing Ji Li’s arm!

Ji Li frowned, glancing at the puppeteer.

The grip was shockingly soft, like human flesh—yet as cold as a corpse.

“Could it be… just as Kondo Sei said… these puppets are living humans, bound with souls?”

Refusing to believe it, Ji Li tore himself free. He had to touch it for himself—but the puppeteer resisted silently.

The doll’s arms pressed forward, meeting Ji Li in a contest of force.

The oppressive atmosphere lightened slightly with this struggle. Laughter burst from the audience.

To them, the sight of a puppet fighting a living man was an odd amusement.

After several exchanges, Ji Li confirmed one thing: these puppets were not living humans.

But how they were made, and from what material—he could not yet guess.

Just like that, Ji Li remained on stage for nearly ten minutes. With only five minutes left before the end, he finally stepped down.

During that time, he confirmed the third persona’s information.

Four puppeteers in black, four dolls, and a single musician—that was the full structure of the Bunraku performance.

But the moment Ji Li sat back down, the third persona abruptly spoke:

“The second puppet from the right—something’s wrong!”

At once Ji Li’s attention snapped to the doll in that position.

“When you stepped off the stage, its eyes beneath the mask moved! They were fixed on your back!”

Ji Li clenched his fist. As expected, something abnormal had occurred.

He had carefully studied the dolls’ eyes before—lifeless, unmoving.

Yet now the third persona insisted that the second puppet’s gaze had followed him. That was no illusion—the eyes had shifted, and locked onto him.

“Once the play is over, I’ll have a talk with those puppeteers,” Ji Li muttered.

Just then, the music abruptly stopped.

The spotlight at center stage went out, and the puppeteers silently withdrew.

But the wall lamps on both sides flickered to life, revealing a kimono-clad woman holding a thick stack of cards as she stepped forward.

“This performance has ended. The time is now 11:55—still five minutes before midnight…”

Ji Li wasn’t sure what the hotel was playing at, but it was clear this woman had something to announce.

She raised the cards in her hand, explained in Japanese—likely calling them souvenirs—and began handing them out to each audience member.

Ji Li counted the seats, his mind already turning.

Sure enough, when the fragrant woman approached him, she handed him a card.

But the text was not in Japanese—it was in Chinese.

Within 78 hours, create a standard puppet.

At that exact moment, the hour, minute, and second hands of his watch aligned.

It was precisely midnight—November 5th.